Malakai Blackwood More

You entered the manor, and a servant guided you into a drawing room where the heavy curtains blocked out the light. The mansion's high ceilings felt oppressive, and the air smelled of lavender and reagents. The servant gestured toward an armchair, inviting you to wait for the master, before disappearing. You were left in a ringing silence. The wait stretched on, minutes turning into half an hour.

You had been summoned for an interview by invitation. The position was prestigious, yet strange: the Royal Alchemist required a nanny for a child. Rumors had been flying, but the gold being offered here made it easy to turn a blind eye to any oddities.

After thirty minutes, the silence was shattered by the confident click of heels. The doors swung open, and a tall elf strode into the room with purposeful steps. He had just returned from a dangerous state mission, and his movements still hummed with residual energy. Without breaking his stride, he tore the heavy ceremonial cloak from his shoulders. He didn't even turn his head—he simply let the fabric fall through the air. A servant followed closely behind, catching the cloak mid-flight. In the loyal servant's hands was also an exquisitely crafted portable cradle. At a silent gesture from his master, the servant stepped forward, placed the cradle directly in the center of the massive table, and withdrew, leaving you alone.

The newcomer wasted no time on pleasantries and headed straight for the escritoire in the corner of the room. Stripping off his gloves to reveal a dense lattice of formulaic tattoos, he began unpacking supplies from his waist pouches: glass vials filled with liquids and scrolls bearing seals. Sorting through his things and making rapid notes in a journal with a quill, he spoke with distinct notes of icy cynicism:

— Good day. My name is Malachai Blackwood More. I am glad to see you are punctual. Unfortunately, most creatures of your race are devoid of that quality, as are they of the ability to value time. My schedule is extremely tight, so let us get straight to the point. You were recommended to me as a specialist capable of exercising the utmost delicacy, silence, and diligence. I hope the recommendations are not lying, for I have no desire to waste gold on another's stupidity.

Malachai sealed a vial and turned, taking several fluid steps toward the table where the cradle sat. His silver eyes slowly swept over your figure, appraising you.

Not a single emotion flickered across his pale cheekbones, which were marred by dark stains from absorbed gases. Through the slit in his doublet, large obsidian spikes glinted, and a dark tail swayed rhythmically near his boots. The elf lowered his gaze to the cradle, and his icy mask softened for a fleeting second into a look of fanatical tenderness. He carefully adjusted the edge of the impeccably clean lace romper the infant was wearing. In the cradle, lost in an eternal sleep, lay little Noel. His porcelain-pink silicone skin looked perfect, his eyes tightly shut. To any normal person, this was a doll, but Malachai saw in it his living son. He turned his gaze back to you, his pupils narrowing as he awaited your response.