Chapter 17 - Valas
VALAS
Two days.
Two days of Amisra clinging to me like I'm the only solid thing left in her world. Two days of her small hand gripping my sleeve, her face pressed against my side, her silence so profound it makes my chest ache.
She hasn't spoken more than a handful of words over those two days. Just nods or shakes of her head when I ask if she's hungry, if she wants to rest, if she needs anything. The light that used to shine from her—that half-elven brightness Daryn loved so much—has dimmed to nearly nothing.
I carry her from room to room because she won't let me put her down. Make her favorite foods that she picks at without eating. Tell her stories that receive no response beyond the occasional tightening of her fingers in my shirt.
And everywhere we go, I see him.
Daryn's favorite chair by the window where he used to read to Amisra before bed.
The desk in his study where he'd spread out maps and laugh at my terrible battle tactics during our strategy games.
The garden path where he'd walk on his good days, determined to prove the illness hadn't beaten him yet even when we all knew it had.
The house is saturated with his presence. With memories that cut like glass every time I turn a corner and expect to see him standing there with that sardonic smile, ready to make some quip about my work ethic or my terrible jokes or the way I'm handling this whole mess.
It's crushing me. Grinding me down with the weight of grief and responsibility and the desperate need to fix something when there's nothing left to fix.
And if it's crushing me, it must be absolutely destroying Amisra.
She's four years old. She shouldn't have to wake up in a house full of ghosts. Shouldn't have to see her father's things scattered around like he might walk back through the door any moment, even though we both know he never will.
The idea comes to me while I'm standing in Daryn's study, Amisra asleep against my chest, her breathing steady but her grip still tight even in sleep.
There's a cabin. A small retreat about an hour's ride from the city, tucked into the foothills where the air is cleaner and the world feels less. .. heavy.
Daryn and I used to go there. Back before Amisra was born, when we were younger and stupider and thought taking a few days away from our duties to drink amerinth and argue philosophy was the height of rebellion.
It's quiet there. Peaceful. No memories of illness or death or watching someone you love waste away despite every spell you throw at the problem.
Maybe that's what we need. Some distance. Some space to breathe without feeling like we're drowning in everything this house represents.
I look down at Amisra's sleeping face, at the tear tracks still visible on her rounded cheeks, and make the decision.
We're leaving.
The next morning, Asmira wakes from a fitful sleep and I help her dress.
She shakes her head at my offer of food, climbing onto her window seat in her bedroom, knees pulled to her chest, staring out at the garden with those pale lavender eyes that look so much like her father's it makes my throat tight.
I settle onto the cushion beside her, careful not to crowd her space even though every instinct screams to gather her close and never let go.
"Little bird." My voice comes out rougher than intended and I clear my throat. "I've been thinking."
She doesn't look at me but her shoulders shift slightly. Listening, even if she won't acknowledge it.
"This house..." I pause, choosing my words carefully. "It has a lot of memories. Good ones. But also sad ones right now. And I think maybe we could both use a change of scenery for a little while."
That gets her attention. She turns her head just enough to look at me from the corner of her eye, waiting.
"There's a cabin," I continue. "Outside the city.
In the foothills where it's quiet and there are woods to explore.
Your father and I used to go there when we needed to get away from everything.
I thought... maybe we could go for a few days.
Just you and me. We could pack some books, bring your favorite blankets, make a proper adventure of it. "
Her expression doesn't change much but something flickers across her face. Interest, maybe. Or at least consideration.
"Me and you?" Her voice is so small, so quiet, I barely hear the words.
"Me and you, little bird." I reach out slowly and she lets me smooth her tangled hair back from her face. "I'll always be here for you."
She leans into the touch just slightly and I count it as progress.
"Can Keira come too?"
The request catches me off-guard. Not because it's unreasonable—Keira has become as much a constant in Amisra's life as I have—but because I haven't spoken to Keira beyond brief, careful exchanges since that conversation in the hallway.
Since she asked for time and I promised to give it to her.
