Slices of Midnight Chapter 7
Under sacred murals, Marissa kisses the boy who stood by her through everything. But as dreams of love mix with dreams of prophecy, she learns that his path may lead through hell.
As it turned out, I’d have to wait a little longer before delving into my new alchemy bag.
While eating the meal Sir Isaac had so graciously provided, I teased him about the red apron he was wearing.
After a few laughs, we slipped into one of our favorite topics—what life might be like beyond the Isle.
Of all Malakanth’s provinces, Lyconia and Listra intrigued us the most.
Eventually, I finished the last of my ham and potatoes. A slight chill settled in, so I snuggled up to Isaac on the bench, taking his big, warm hands in mine.
"I love winter," Isaac said. "I wish every night was like this one."
"So do I."
He looked up into the starless sky.
"You know, I think it might snow," he said, his voice carrying the kind of eagerness you’d expect from a bright-eyed boy.
As much as I enjoyed talking about the weather, I wanted to learn more about Sir Isaac—had for years.
But he was one of the most recondite people I knew when it came to personal aspirations.
Despite all our nights spent chasing hauntings, I knew little of his dreams beyond his longing to travel—
And to press his lips against mine.
"They say you’ll make a fine knight one day," I said, hoping to draw him into talk of the future.
"Just so you know, I agree."
Isaac let out a coy little laugh and shrugged.
"Thanks, but I have no intention of becoming a knight."
"Oh?" I sat up a bit straighter.
"Being a backwater orphan, I doubt I could become a knight even if I tried. It takes the right bloodline."
I raised a flirtatious eyebrow.
"Well, you’ll always be Sir Isaac to me."
He laughed.
"Again, thanks."
"So, what does the future hold for you?"
I slipped from under Isaac’s arm and shifted on the bench, settling onto my knees so I could look straight into his blue eyes.
"You can’t scrub pots and pans forever. Tell me your dreams, handsome, and I just might tell you mine."
Isaac lowered his eyes.
"All my life, I’ve never imagined being anything but a prophet," he said.
"One day, I hope with all my heart to travel to the Aegis of Laeron Madrin and join the Society’s league of prophets."
Even before he finished speaking, his words resonated with me.
Most would find it hard to picture a boy scrubbing cookware in a remote village priory rising to the pinnacle of the most hallowed religious order in the land.
But I could see it—if only for the sheer beauty of the tale.
"You will succeed," I said.
"Somehow, you’ll leave Indamar. You’ll travel to the Aegis of Laeron Madrin. You’ll show those prophets of the Citadel the mettle of a true son of the Isle."
Caught up in visions of Isaac’s future, I forgot myself.
I reached out, pulled him close, and kissed him—a much-deserved kiss.
We had spent hours bundled together, holding hands in quiet forest glens and bustling town squares,
But this was our finest kiss yet.
In that moment, I tried to say everything words couldn’t.
To thank him for every plate of food he’d snuck me, for the ghost hunts, for standing by me—even when I hadn’t deserved it.
Cradling the future prophet, I turned my gaze to the walls of the Gardens, where dozens of artworks honored the glory of the Society of Laeron Madrin and its valiant holy warriors.
One mural—just beside where we sat—seized my attention.
It depicted one of the darkest days in Malakanth’s history.
Perched high on a hill in the faraway province of Calipsis, a fortress known simply as The Citadel stood against an army of demons tens of thousands strong.
These horrors, escaped from Hell’s grasp, laid siege to the stronghold, hungering for the souls of its defenders—Laeron Madrin and his band of prophets.
A pair of flaming torches, one on either side of the mural, cast their flickering glow across the scene, giving the painting a life of its own—almost too real.
"Hell’s swarm," I murmured.
Isaac turned to study the mural.
"The kingdom will feel its wrath again someday, surely."
I ran a hand through his blond hair.
"Many believe Hell can never invade Malakanth again—not in such numbers."
"When even a single demon slips through from the Abyss, it’s one too many," he said.
"So the League stands ready to return any beast to its torment, no matter the cost."
"And what of the so-called Eternal Swordsman, Laeron Madrin?" I asked.
"Do you believe he still walks the realm? Some say he’s nothing more than a cunning myth."
Isaac turned to face me.
"The old stories still ring true—at least for me. They guide me, shape every decision I make. Laeron Madrin is forging my destiny even as we speak. How could he be just a myth?"
I placed a hand on Isaac’s cheek.
"Do you realize what you’re getting yourself into if you join the prophets' ranks?" I asked.
"Everything I’ve ever read about becoming an Obricon prophet makes me cringe. There’s no more perilous undertaking.
"They’ll graft a demonic spirit onto your soul, Isaac. It’s insane. You’ll have to endure its presence for five long years.
"Insidious is the only word for it."
"And if you fail to overcome it, the demon drags your soul to Hell—to torment you for eternity. Doesn't that terrify you?"
Isaac opened his mouth, ready to say something brave—but relented.
"It does," he admitted.
Such candor. I found it deeply impressive.
"To be honest, Marissa, I don’t feel like I have a choice. It’s more than a calling—fate has chosen me to be a prophet. Most people wouldn’t understand."
I glanced at the brown alchemy bag beside me.
"Perhaps," I said, exhaling deeply.
"But I understand completely."
