Chapter 5
1566 Words
That night, the manor was quiet again. Too quiet.
He wandered the upper hall, hands in his cloak, boots soft against stone. Something deeper drew him on, even though his instinct told him not to go.
He had to know. Had to hear it from the old man's mouth. Had to look him in the eye and ask, Why?
Not because he wanted the power.
Because he didn't.
He needed to say no, and say it to his face.
He descended the west stairwell, pausing only briefly to stare out the window, watching frost settle along the edges of the courtyard.
There was a chill in the air. Not just winter.
Something older.
Something that crawled beneath the skin and whispered, This is the end of something.
Valentine ignored it.
He moved forward.
The war room stood ahead, a monolith of stone and silence. The torchlight inside flickered low and unsteady, like it, too, feared what was coming.
He pushed the door open with two fingers.
It creaked. Just enough to betray him, but not loudly.
Alistair Morne stood alone near the hearth, one hand resting on the lion-carved edge of the mantel. His other hand traced slow, deliberate sigils in the air, runes only the most gifted could read. They flickered gold, then vanished into ash.
He did not turn.
"I thought you wouldn't come," he said.
"I almost didn't," Valentine answered.
The distance between them was barely ten steps, yet it felt like miles.
Valentine only inhaled once before something behind him changed.
The doors opened.
“Father?" came the voice, soft and boyish still, though its speaker was long a man.
Caelum.
He stood in the threshold like a statue. Shadow clung to him like an oath.
Valentine's stomach sank.
No. No, no, something's wrong
Alistair did not turn. "You shouldn't be here, Caelum."
"I could say the same."
The blade slid through his back and out of his chest in one swift stroke, kissed by silence.
Valentine's breath caught.
Alistair gasped, once. His lips parted, but no words came. Blood gushed down the front of his robes as his knees buckled beneath him.
He fell suddenly, heavy, tragically, like a lightning-stricken tree.
Valentine stood frozen, disbelieving.
"No," he whispered. "No."
Caelum stepped over their father's body with the cold grace of a priest delivering last rites. He looked down at the corpse, then slowly turned to his brother.
The dagger still dripped in his hand.
His voice then became louder and cracked with mock horror.
"He's killed him!"
Valentine's lips parted to protest, but before he could say anything—
The guards were already in the corridor.
Caelum's voice rose over the thunder of boots:
"He's lost it! I tried to stop him—he murdered Father!"
Everything blurred.
Hands. Metal. Shouting.
Valentine dropped to his knees, blood soaking into his palms. "This wasn't me—I didn't__“
But the guards heard only Caelum.
They tore him away from the corpse, slamming him against the cold floor. Shackles clinked into place.
Caelum's voice was calm now.
"By blood decree, he is no longer kin. Let him be bound. Let him be silenced. Let him pay."
As they dragged him from the room, Valentine looked back one last time.
Beside the fireplace, his father, his complex, aloof father, lay dead.
And his brother, Caelum, stood above him.
Smiling.
The same smile that never reached his eyes.
———-
The cell was cold.
Not just in temperature, but in intention.
The stones had been enchanted with repulsion runes. The iron bars etched with spells of containment. This place wasn't built to hold men.
It was built to hold monsters.
And that's what they'd decided he was now.
Valentine knelt on the chamber floor, breath slow and shallow, sweat running in rivulets down his back as his wrists bled against the manacles. His shirt had been torn open at the chest, and across his skin, an ancient sigil pulsed, drawn in blood and ash, carved there with ceremonial blades by priests who did not look him in the eye.
The blood sigil.
It seared when he tried to summon even a flicker of magic.
It wasn't just a lock. It was a curse. A seal. A branded silence written into his very bones.
When he'd first tried to conjure flame to warm his hands, he'd felt the sigil come alive like a thousand knives twisting inward from the inside out.
He hadn't tried again.
His body ached. His ribs were bruised. There were cracks in his lip and dried blood crusted in his nostrils. But worse than the pain was the hollowness.
He'd lived his whole life with magic pulsing beneath his skin like a second heart.
