The wards peeled back under his will, silent as frost breaking beneath footfall. Malachi stepped into the human sanctum with no more weight than breath. Stone corridors curved like the ribs of a great beast long dead, choked in smoke and sanctified lies. The scent of burnt incense and dried blood lingered, masked poorly by oils—human prayers clung to the walls like mildew. He moved through them untouched. Fae bones lined the altar niches, carved into relics and charms. Disgust rippled through him. These halls were built atop desecration. He had expected as much. Still, the faint pull in his chest—like the hush before a storm—wasn't rage. It was… something else. Something threaded low, unfamiliar. Not strong enough to name. He found them alone. Fragile in sleep, body turned away from the door, chest rising with soft, unguarded rhythm. The bed was small. Iron-framed. The scent of rust clung to the sheets. Scars marred skin where it was visible—cruel, layered and healed over badly. His gaze lingered. Blood had been taken. Repeatedly. Weaponized. Magic hung around their form like mist—thin, quiet, unawakened. It wasn't human. He felt it now. Subtle, like moss stirring underfoot. Enough to still his hand where the killing spell waited, coiled. He let it die in his palm. A heartbeat passed. Then another. Malachi stepped forward and gathered them without sound. They didn't wake. Light. Too light. He adjusted their weight in his arms, and as their warmth settled against him, something faint stirred behind his sternum. He turned from the room, cloak trailing behind like smoke, and disappeared into the dark he had entered from.