Chapter 4
948 Words
With his boots hanging over the stone edge, Valentine sat by himself on the western battlement of the Morne acres, staring at the ragged hills beyond the river where the sky was bleeding purple into dusk.
He hadn't slept. Not since he heard those words.
"He may be the one."
He should've felt triumphant. Validated. At last, his father had seen him. Chosen him.
But all Valentine felt... was dread.
He gripped a silver coin between his fingers, flipping it over and over again like a nervous habit. His magic always stirred when his emotions did, and the air around him crackled softly.
Protector of the Bloodline?
Aragorn of the Ashmire?
They were titles meant for someone who belonged here. Someone carved from legacy. Polished. Predictable.
He was none of those things.
He was the boy who asked too many questions during spellcraft lessons. The one who skipped elder councils to train in swordplay with the soldiers in the yard. The one who spat in the direction of the high council when they used sacred laws to justify cruelty.
Too loud, too mortal, too unwilling to bow—he was everything the coven hated.
Power didn't seduce him. It repulsed him.
Because he had seen what it did.
He had watched noble men stand over the broken bodies of children and call it duty. He had seen the Church burn women for "heresy" while lords clapped from balconies. He had seen his own father, stone-eyed and cold, condemn people to exile for petty theft—while Caelum stood by, smiling faintly.
Power made puppets out of men.
The leaders lacked honour. They were just more adept at defending their brutality.
Valentine was not interested in sitting at that table.
His intention was to burn it.
He leaned his head up to the sky and inhaled deeply.
"I don't want it," he whispered.
He never had.
He loved his mother. He respected the old ways. But leadership? The title? The legacy?
It would eat him alive.
He thought of Caelum. The perfect son. The golden child.
Valentine had always assumed that one day, Caelum would take the title and the rest of them would simply orbit around him like trained moons.
But now, the stars were shifting.
And Valentine didn't trust it.
When the raven came—black wings slashing across the twilight with a scroll bound to its leg—Valentine didn't even open the message right away.
He stared at it, fingers tight.
He already knew.
It would be from their father. A meeting. A final talk. A coronation in disguise.
Valentine sighed and stood.
"No," he said aloud.
He tossed the scroll into the brazier beside him, watching it curl and blacken in the flames.
Let them keep their throne.
He had no desire to wear a crown made of chains.
—————-
The hallways of the Morne estate were quieter than usual, wrapped in a strange hush as if the walls themselves were listening.
Valentine had just returned from the training yard, sweat still clinging to his brow, sword strapped lazily across his back. Not Caelum, not the guards, not even the flickering shadows that always danced a bit too close when he was angry, he didn't want to see anyone.
But she was waiting for him in the glassroom.
Drusilla Morne sat at the round table with her hands wrapped around a steaming cup of birchroot tea, her long grey robes pooling around her like still water. She smiled, softly, with that knowing tilt of the head that always reminded him of home, not legacy, as he walked in.
"I was hoping you'd come," she said.
Valentine paused in the doorway. "You summoned me?"
"I asked," she corrected. "You've been avoiding everyone since the raven came."
He scoffed and leaned against the archway. "You know what it said."
"I know what your father wanted to say, yes."
"He's making a mistake."
Drusilla took a sip and set the cup down, watching the steam rise between them. "He didn't think so."
Valentine crossed his arms. "I'm not Caelum."
"No," she agreed. "You're not."
There was a pause.
Then she added, softly, "That's why your father changed his mind."
Valentine stared at her.
"Caelum wants it," he said. "He's trained for it. Dreamed of it. I haven't. I'm not... interested."
Drusilla stood, walking slowly toward him, her steps silent across the marble. She placed a hand on his cheek and looked up into his face.
"You think I don't know that?" she said. "You think I haven't noticed how you minimise your gifts and conceal your power because you think that the only way to survive in this house is to be humble?"
He swallowed.
"I know you don't want the crown, Val," she said gently. "But your father saw something in you that he never saw in anyone else. Not even Caelum."
"Blind faith," he muttered.
"No. Hope."
She brushed a strand of hair from his face. "Just go. Hear him out. If you still wish to turn it down, he will not force you. But let him look into your eyes and say it to you. Not through a letter. Not through silence."
Valentine wanted to say no.
He wanted to turn and walk out, let the estate crumble under the weight of its own greed and tradition.
But he couldn't say no to her.
He never could.
So he nodded once.
"I'll go."
Drusilla smiled, but there was a shadow behind her eyes. Something she didn't say. A mother's ache. A tremble of fear.
And when she pulled him into a tight embrace, she whispered, "Come back to me."
- Writer
