Chapter 1: Malachi

Malachi's father had made an exciting decision one dark winter day. His fifteen-year-old son was old enough to see his first dead body. The body in question was a charred corpse that had been left on the front lawn of their palace, its bones strewn about haphazardly and pieces of its flesh missing. 

"The fiend has already left," Malachi’s father said. "Those flowers grew quickly, didn't they?"

Malachi eyed the corpse. His father was right. Mushrooms and bright blue flowers were glowing as they sprouted from the body. The ground pulsed with the echoes of whatever force had caused the flames.

"You see those mushrooms, Kai?” came his father’s voice again. “There was magic at work here, and not the magic that Jacob and the knights practice. No, this magic was the work of blood or demons. We must be careful, son. Someone wanted these flames for the magic they hold," his father cautioned him. 

Malachi tilted his head as he looked at his father. Words danced on the tip of his tongue, but he was careful not to voice every thought that crossed his mind. This was the first time his father had decided to speak to him about such matters, and he didn't want to ruin it by asking too many questions.

He settled for, "Yes, dad." Simple words, but enough to let his father know he was listening. 

His father watched the charred bones intently, his eyes darting about wildly. When the sound of footsteps could be heard in the distance, his father stiffened and quickly turned away from the smoldering corpse.

"Come,” he commanded Malachi. “We must get back inside. We cannot afford to be seen."

It was rare for servants or warriors to be out and about on the front lawn this early in the morning. Seeing their elder, Malachi’s father, would be even more of a rarity at this hour. The Earl, Alfred Lincoln, was a balding man of East Asian descent with a large gut and hands that looked to be carved from stone. He was one of those people whose voice made others bow their heads and bend a knee. People had always told Malachi he was the spitting image of his father from a time when he was less wrinkled, his long hair less gray, but Malachi disagreed. Unlike his father, his voice could command no one. It elicited only scoffs and doubt. He didn’t know what it was like to wield such great power. Perhaps he never would.

The two of them left the grounds and entered the palace from a back entrance through the greenhouse. Bees, butterflies, and blue jays fed on apples and pears. They walked up a staircase whose railing grew magnolias that never died. They walked through the Great Hall, passing paintings and flowers that decorated the many doors that led to other rooms. When they finally arrived at the large, coal-colored doors of the throne room, the Earl pushed them open, and they stepped inside. It was still too early for the servants to have any reason to enter the room, leaving it empty. 

It was here that Malachi's mother, Lady Amelia Lincoln, waited for her husband and her son. She sat poised on the throne with an air of grace and elegance that others could only hope to recreate. "Did you find the source of the fire, Al?" she asked the Earl with a faint smile.

"I believe someone was trying to look into the flames, my dear. Magic echoed from them. Has Jacob arrived with his news yet?" The Earl’s deep voice echoed through the throne room.

"Fire and magic on our property? You’d think they would know better than to intrude," she said with a scoffe. "No, Jacob has not come yet. Come, take your seat, love." She lifted an arm to wave him over, her white hair cascading off her shoulder as she moved.

The Earl simply smiled, closed the doors behind him, and ascended the steps that led to the throne. The Charcoal Throne, as it was aptly called, was black as night. Gleaming obsidian and blackened steel made its imposing frame.

The Lady stood, and the Earl sat down in the middle of the throne. It was large enough that his wife and son could sit on either side of him, and they did so with a nonchalance reserved for those of high stature. 

The cold steel of the seat felt unnatural to Malachi. This spot was meant for the heir, and, as the third-born child, he was neither the heir nor the spare. He was simply there. It wasn't until the death of his sister and his brother Orin becoming a knight that he became the heir to New Paris. Knights were never allowed to hold titles for the rest of their days. Sometimes Malachi wondered if Orin would've still become one if he knew what was to come. 

At least, that's how it had been for most of his life. Now he couldn't help but wonder how his future would change. ‘So much was already different,’ he thought to himself. ‘How much more could possibly change?’ He looked to his parents. Even they had changed.

His father was unusually stoic today. The man who was usually bombastic and gregarious was a somber sight. He had not even taken the time to put on his silver crown of emeralds, nor did he have music playing throughout the palace. Instead, he sat there with his bald head on display, his long beard unkempt, and his stout frame seeming to take up the entirety of the vast room.

His mother was better at hiding it, but the differences were still there, still etched into her as if carved from stone. Her expression remained fixed with a frown, and sagging skin under her eyes of gold marred her otherwise youthful skin. Malachi wondered when the last time his mother had gotten a good night's rest was.

"They should've been here by now," Amelia said crossly as she rested her chin on her hand.

Alfred looked down at his wife. "Where are they?" he questioned.

"I wonder the same as you do. What good are servants if they cannot do the simplest of tasks? We need new ones, if you ask me."

"These are not our servants,” Alfred said with a sigh. “We cannot control them. Unfortunately.”

