Chapter 41 First Impressions
The morning sun of Requiem didn't just rise; it announced itself with a clarion call of golden light that filtered through the glowing ivy outside my window like liquid honey. I woke up with my skin still humming, a phantom heat lingering where Ryker’s fingers had grazed my collarbone. My dreams had been a chaotic blur of storm-gray eyes and cedarwood smoke, and waking up in the plush, unfamiliar silk of my nightgown felt like a betrayal of the sensible cotton pajamas I’d left behind in the human world.
I was trying to reconcile my reflection—wild-haired, flushed, and looking far too much like a woman who’d spent the night being haunted by a demon—when a sharp, rhythmic knock echoed through the suite.
"Amaya? It is time for breakfast."
Malik’s voice was like a cool mountain stream, washing away the lingering smoke of Ryker’s presence. I scrambled out of bed, nearly tripping on the hem of the gown, and threw on the tailored training gear the Academy had provided. It was charcoal gray, form-fitting, and made me feel more like a weapon than a pharmacist. I liked it.
I opened the door to find Malik standing in the hallway, looking so perfect it was actually offensive. His golden hair was immaculate, his blue eyes were as serene as a summer sky, and his white tunic didn't have a single wrinkle. He projected an aura of such absolute purity that I felt like a smudge on a pristine canvas.
"Good morning," I said, leaning against the doorframe with a forced nonchalance. "Did you spend the night hovering on a cloud, or do you always wake up looking like a jewelry commercial?"
Malik’s gaze swept over me, and for a fleeting second, the serenity in his eyes faltered. A muscle in his jaw twitched—the same one Ryker had joked about. "I was meditating on the Architect’s laws, Amaya. And you look... rested."
"Liar," I chirped, stepping out into the hall. "I look like I’ve been through a spiritual blender. But lead the way, Saint. I’m starving, and apparently, the tables here are psychic."
We walked toward the Great Hall, the silence between us charged with a different kind of energy than the one I shared with Ryker. With Ryker, it was a forest fire; with Malik, it was a deep, pressurized ocean. Every time his arm brushed mine, a jolt of cool, static electricity snapped between us, making my breath hitch.
When we entered the Great Hall, the scale of it hit me again. Hundreds of students were already seated, but the atmosphere was curiously muted, as if the space itself demanded reverence. Malik guided me to a smaller, elevated table near the dais.
"The tables manifest what you desire, within reason," Malik explained, his voice low as we sat down. "Focus on what your body needs to sustain itself for the training ahead."
I stared at the empty, polished moonstone surface. Sustain myself? My body was currently a riot of conflicting impulses. I thought of my favorite breakfast back home—sourdough toast with avocado and a perfectly poached egg.
Slowly, the plate materialized, the steam rising in savory curls. I looked at Malik, who was sipping a glass of clear, sparkling liquid that I assumed was liquid holiness. He was so poised, so controlled, his fingers elegant around the crystal glass.
Suddenly, the 'brat' in me took the wheel. I looked at the curve of Malik’s lower lip, then at the pristine white of his tunic. A scandalous, unbidden thought bloomed in my mind: What would he look like if I stripped him out of that tunic, pinned him to this moonstone table, and covered that perfect, righteous body in thick, sweet whipped cream?