Chapter Two: The Devil’s Son
838 Words
The rumors began long before he returned.
Long before he stood in the square with those bloodlit eyes and a silence that wrapped around the throat like a noose.
Nathaniel Vale was no ordinary lord, and Durnhill was no ordinary town.
Children were raised with lullabies that warned of red-eyed men in the woods. Wives whispered of the Vale family’s “dark inheritance” while braiding their daughters’ hair. And when a sheep went missing or a child dreamt of fire, it was said in hushed tones: The Devil’s son walks again.
Evelyn didn’t believe in gossip. But she believed in patterns—and nothing about Nathaniel Vale was natural.
---
The morning after the festival, a storm rolled in from the hills.
Rain drummed against the manor’s stained-glass windows as Evelyn sat at the long breakfast table with her family. Her father, ever composed, read the local reports with a frown etched into his brow. Her mother—draped in soft silks and silence—sipped her tea like it was the only thing tethering her to this world.
Alaric lounged across from her, swinging his chair lazily back and forth, a slice of bread in hand. Beside him, their eldest brother, Ronan, sat like a statue carved from iron. Barely thirty, and already he carried their father's shoulders, their father's voice, their father's need for order.
“So,” Alaric said, biting into the bread, “The Devil’s Son came to dance and frighten the common folk. Again.”
Ronan shot him a look. “Enough.”
“Don’t tell me you didn’t see it,” Alaric muttered. “The entire square froze. No one knew what to say or do. You’d think Death itself came strolling in to buy a glass of wine.”
Their father folded his paper slowly. “Lord Vale has every right to attend the festival. He is the heir to the North.”
“Heir to the North,” Alaric repeated with a dramatic sigh. “More like heir to the underworld.”
Evelyn stayed quiet, her spoon stirring the same patch of porridge for far too long.
Because she had felt it, too. That stillness. That presence. When Nathaniel Vale looked at her, it wasn’t like being seen. It was like being… sought.
“It’s only right to be cautious,” Ronan added, voice low. “No one has seen the inside of the Vale Manor in years. No one knows who serves him, or how he governs his land. There are whispers—too many, too loud.”
“He looked at me,” Evelyn said suddenly.
Three heads turned toward her.
She almost regretted speaking. Almost.
“At the festival,” she added quietly. “He looked right at me.”
Alaric raised a brow. “I suppose congratulations are in order. You’re now the official obsession of Durnhill’s most dangerous bachelor.”
Their mother stiffened, just slightly.
Ronan frowned. “Did he speak to you?”
“No.”
“Did he touch you?”
Evelyn scowled. “Of course not.”
“Still,” her father said after a long pause. “It’s best if you keep your distance. The Vale family… doesn’t understand boundaries. Or consequences.”
Evelyn looked at him then, truly looked. Her father rarely let unease slip through his polished facade. But now—it was there, plain as breath. As if he had once crossed a line himself, and barely made it back.
---
Later that day, Evelyn visited the market under a grey sky.
The cobbled streets were wet, the stalls quieter than usual. As she browsed through herbs and cloth, voices followed her. Not loud. Not direct. But present.
“...the Vale boy came back last night…”
“They say he drank the blood of a fox on his father’s grave...”
“Did you see those eyes? That ain’t natural.”
“…poor girl, caught his eye...”
She turned a corner sharply and nearly collided with the town’s apothecary, Old Maire.
“Evelyn,” the woman rasped. “Watch your steps, child.”
“Sorry,” Evelyn muttered, adjusting the shawl around her shoulders.
Old Maire’s pale eyes narrowed. “You were at the festival, weren’t you?”
“I was.”
“And you saw him.”
“Yes.”
The old woman hesitated, then leaned closer. “Stay away from him, girl. Nothing good ever came from the blood of Vale. Their women die young, and their sons are born... wrong. He is not what he seems.”
Evelyn forced a smile. “No one is.”
Maire’s bony fingers gripped her wrist. Hard. “He will ruin you if you let him. Remember this: the devil never takes what is given. He takes what is denied.”
---
That night, as lightning lit the hills, Evelyn dreamed of fire.
And in the center of it, a single red rose grew tall against the ash.
Someone stood in the flames.
Watching her.
Waiting.
- Writer
