Chapter 9
938 Words
Valentine was recovering.
More quickly than he should have.
Pale pink scars had replaced the wounds on his chest. His ribs were no longer bruised. The strange fever that gripped him in the early days had burned itself out like a curse spent.
Lilith noticed the difference first in his eyes.
Sharper. Clearer. Alive again.
By the second week, he could stand. Stretch. Pace.
He traced his fingers through the air, as if sketching things only he could see, and started whispering spells in a language she didn't understand, half-muttered phrases spoken under his breath.
And occasionally...
The atmosphere would react.
A candle would flicker brighter. Dust would suspend unnaturally in the air. Water in the bowl would shift without wind.
He never explained. And she never asked.
Yet.
Then one evening, she arrived at the root cellar—
And he was gone.
Panic was her first reaction. Sharp. Immediate.
She searched the woods, heart racing. The orphanage wasn't far. It would mean chains if anyone saw him, if anyone found him. Or worse.
Breathless and panicked, she made her way back to their secret location, but he had already returned.
Standing in the doorway with his hands behind his back, face unreadable.
"Where the hell were you?" she snapped.
He blinked, then offered her what he'd been holding.
Flowers.
A crude little bundle of violets, primrose, and nightshade, bound with a twist of bark.
"I was surveying the area," he said, a little too casually. "Checking the perimeter. Making sure it's safe."
She crossed her arms. "And the flowers?"
He shrugged. "Seemed like something you'd like."
She stared at them. Then him.
Then took the flowers, very gently, and sat.
"You scared me."
His gaze softened. "I didn't mean to."
⸻
A long moment passed.
Then she asked, quietly, "Where are you from?"
He hesitated.
But she didn't press. She only looked at him—open, not demanding.
So he spoke.
"I was born into a family called Morne. Old bloodline. Powerful. Revered. Feared." His voice took on a bitterness that was almost elegant. "My father was the leader of the coven. My brother was supposed to inherit everything."
"Supposed to?"
"He didn't." He met her eyes. "He took everything instead. He killed our father. Blamed me. Branded me with a sigil meant to sever magic from the soul."
Her lips parted, but no words came.
"I was to be executed," he continued. "With a curse called the Hollowing. My mother intervened. She saved me... but it cost her everything."
Lilith's breath hitched. "She died?"
"She shattered."
Silence.
Then, gently: "I'm sorry."
Valentine nodded once.
"You don't need to be," he said. "Just don't pity me."
"I don't," she replied.
He looked at her then really looked. "What do you see?"
Lilith's answer came slowly. "A man who has every reason to hate the world. But still brought me flowers."
Outside, the wind moved through the trees.
Inside, the air pulsed quietly, almost imperceptibly with magic.
And for a moment, the candle flame burned blue.
————
The days bled together, golden and gray.
Lilith and Valentine had fallen into a rhythm. She brought food, blankets, herbs. He cleaned the space with slow ritual gestures, sometimes humming under his breath in a tongue that vibrated with power.
She had grown used to him.
His presence.
The way he moved, like a warrior caged inside a poet's skin.
And she had even grown used to the flickers of magic that followed him: candles that stayed lit in the wind, water that stilled when he touched it, the way the shadows shifted just slightly when he was lost in thought.
It terrified her.
But it also made her feel safe.
So she didn't notice the change right away.
Didn't see the way Sister Agnes started watching her more closely.
Didn't feel the presence in the halls—lingering longer, sniffing out rebellion.
Until the third night of the waning moon.
Lilith had slipped into the root cellar after supper.
Valentine was sitting cross-legged, eyes closed, a copper coin floating inches above his palm.
It dropped as soon as he saw her.
"You're getting good at that," she said with a smirk.
"I'm getting bored," he replied. "If I don't stretch my magic, it'll start burning."
"You're not leaving this spot," she warned. "If they find you—"
"They won't."
But he looked... tense.
They ate in silence that night. Bread and berries. She had snuck a little honey from the pantry and smeared it on the crust.
Valentine raised a brow. "Are you wooing me?"
"Don't flatter yourself."
"Too late."
She rolled her eyes.
The peace broke with a sound.
Creak.
They both froze.
Footsteps. Just outside the ruins.
Heavy.
Deliberate.
Lilith stood, heart pounding.
Someone was close.
Too close.
Valentine moved without sound. He pressed a hand to the wall, muttered something sharp, and the candle extinguished instantly.
They were swallowed in darkness.
Footsteps passed the entrance. Paused.
Lilith held her breath.
Agnes.
She could hear the woman muttering to herself, something about missing fruit, vanishing linens, and the stench of secrets.
Then—Silence.
The footsteps receded.
Valentine waited a full minute before breathing. "She's suspicious."
Lilith nodded. "I'll start bringing less. Smaller portions."
"No," he said, grabbing her wrist gently. "We stop this now. I leave tonight."
"You can't."
"I won't put you in danger."
"Too late."
She looked down at his hand on her wrist.
Then up at his eyes.
She didn't say thank you.
She didn't say stop.
She only said:
"Next time she comes, she won't walk away so easy."
- Writer