Malachi watched his mother as she frowned. Even in times like these she was perfectly prim and proper, beautiful and cold. Malachi had heard that his mother's hair began to grow in white when she was young because she spent too much time playing in the snow. Some even said the snow crept its way to her very core, leaving her icy and cold through and through.

A knock was heard on the throne room's gigantic doors and Malachai’s father grunted, “Come in.” 

The double doors creaked open and two men made their ways inside. One was Jacob, an aging knight of Aeon who dressed in a three piece suit and carried a sword on one hip and a firearm on the other. The second man was New Paris's executioner, a masked giant in a black suit who's name was a mystery even to Malachi.

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The two men walked towards the throne as they had done many times before, kneeling before their Earl with their heads bowed low. It was no surprise to Malachi that Jacob was the first to speak to the Earl. Malachai would be surprised if the executioner even spoke at all.

"My liege,” said the knight, “I am sorry to bring you troubling news. The rumors of your daughter’s death are true. We found crown princess Lucia’s body in the jungle of Eden's Garden. Your royal guard Virgil still has not been recovered." 

Malachi had never seen his father cry before today, but now tears ran down the man's face and into his beard. "I rebuke it," he choked out between tears.

Jacob was stoic in the face of the Earl’s tears. He maintained a calm demeanor, but Malachi could see the trained knight’s hands shake as he knelt before the Earl. But the knight’s training would never allow him to show emotion at a time like this. “Sir,” he said steadily, “this cannot be rebuked. My people have searched the Garden in its entirety. Every nook and cranny has been turned over and examined. The rumors are, unfortunately, true.”

Alfred put his head in his hands and moaned in anguish. He looked like he wanted to speak, but no words dared escape his lips.

Lady Lincoln cried too, but even grief could not silence her. "What happened to her?"

Jacob pursed his lips and he wouldn’t meet her gaze. "We discovered bullet wounds and strange burn marks. We recovered her phone and it looks like she was going to a party in the area."

Alfred raised his head and clutched the hilt of his sword, his knuckles turning white.

"No doubt with that friend of hers. I want her–Jasmine–arrested and questioned. I want everyone who was at that party investigated. I want everyone involved in her murder to know the wrath of House Lincoln!” he bellowed. 

Now the executioner spoke. "It would be my honor to deliver your wrath,” he said in a gravelly voice.

"As it should be,” came Alfred’s sharp response.

"Sir,” Jacob cautioned, “Jasmine Tiwary's family is expecting you to uplift them to nobility. Arresting their eldest daughter would-"

Alfred cut the knight’s words short. "I do not care about what those upstarts want! Arrest the girl."

There was a tense silence before Jacob rose to his feet with a frown. “As you wish, Sir. I will have police sent to their manor.” He paused and looked up at the young prince. A strength that could only be built with years of battle and dedication burned in the knight’s eyes as he stared at Malachi. Finally, he said, “This does, of course, mean Prince Malachi is now the crown prince.”

The Earl and the Lady both grimaced at the statement. They each looked down at their sun with calculating gazes. “That he is,” the Earl said somberly.

“I would like to speak to him, Sir, as I spoke to Lucia when the time came.”

“Of course. Malachi,” the Earl turned to his son, “do Jacob the honor of meeting with him.” It was not a request. 

Malachi raised an eyebrow at the elder knight. His feet suddenly grew restless against the stone floor. Nevertheless, he said, “Okay.”

His mother cringed. “Formality, Malachi,” she chastised.

Malachi paused, taking a moment to search his mind before saying, "I shall meet with you, Knight Jacob." His mother gave a satisfied nod.

Malachi stood and walked back down the ancient black steps, away from the Charcoal Throne. As he neared the base of the steps, he could smell Jacob. He reeked of tobacco and wet steel, a scent that seemed to follow the knight wherever he went.

"Come, young prince,” said the old knight. “Maybe if I'm lucky I can bestow some knowledge onto you."

Jacob and Malachi exited through the grand doors, leaving the Earl, the Lady, and the executioner alone in the throne room. They walked into the Great Hall where vibrantly colored flowers bloomed on the walls and the ceiling was decorated with artwork of beautiful cherubs and angels playing lutes, their mouths open in song. They walked through the hall and descended a stairwell whose railing was covered in dandelions. Neither of them hesitated to touch the railing, even as their hands brushed up against the flowers and killed them. New dandelions grew to replace them, leaving the railing just as lush as before, like nothing had ever happened.

"If only we were like these flowers,” Jacob mused as he watched the flowers die and be reborn one after another. “Able to come back after our time is up." 

"I used to think we could," said the prince.

"Why?"

"They say all those years ago the first king's daughter died and came back."

Jacob forced a smile. "You're too old to believe in those kinds of stories, Malachi."

The two of them continued down the stairwell in silence until Malachi found himself in the garden he and his father had walked through earlier. The garden’s fertile soil encouraged the growth of tomatoes, potatoes, peppers, mint, and just about anything else that could grow in New Paris. Malachi reached up, plucked an apple from a nearby tree, and took a bite out of it, relishing the sweetness. Unbeknownst to Malachi, the old knight was watching him, tilting his head curiously.

