Maliki's eyes fluttered open, though a part of him wished they hadn't. The room around him was still, silent, yet his mind swirled in the disorienting haze between waking and sleep. Beside him, Yomi lay undisturbed, cocooned in the soft shadows of early morning.
Of course, she was still sleeping. Yomi never woke early. Her breathing was steady, rhythmic, as though the very world itself might take its cue from her serenity. Maliki, though, had never known that kind of peace. Rising before dawn was in his blood, at least, that was what he told himself. With a quiet sigh, he sat up, the black sheet sliding off his bare, muscled torso like a whisper. His movements were slow and deliberate, when his feet touched the cool stone floor, a grounding sensation flamed through him. Though his mind drifted far beyond the confines of the small room.
His gaze lingered on the closed door across from him; it was an almost subconscious draw. He reached for the knob, feeling the cold brass beneath his fingers as he twisted it open. The air from the hallway met him, cool against his skin, but he hardly noticed.
The flames. He reminded himself, they weren't real. He repeated the thought, pulling himself back to the reality he knew, but it felt fragile. That was the first time his mind had conjured such a cruel illusion, and he had fallen for it completely, like a fool. His heart beat faster just thinking about it.
He glanced down at his arms, studying the familiar lines of his skin. Not a single burn. Not a mark to betray the flames that had raged in his vision. But the memory of it lingered, potent, real.
He could still feel the searing heat, the tightening of his skin as if it had been charred. The pounding of his heart, the crackle of flames that had only existed in the depths of his imagination.
All of it felt so real.
Yet it was not. Just a figment of his imagination. In his mind, Maliki tried to ignore it.
Across the room, his twin axes rested silently atop the worn brown wooden table. The metal gleamed faintly, reflecting the pale morning light that had begun to filter through the small window. There was a quiet power in the weapons, a kind of intimacy in their weight, their familiar heft that had so often steadied him. Without thinking, he crossed the room in a few heavy steps, his fingers closing around the hilts.
They felt solid. Real.
He slid the axes into the loops of his harness, the leather straps crisscrossing his broad back. With them there, he felt more like himself again, and he stepped into the hallway. The passage wasn't narrow, wide enough for several people to walk comfortably. It was a simple place, two rooms on the left—his and Yomi's, though lately, he found himself spending more nights in hers.
The only thing to the right was the restroom. A mundane place, yet it was where he now found himself, pushing the door open with a soft creak. The mirror met him first, its surface clouded with the faintest haze. His reflection stared back, though it hardly felt like his own.
The face that gazed at him was heavy, lined with exhaustion that had burrowed beneath his skin. His eyes seemed dull, weighed down by the dark bags beneath them. He didn't look away, couldn't. Instead, he stood there, studying the man he was, the weariness that had seeped into him like a slow poison. His breath caught in his chest.
He reached for the wooden toothbrush, bringing it to his lips in slow, mechanical motions, his mind elsewhere, as though the act of brushing his teeth could somehow restore a part of him that felt lost. His eyelids grew heavy, threatening to close, when the faintest creak caught his ear.
The door. He heard it swing open behind him, and his eyes snapped open. In the reflection, Yomi stood framed in the doorway. Her presence was gentle, but she searched for him in the quiet way she always did.
"Yomi…" Maliki's voice was low, a soft rasp that barely rose above the silence. Yet in that single word, there was a deep swell of emotion. His eyes softened, finding a light in them as he looked down at her. "How are you?" he asked, forcing a smile to his lips, though it felt fragile.
Before he realized it, his arms were around her, pulling her close. Her small frame seemed to fit perfectly against his larger one, and for a moment, the world stilled. She didn't pull away.
Instead, her arms wrapped around him, embracing him in a warmth that his mind could never conjure in illusion. They stood there, quiet, wordless. The silence felt right.
"Maliki…" she whispered, her voice barely a breath, but it sent a shiver through him. Her hand pressed against his chest, grounding him in the moment. He could feel the warmth of her touch, real, present.
"Something… was off. Yesterday," he began, though his voice faltered. How could he explain the fire, the pain? But Yomi understood, yes... She wasn't a fool. So, she simply smiled. She didn't press him for answers, didn't pry. Instead, her presence was enough.
That was Yomi. She didn't need to ask. She already knew.
"I know—and I am aware it's much more than just that." Yomi's voice was steady. Her eyes, so full of understanding, met Maliki's as she continued. "But I won't push you. I never will. When you tell me… That's when you tell me."
There it was again—that patience, that strength she had carried ever since the day they met. And once more, he was reminded why he married this woman.
Maliki exhaled slowly, his gaze shifting away from hers, focusing on the far wall. His body felt stiff, as if the tension in his muscles had taken root beneath his skin.
"There's a raid today. In the northeast," he said, his voice low, almost absent. "The devils are gathering in numbers—more and more every day. I can't just sit around and wait." He straightened his shoulders.
Yomi nodded, her eyes narrowing slightly as she absorbed his words. "I know you can't." She acknowledged it, but there was something more in her tone, a wistfulness, perhaps. "If only I could fight alongside you."
"Never," Maliki snapped, more harshly than he intended. His eyes flickered to hers, an instant of apology hidden behind his stern expression. "No," he repeated, softer now, but no less firm.
"But my husband refuses," she said, finishing the thought without missing a beat. They had this conversation many times before. She understood his reasons, but that didn't mean she had to like them.
"Do you need anything to eat before you leave?" Yomi asked after the pause, her voice returning to that casual warmth.
Maliki shook his head, walking past her, "The devil's hearts will be enough."
She followed him out of the room, their footsteps nearly in sync as they passed through the wide hallway. The wood creaked beneath their feet, she didn't speak, knowing when Maliki wasn't in a mood for words. His silence was apparent, and Yomi had learned long ago to match his silence with her own.
His hand reached for the doorknob, and as he twisted it open, the heat from the outside world rushed in like a wave. Maliki closed his eyes for a brief moment, breathing in the warmth as if it were the lifeblood of his soul.
To anyone else, the heat was oppressive, but to Maliki, the heat was something else. It reminded him of the Inferno that lived deep inside him, that ceaseless flame that burned with every battle, every swing of his axes. The fire that consumed him but never seemed to burn him out.
Why didn't others feel it like he did? Why did it seem to thrive only in him?
Was that what set him apart? Was that what made him… different?
Stepping through the doorway, Maliki let the heat wash over him, a comfort that only stoked the Inferno within. The village outside was alive with the sound of footsteps, voices rising and falling in a familiar, rhythmic hum. The people moved like a living organism, each step purposeful, each sound part of the larger whole. They noticed him immediately, of course. They always did. He walked toward them.
Yomi let out a soft sigh as Maliki disappeared into the crowd. Her fingers absently brushed over the ring he had placed on her hand all those years ago. As she watched him go, she wondered, not for the first time, if the man she had married was still the same man who returned to her after each battle.