Citrine didn't sleep like humans. He shimmered into rest—half-dreaming, half-listening to the breath of leaves and the low murmur of roots. The orchard never truly slept either. It grieved at night like old houses—settling into memories and silence.
Malakhov prowled the orchard like it belonged to his bones. No footsteps, no sound—but the trees knew. They flinched when he passed, whispering through brittle branches. Not from cold. Malakhov brought worse—memory. Of violence, of blood soaked into the ground, of things left unsaid and undone.
Citrine dangled upside down from a crooked branch, sipping dew from a petal. He twirled it like wine, letting the bitterness curl over his tongue. His wings flickered softly, shedding gold into the dark.
Below, Malakhov lit a cigarette. Flame flared, quick and sharp, like the man himself—precise, dangerous, unyielding.
"You know smoking stunts your soul," Citrine muttered, his wings fluttering.
Malakhov didn't glance up. "Good. Souls are weaknesses."
No humor. Just cold honesty that dropped like a blade.
Citrine floated down in lazy spirals, glitter trailing like a comet. "You're such a joy. Ever tried tea? Yoga? Or, I don't know—smiling?"
Malakhov exhaled smoke through the trees. "I kill men who talk as much as you."
"Good thing I'm not a man," Citrine chirped, hovering at eye level. "I'm a fairy."
Still no reaction. Malakhov reached for a shriveled lemon, rolled it in his palm... and crushed it.
Juice ran down his glove like sap-blood.
Citrine gasped, clutching his chest. "That tree was trying, you psychopath! Do you just wake up and choose violence?"
"I don't believe in redemption," Malakhov said, dropping the fruit. "Only rot. Rot teaches."
Citrine hovered, jaw tight, "No wonder your orchard's haunted."
"Ghosts are quiet unlike fairies"
A silence stretched, thick and oily.
The fairy's glow dimmed. He floated lower, voice tightening.
"This orchard isn't just dying. It's mourning. It remembers the blood. The bodies."
Malakhov finally looked at him. His stare cut through the dark, through layers. "You listen to ghosts?"
Citrine's lips curled. "No, darling. They listen to me."
Stillness. As if the orchard leaned closer.
"I didn't come here for lemons," Citrine added, quieter now. "I felt this land crying across the veil. Not for help. For challenge."
Malakhov let his cigarette burn down. He looked at Citrine, "You're not just sparkle and mouthy."
"Diva and sassy is a better way to describe me."