"Have you ever used a sword, Prince Malachi?"

"I'm not really a sword person," Malachi said.

"Why don’t you give it a try? I bet it's not too different from those video games you play," he said with a smile as he reached for his belt and retrieved his sword. He unsheathed the blade and showed it to Malachi. Malachi stared in awe at the faintly glowing veins of blue that ran through the sword, yet he was hesitant to touch it.

"I am not a knight," he said plainly.

"For the next hour or so, let’s pretend you are a knight. Here,” Jacob handed the weapon to Malachi, hilt first. “Come on practice with this steel."

Malachi took the sword, feeling the weight of the weapon in his hands. He held it awkwardly as he examined it. 

"A sword is simple,” Jacob tried to convince him. “You swing it or you thrust it at your opponent. Next to a spear or an ax, there's no better weapon to train with."

Malachi looked unconvinced and set the sword down next to the trunk of the apple tree and shook his head. "Why do you want to train me?"

"I wanted to take your mind off of what was being said in the throne room. What was being said in that discussion was too heavy, even for your parents to bear. I do not want you to bear it either," he explained before pointing at his sword lying on the ground. "Is that how one treats a sword of Aeon?"

"Sorry," Malachi whispered as he picked up the sword and handed it back to Jacob. "I just don't want to train right now."

"That's fine. Just know it wouldn’t hurt to learn. You’ll need to know your way around your blade when you become Earl,” he said gravely.

"I don't think I want to learn. I want to find out who killed my sister."

"You may not be a knight, little prince. But you're not a detective either.”

"I don't care. I want to find out who killed her. If you want to train me so badly, you could teach me how to be a detective." 

Jacob smiled and let out a little laugh. "I am not a detective either. I know you're sad, but there is a way of things." Jacob swung the sword through the air and the greenhouse was illuminated with a brilliant blue light. As the blinding light filled the greenhouse, Malachi covered his eyes. Jacob did nothing to dim the blade. "I am a knight, you are a prince. I will do battle in the name of God and the Aeons above. And you,” he pointed the blade at Malachi’s chest, “will rule."

“I don’t want to rule,” the prince said sourly, still shielding his eyes. “New Paris is Lucia’s. It always has been.”

Malachi straightens and lowers his hand. He squares his shoulders. “You may say it’s just a story,” he says with a slight glare aimed at Jacob, “but maybe it’s not. We could bring her back.”

Jacob frowned. "Malachi," he chided.

Malachi turned his back on the knight and began to walk back up the stairs. "I’ll find out what happened to her. And if you won’t bring her back, I will.”

"Young prince, if you go up those stairs and tell your father what you're suggesting, he will not be pleased," the knight warned.

Malachi paused on the steps and turned to look back at Jacob.

Jacob shook his head in exasperation. "You and your brother will be the death of me, I swear. "

"I'm sorry,” was the boy’s quiet response. “I just want my sister back."

The knight sighed. "As do I, little prince. As do I."

Jacob took a step towards Malachi on the stairwell and looked up at the teenaged prince with a weary gaze. He went to speak, but as he opened his mouth footsteps could be heard at the top of the stairs. The Earl, Alfred Lincoln had come to join them holding a sword of his own in his hands. He flashed the pair a toothy grin. 

"So,” the Earl said, placing a hand on Malachi’s shoulder, “you want to find out who killed her?" 

"How much did you hear?" Malachi asked hesitantly.

"Enough to know you're as headstrong as the rest of your siblings." He turned to look at Jacob. "Jacob, I think the prince deserves to participate in some of the comings and goings of the state of New Paris."

"I do not disagree," Jacob said.

Malachi seemed to alight with excitement at his father's words. "Really?"

"Yes. You are my heir,” Alfred said with a smile. “It is my duty to make an Earl out of you." He passed his sword to Malachi. “A blade of Aeon is no blade for you. This is the blade of House Lincoln, the one that was made for your great-great-” he paused, “Well, a-lot-of-greats grandma. If you’re going to practice, use this.”

The sword was light in Malachi's hands and had no blue veins decorating it. In fact, it was rather simple, with a black iron handle and a steel blade that gave off faint red undertones when swung through the air.

"What if I don't want to use a sword?" Malachi asked.

"Then use your tongue,” Alfred responded without hesitation. “Words should always be the first method to solve a problem. It's only when a problem cannot be solved with words where a weapon is needed. That is why you need to practice."

With an encouraging nod from Alfred, Jacob and Malachi stepped outside of the greenhouse and into the garden. The two began circling each other in a faux duel, blades drawn. An elder knight battling a young prince in the vale of greenery. The Earl watched them battle, only looking away when a spacecraft flew by. Malachi did not know why his father watched the sky, but he knew from the smile on his father's face that something must've made him happy that day.