Chapter 15 - Valas
VALAS
I'm unraveling.
That's the only way to describe this sensation—like someone's found the thread that holds me together and they're pulling, pulling, pulling until there's nothing left but loose ends and empty space.
Four days since Daryn died. Four days since I learned I own Keira's contract. Four days since both of them locked themselves away and refuse to even look at me.
The irony would be funny if it didn't feel like my chest is caving in.
I wanted Keira to choose me. Spent months being careful, being patient, making sure she understood that I saw her as a person, not property.
That I wanted her because of who she is, not what she is.
I thought—gods, I actually thought we were building something real.
Something that transcended the ugliness of our world.
Then Daryn's will turned me into exactly what I swore I'd never be.
Her owner.
Another dark elf who uses her humanity against her.
I sit in the garden behind the house, the same spot where Daryn and I used to share drinks and terrible jokes while Amisra played in the grass. The stone bench is cold beneath me despite the afternoon sun. Everything feels cold now. Like Daryn took all the warmth with him when he left.
My best friend is dead.
The thought hits fresh every time, like a blade sliding between my ribs.
I keep expecting him to walk out here, to drop onto the bench beside me with that weary smile and ask what philosophical crisis I'm having today.
He'd make some cutting remark about my dramatics, then somehow manage to make me laugh anyway.
But he's gone.
And I don't know how to do this without him.
How am I supposed to raise Amisra? How am I supposed to navigate this disaster with Keira? How am I supposed to just exist in a world where Daryn isn't here to ground me, to tell me when I'm being an idiot, to remind me that not everything can be fixed with enough determination and healing magic?
I couldn't save him.
I tried. Gods know I tried. Spent every waking moment researching, consulting with other healers, attempting experimental spells that should have been beyond my skill level.
I pushed myself until I could barely stand, until my magic felt raw and scraped-out, until Daryn himself had to order me to rest.
None of it mattered.
The sickness still ate through him, still drained him day by day until there was nothing left. Until I had to watch him die in my arms while Keira held his hand and Amisra slept, oblivious to the fact that she'd wake up without a father.
I know that I couldn't have done anything. I know that deep down. I don't let the blame taint me, at least.
But it doesn't change that we lost him.
It doesn't change any of our suffering.
My hands shake as I press my palms against my eyes, trying to stop the burning behind them.
I haven't slept properly in days. Can't. Every time I close my eyes, I see Daryn's face in those final moments.
Hear the rattle of his last breath. Feel the exact second when his magic—that bright, familiar spark—finally went dark.
And beneath that grief sits the pain of losing Keira.
She won't see me. Won't speak to me. I've tried knocking on Amisra's door at least twice a day, hoping she'll just give me a chance to explain. To tell her that I never wanted this, that I'm going to dissolve the contract as soon as the legalities allow, that nothing between us needs to change.
But she won't answer.
And when I hear her voice through the door—that careful, professional tone she uses to dismiss me—it's like being cut all over again. She's retreated behind walls I spent months helping her tear down, and I have no idea how to reach her now.
Maybe I shouldn't try. Maybe she's right to keep her distance.
Because the brutal truth is that I do own her contract. No matter my intentions, no matter what I plan to do about it, right now she's legally bound to me. To my household. She has to do whatever I say, and if I push too hard, if I demand to see her...
She'd have no choice but to comply.
The thought makes me sick.
I wanted her to choose me. To wake up one morning and realize she wanted this—wanted us—as much as I did. I wanted to earn her trust, her affection, her heart. Wanted her to look at me and see someone worth choosing, not someone who holds power over her.
Instead, I'm the monster she always feared I'd become.
I understand why she's pulling away. Logically, rationally, I know that this is how someone like Keira—someone who's spent her whole life navigating exploitation—would react to suddenly being owned by the man she was starting to trust. She's always listened to her head more than her heart.
Always been cautious, careful, protective of herself in ways that break me even as I admire them.
She probably thinks everything between us was a lie. That I was just playing the long game, making her feel safe so the eventual ownership would be easier.
The assumption guts me.
But I can't even tell her she's wrong. Can't explain that Daryn orchestrated this without my knowledge, that I'm going to dissolve the contract, that I never wanted to own her—because she won't let me near enough to speak.
And breaking a contract takes time. Weeks, maybe months depending on how Daryn structured it. I can get her freedom, can give her a choice, but it won't be immediate.
Even if I started the process today, we'd be stuck in this nightmare for a while.
Not that it matters. I can't talk to her about any of it if she won't open the door.
