Page 90 of The Arbiter
I reach for the silver cross at my throat again, my knuckles white as I grip the metal my mother’s trembling hands once forged. It’s a cold, heavy anchor.
"In his world, you either become a monster or you are erased by one." I rasp, my voice sounding foreign even to my own ears.
I lean in, my height stretching over her, a protective wall I hope she can't see through.
My mind is already spiraling, calculating the trajectories of my revenge, visualizing the moment I press a blade to Charles’s throat. I want to dismantle every gilded cage in this city until there is nothing left but blood and my own name.
But Mali reaches out. Her good hand is trembling, her fingers brushing the soot and dried blood from my cheek with a tenderness that feels like a physical wound.
"He’s still in your head, isn't he?"
She asks softly, her gaze searching mine, stripping away the Architect until only the broken boy remains.
"Charles. He didn't just want to kill me in that vault. He wanted to turn you back into his weapon. And looking at you right now...the way you're holding that needle, the way you're looking at the door... I think he’s winning."
I freeze. The air in the infirmary feels thin, stripped of oxygen. My jaw tightens until the bone aches. I want to deny it. I want to tell her that I am the one in control, that I am the master of this game. But I look at my hands. Split, bloodied, and shaking. I look at the surgical table where I just had to stitch the woman I—
I stop the thought before it can form.
"He isn't winning," I mutter, though the lie tastes like copper.
I sink onto the stool beside her, the weight of the night finally crushing my shoulders. The rage is still there, a coiled serpent in my gut, but the sight of her pale face forces it back into the dark.
"I won't let him win.”
I take her hand, my thumb tracing the steady, fragile pulse in her wrist. It’s the only thing in this room that feels real.
"I don't know how to be anything else, Mali," I admit, the confession feeling like a surrender. I bow my head, resting my forehead against the edge of the table.
"But for you... I will try to find a way that doesn't end in fire. That doesn't mean that I'll let him live. I can't. Not after the thing with my mother. And certainly not after what he did to you."
I watch the flicker of the emergency lights catch the unshed tears in her eyes, and for a second, the silence between us is louder than the gunfire in the vault.
My hand is still covering hers, my thumb tracing the delicate bones of her wrist, but I feel her tensing. It’s a microscopic pull, a clinical withdrawal that I feel in my very marrow.
She looks at the bandages, then at the blood on my cuffs, and finally at the high-tech monitors surrounding us. This isn't a home. It’s a bunker. It’s a sterile, cold fortress designed for a man who expects to be hunted.
"Mali?"
I murmur, my voice cracking the heavy air.
She pulls her hand back, slowly, as if she’s afraid I might break if she moves too fast. Or perhaps she’s afraid of what I’ll do if she stays.
"This isn't just a scratch, Deimos," she whispers, her gaze dropping to her bound arm.
"It’s a warning. My life... the clinic, the bodies, the quiet nights... my world is burning down, isn't it?"
I want to lie. I want to tell her I can build a wall high enough to keep the embers from reaching her. But ‘The Arbiter’ in me knows the structural integrity of a lie is zero.
"The Elite don't stop until they’ve erased the witness," I admit, the truth feeling like lead in my chest.
"But I have the resources to—"
"To what?"
She interrupts, her ice-blue eyes flashing with a sudden, terrified clarity.
"To keep me in a cage? Even if it’s a gilded one? Even if it’s your cage?"
