Chapter 8 Valas #2
She considers this, weighing options. Then, quietly: "You're left-handed but you trained yourself to write with your right. I can tell from how you hold your quill—too careful, like you're still thinking about it."
The observation startles me. "I—yes. Growing up, they insisted right-handed writing was more proper. I learned, but you're right. It never became natural." I study her with new appreciation. "That's incredibly perceptive."
"Your turn." She leans back, trying to look casual. "What have you noticed?"
"You sing when you think you're alone." The admission feels intimate somehow. "Quiet, under your breath. Usually old songs while you're braiding Amisra's hair or folding laundry. You have a beautiful voice."
Her lips part slightly, surprise and something else—pleasure, maybe—flickering across her face. "I didn't know anyone heard."
"I didn't mean to eavesdrop." Not entirely true. I'd stood outside doorways more than once just to listen. "But I'm glad I did. It made the house feel... warmer."
The carriage slows, announcing our arrival at my practice before she can respond. Probably for the best—the air between us has grown thick with something that needs more privacy than a hired carriage provides.
I help her down, offering my hand. This time she takes it without hesitation, and the simple trust in that gesture makes my chest ache.
My practice occupies the ground floor of a corner building near the healer's quarter. Not ostentatious but respectable—large windows, clean stonework, a painted sign bearing my name and the sigil of the Healer caste.
Keira pauses outside, studying the facade. "This is yours?"
"For the last twenty years." I unlock the door, gesturing her inside. "Not much, but it serves."
"Not much?" She steps into the main room, eyes widening as she takes in the space. "Valas, this is..."
"Cluttered?" I follow her gaze over worktables covered in instruments, shelves lined with bottles and books, dried herbs hanging from ceiling beams. "I know it's disorganized—"
"Impressive." She moves toward the nearest table, studying a set of surgical tools without touching. "How many patients do you see?"
"Twenty or thirty a week. More during winter." I set my satchel down, watching her explore. "Mostly middle caste—zagfer and k'sheng who can't afford the noble healers but want better than the public halls."
"And humans?" She asks it carefully.
"Sometimes." I move to the herb cabinet, pulling out jars that need refilling. "When they can pay or when I decide they can't. I'm not particularly good at turning away sick children regardless of coin."
She glances back at me, something soft in her expression. "That must upset the other healers."
"Frequently." I shrug. "But they can't actually stop me as long as I maintain my caste standing and pay appropriate taxes. One advantage of being miou—we have more latitude."
"You're warrior caste?" She sounds surprised.
"Was. Still technically am, though I shifted focus to healing decades ago." I set the jars on the table between us. "Does that bother you?"
"Should it?"
"Many humans find warriors... intimidating. Given our role in maintaining order." By which I mean oppression, and we both know it.
"You don't seem very intimidating right now." She picks up one of the jars, reading the label. "Silverleaf extract?"
"For fever reduction. Be careful with that one—it stains." I move closer, drawn by her curiosity. "Do you know much about herbs?"
"A little. My mother taught me which ones were safe to forage, which to avoid." She sets it down carefully. "Nothing like this, though. What's this one?"
"Dreamvein root. Helps with sleep, pain management. Dangerous in large doses." I'm standing close enough now to smell jasmine again. "Are you actually interested or just being polite?"
"Can't it be both?" But she's smiling. "I am interested, though. I like learning things."
"What kinds of things?"
"Anything, really. History. Languages. How things work." She touches another jar, this one containing dried purple flowers. "What are these?"
"Moonbells. They only bloom at night on Causadurn Ridge." I reach past her for a mortar and pestle, awareness sparking where my arm brushes hers. "They're useful in sleeping draughts but also in certain diagnostic spells."
"Can you show me?"
I pause. "Show you what? How to make a sleeping draught?"
"The diagnostic spell." She turns to face me fully, and I realize how close we're standing. How little distance exists between us now. "If you have time. And if it's allowed—I don't want to presume."
"You're not presuming." My voice comes out rougher than intended. "I'd be happy to show you."
So I do. Explain the theory while grinding the moonbells, adding other components, weaving magic through the mixture until it glows faintly blue.
She watches with complete focus, asking questions that show genuine understanding, making connections I wouldn't expect from someone without formal training.
"You're quick." I guide the spell through its final phase, impressed. "Most apprentices take weeks to grasp these principles."
"I'm good at patterns." She leans closer, studying the glowing mixture. "The magic responds to intention as much as ingredient, doesn't it? That's why you were thinking about diagnosis while you worked."