A thalivern flutters past, iridescent wings catching the light. I watch it land on one of Daryn's carefully cultivated brimbark plants. He used to say gardening kept him sane when court politics got too ridiculous. That there was something honest about dirt and growing things.
I miss him so much I can barely breathe.
Miss his laugh. His terrible sense of humor. The way he could read me better than I could read myself. The easy comfort of knowing someone understood exactly who I was and loved me anyway.
He was my brother in every way that mattered.
And now he's gone, and I'm sitting here falling apart, and I don't know how to—
The door behind me opens.
I tense, hope and dread warring in my chest. Maybe Keira finally—
But when I turn, it's not Keira standing in the doorway.
It's Amisra.
She looks so small. So fragile. Her silver hair is tangled, her dress rumpled, her pale lavender eyes huge in her thin face. For a moment she just stares at me, frozen on the threshold like she's not sure whether to run or stay.
Then recognition sharpens into something raw and hurt and she's running.
Straight toward me.
I barely have time to brace before she crashes into my chest, her small arms wrapping around my neck with desperate strength. The impact nearly knocks me backward off the bench. I catch her instinctively, pull her close, and she sobs.
Not the quiet, controlled crying I've heard through the door. This is full-bodied grief, wails that shake her entire frame, tears that soak through my shirt within seconds. She clings to me like I'm the only solid thing in a world that's crumbling beneath her.
"You were supposed to save him," she chokes out between sobs. "You promised—you said you'd make Papa better—"
The words hit like physical blows. I hold her tighter, one hand cradling her head against my shoulder while the other rubs circles on her back. My own throat closes up, vision blurring.
"I know," I manage. My voice sounds wrecked. "I know, little bird. I'm so sorry."
"You're a healer!" She pulls back just enough to look at me, her face blotchy and wet. "You were supposed to fix him! You said—you said you'd find a way—"
"I tried." The confession cracks through me. "I tried everything I could think of. I wanted to save him more than anything in the world."
"But you didn't!" She hits my chest with one small fist, not hard enough to hurt but hard enough to make her point. "You didn't save him and now he's gone and I—I—"
Her words dissolve into fresh crying. I gather her back against me, press my lips to the top of her head, and let her rage. Let her grieve. Let her blame me for failing at the one thing that mattered most.
Because she's right.
I didn't save Daryn. Couldn't. And now this child who I love like my own is orphaned and heartbroken and looking for someone to hold responsible.
I can take it. Can shoulder her anger and pain if it helps her process even a fraction of what she's feeling. Can be whatever she needs me to be right now, even if it's just a target for her grief.
"You can be mad at me," I tell her quietly. "As mad as you need to be. I can take it, little bird. I promise."
She shudders against me, her sobs gradually quieting to hiccupping breaths. "I don't... I don't want to be mad. I just want Papa back."
"I know." I rock her gently, the way I used to when she was smaller and had nightmares. "I want that too."
"He said you'd take care of me." Her voice is muffled against my shoulder. "He said I'd be safe with you."
"You will be." I pull back enough to meet her eyes, brush tears off her cheeks with my thumbs. "I know I couldn't save your papa, but I will keep you safe. I will take care of you. That's not a promise I'm going to break."
She studies my face with that unnerving intensity children sometimes have, like she's looking straight into my soul to measure my honesty. Whatever she sees there must satisfy her, because she nods slowly.
Then she buries her face back against my neck and just cries. Softer now, exhausted, the kind of crying that comes when there's nothing left to do but let the grief flow through you.
I hold her and let her, my own tears finally spilling over to track down my cheeks. For Daryn. For this child who's lost too much. For the future we're all going to have to figure out how to navigate without him.
Movement catches my eye.
Keira stands in the doorway, one hand pressed to the frame like she needs it for support. She's watching us with an expression that breaks what's left of my heart—grief and longing and something that looks like it might be regret, all tangled together in the shadows under her eyes.
She looks as wrecked as I feel.
We stare at each other across the garden. I want to say something, anything, but with Amisra crying against my shoulder, I don't know where to even start. I'm sorry. I never wanted this. Please just talk to me.
But the words stick in my throat because I can see it in her face—the distance, the wariness, the walls she's rebuilt between us. She's already pulling back, already retreating into that careful professionalism she wears like armor.
She's so close and yet completely unreachable.
"Keira," I start, my voice rough.
She shakes her head slightly, takes a step back. The message is clear: Not now. Maybe not ever.
Then she turns and disappears back into the house, leaving me holding Amisra in the garden where Daryn used to laugh, where everything felt possible just a few short months ago.
Where now everything feels impossibly broken.