Now it was gone.
Snuffed out. Muzzled.
And still he knew it was there.
Just waiting.
The door opened with a deep iron groan.
He didn't lift his head.
Two guards entered. One spat near his feet. The other said nothing.
They only watched as a robed priest stepped inside next, tall and pale, bearing a scroll and a chain of holy sigils looped over his arms.
"The Aragorn has spoken," he intoned. "By the right of blood, by the witness of flame, you are sentenced into the Unholy Fate."
Valentine let out a breath.
So it was official.
Caelum had won.
He looked up, eyes hazy but defiant. "Does he sleep well at night?" he rasped. "Knowing he killed our father and still wears the crown?"
The priest ignored him.
Instead, he stepped forward and lifted the scroll.
"On the seventh day," he read, "you shall be brought to the Altar of Withering. The curse will be cast by those of the old rite. You shall not pass into flame as a man, but as a traitor, your soul shattered and scattered into the Black Ether."
Valentine coughed a bitter laugh. "Poetic."
When they left, he slumped back against the wall, chest heaving.
In seven days, he would die.
But part of him already had.
Not because of the sentence.
Not because of the betrayal.
But because when they drew the blood sigil on his chest...
He didn't fight.
—————
Drusilla Morne moved like a shadow through the manor's underbelly, her veil damp with the cold breath of stone. The servants were gone. The halls no longer whispered—now they watched. And in the darkened corners where candlelight once offered comfort, only dread remained.
Caelum had made sure of that.
He moved swiftly after Alistair's death, too swiftly for it to be grief. The coup was orchestrated with such brutal precision that by the next morning:
Two councilmen lay dead in the reflecting pool.
The high steward was found hanged in the library, a false confession nailed to his chest.
Three guards who had hesitated during Valentine's arrest were burned alive for "disobedience."
Drusilla had not wept.
Not for them.
She had to save her tears for what remained of her youngest son.
The dungeon reeked of sulfur and rot. No magic clung here—only despair.
The guards were gone for now. Caelum didn't fear Valentine escaping. He'd made sure the blood sigil was done correctly. Personally.
Drusilla passed silently into the cell.
He sat in the far corner, arms chained above his head, chest bare, bruised and red where the sigil pulsed with muted crimson light. His eyes were half-closed, but they opened the moment he sensed her.
"...Mother?"
She crossed the floor in three steps and knelt in front of him, cupping his face with trembling hands.
"I'm here," she whispered.
Valentine let out a soft breath, as if just her presence brought him a flicker of peace. He leaned into her palm.
"You shouldn't be here."
"I had to come."
Her eyes flicked down to the sigil carved into his chest. "Gods..."
"I told you not to worry," he said, voice gravel-thick. "But you did."
Drusilla's throat tightened. "I'm sorry. I am—" She swallowed. "I thought your father just wanted to speak to you. I didn't know Caelum had already..."
"He was always watching. Always waiting." He gave a dry laugh. "He was listening that night."
"I should have stopped you."
"You couldn't have."
She closed her eyes. "He's gone mad, Val. He thinks the bloodline owes him something. That everyone who doesn't kneel should be erased. He's declared himself Aragorn...he's rewriting the decrees, naming himself the chosen protector. He's even charmed Elspeth. She stands beside him like a puppet."
"She always wanted to believe in him," Valentine murmured. "She needed someone to follow."
"And I..." Drusilla's voice broke. "I pushed you toward him."
Valentine leaned forward, until his chains clanked.
"You didn't push me. You were trying to protect me."
She gripped his hands tightly. "I'll find a way to stop this. My mother's rituals and the Moonblood scripts are the ancient magic I'll invoke. Whatever it takes."
Valentine shook his head gently.
"No. Don't fight him. Not yet. Don't risk yourself."
"But I can't just do nothing__“
"There is something you can do."
He looked her in the eye, the steel of his will shining through the haze of pain.
"Find a spell," he said. "One that breaks the sigil. I don't need escape. I don't need vengeance."
He leaned forward until his forehead touched hers.
"I need my magic."
- Writer