"Exactly." Pride and something warmer flood through me. "Keira, you'd make an excellent healer if you had access to magic yourself."
"But I don't." She says it simply, without bitterness. Just fact.
"No. But you have intelligence and curiosity and compassion." I set aside the completed spell, turning to face her properly. "Those matter more than raw power."
"Do they?" Skepticism colors her voice. "In your world?"
"In mine personally? Yes." I hold her gaze. "Power without wisdom just makes larger mistakes. And magic without compassion creates suffering instead of relieving it."
She studies my face like she's searching for something. "You really believe that."
"I do." Because it's true. Because I've seen too many powerful healers cause harm through arrogance or indifference.
"Then you're different than most dark elves." She says it quietly, almost to herself.
"Maybe I'm just exactly like some dark elves and you haven't met enough of us yet to know the variety." I soften it with a small smile. "We're not all tyrants and sadists. Some of us just want to heal people and make terrible jokes."
That startles a laugh from her. "Your jokes are terrible."
"Thank you. I work very hard at being awful."
"That's not something to take pride in."
"Disagree. Consistency is admirable even in terrible joke-telling." I'm rewarded with another laugh, the sound warming something deep in my chest.
A knock at the door interrupts us. My assistant, Rellis, sticks his head in with an apologetic expression.
"Master Valas. Your afternoon appointments are waiting."
Right. Patients. Responsibilities. The real world intruding on this moment I'd happily stretch into hours.
"I'll be right there." I turn back to Keira. "This will take maybe an hour. You're welcome to wait here, or we could continue to the shops after—"
"Can I watch?" The question surprises both of us, I think. She hurries to add, "Only if it's appropriate. If your patients wouldn't mind. I just... I'd like to see you work."
Something in my chest pulls tight. "You want to watch me work?"
"Yes." No hesitation. "Unless that's strange?"
"Not strange. Just..." Unexpected. Touching. Perfect. "Of course you can watch. As long as patients consent."
So she does. Settles into a chair in the corner while I see patients—a k'sheng merchant with a persistent cough, a zagfer mason with an infected wound, a child with a broken arm that needs setting and healing.
And through it all, Keira watches. Not with judgment but genuine interest, seeing how I interact with each patient. How I explain treatments, adjust magic to individual needs, calm fears with touch and reassurance.
When the last patient leaves, she's smiling.
"What?" I ask, washing my hands in the basin.
"You're good at this. Really good." She stands, moving closer. "That child was terrified when he came in."
"And smiling when he left." Because I'd made the splint look like a dragon scale, told him he was now part-dragon and needed to roar to activate the healing magic. "Fear makes healing harder. Especially for children."
"You care about them." It's not a question. "All of them. Not just because they're paying patients but because they're suffering and you can help."
"Isn't that the point of being a healer?" I dry my hands, studying her expression.
"I don't know. Is it? For everyone in your position?" She crosses her arms, something challenging in her posture. "Or just for you?"
"You're asking if I'm an exception or a rule."
"I'm asking if you're real." The words come out softer than probably intended. "If all of this—" She gestures vaguely at the practice, at me, "—is who you actually are or just who you're pretending to be."
The question cuts deeper than she maybe knows. Gets at the heart of what's happening between us—this fragile, growing thing that requires trust she has every reason not to give.
I move closer, closing the distance until we're standing within arm's reach. "I'm real, Keira. This is real. Everything I've shown you, told you—it's who I am. Not performance or pretense."
"How do I know that?" But she doesn't step back. "How can I trust what I'm seeing?"
"You can't. Not completely. Not yet." Honesty feels important here. "Trust takes time and evidence. But I'm hoping you'll give me the chance to prove it. To keep showing you until you believe it."
She searches my face, hazel eyes reflecting something I can't quite name. Want tangled with fear. Hope tempered by wisdom born from pain.
"We should go to the shops," she finally says. "Before they close."
It's not an answer to my actual question. But it's not a refusal either. Not rejection, just... deferral. I'll take it.
"Come on, then." I collect my satchel, offering my arm this time instead of just my hand. "Let's see what other opportunities Daryn's invented for us to spend time together."
She looks at my offered arm for a heartbeat. Then, with something that might be bravery, she takes it.
And as we step back into the afternoon streets, her hand warm in the crook of my elbow, I let myself imagine—just for a moment—what it might feel like if this became normal. If she stayed beside me not because Daryn arranged it but because she chose it.
Chose me.