Since I've been walking on eggshells trying to prove I meant what I said about not forcing her into anything.
"I'll ask her," I say carefully. "But you know she might need to stay here. She might have things to take care of."
"Ask her." Amisra's fingers curl into my sleeve, gripping tight. "Please, Uncle Val. I want her to come."
How am I supposed to say no to that? How am I supposed to deny her anything when she's already lost so much?
"Alright." I pull her into my lap and she comes willingly, curling against my chest the way she used to before the world fell apart. "I'll ask her. I promise."
I find Keira in the kitchen.
Of course I find her in the kitchen. It's where this all started, isn't it?
That first real conversation when she finally stopped running from me long enough to actually talk.
When I realized she wasn't just beautiful and brave but funny and smart and so goddamn lonely it made me want to wrap her in protective spells until nothing could ever hurt her again.
She's at the counter kneading dough, her sleeves rolled up to her elbows, a light dusting of flour across her freckled cheeks.
I think even she has had to find new things to occupy her time since she's not typically a cook.
Her chestnut hair is braided over one shoulder but strands have escaped to curl around her face, catching the afternoon light filtering through the window.
She looks up when I enter and something passes across her expression.
Not quite wariness, but not warmth either.
That careful neutrality she's adopted since learning about the contract.
Since I became her owner in the eyes of the law even though the thought makes me want to set the whole fucking document on fire.
"Valas." She doesn't stop kneading but her movements slow slightly. "Is everything alright? Is Amisra—"
"She's fine." I move further into the room but keep my distance, leaning against the opposite counter with my hands braced on the edge. Giving her space even though I want to cross the room and pull her into my arms so badly my fingers ache with it. "Well. Not fine. But she's... managing."
Keira nods, her hazel eyes—green at the edges like moss after rain—tracking my face like she's searching for something. Signs of how I'm holding up, maybe. Evidence that I'm breaking apart without someone to lean on.
She wouldn't be wrong.
"I'm taking her away for a few days. Maybe a week." The words come out steadier than I feel. "There's a cabin outside the city. Quiet, peaceful, no memories of..." I gesture vaguely, unable to finish the sentence.
"That sounds good for her." Keira's hands still in the dough, her attention fully on me now. "She needs a break from this place. You both do."
The 'both' doesn't escape my notice. She's including me in that assessment and something warm unfurls in my chest despite everything.
"She wants you to come with us."
Keira blinks, surprise flickering across her features. "She does?"
"Asked specifically." I force myself to maintain eye contact even though every instinct wants me to look away, to not see if she rejects this. Rejects us. "Said she wants you there. And I... I would like you to come too. If you're willing."
The silence stretches between us, heavy with everything we're not saying.
All the words I'm swallowing back because I promised her time.
All the feelings I'm desperately trying not to let show on my face because the last thing she needs is me pressuring her when she's already struggling with the power imbalance between us.
"You don't have to," I add quickly. "I know you need space and I'm not—this isn't me using the contract or trying to force you into anything. It's just... Amisra asked. And I'm asking. But you can absolutely say no and I'll explain to her that you have responsibilities here or—"
"I'll go."
The words stop my rambling mid-sentence. I stare at her, not quite believing what I heard.
"You will?"
"I will." She pulls her hands from the dough and wipes them on a cloth, her expression softening into something that looks almost like understanding. "Amisra needs people she trusts right now. And if having me there helps her feel safe, then of course I'll go."
Relief floods through me so intensely I have to grip the counter harder to stay upright. "Thank you, starlight. Thank you."
The endearment slips out before I can stop it.
The name I started calling her months ago, when she was still keeping me at arm's length but letting me closer inch by careful inch.
When I realized she was like a guiding star in the darkness—bright and steady and showing me a path I hadn't known I was looking for.
Bright like the stars I first saw her under.
Beautiful in a way I want to stare at the rest of my life.
Her breath catches and I see the way her fingers tighten on the cloth. The way her gaze drops to the counter between us before lifting again, meeting mine with something raw and vulnerable in those hazel depths.
I should walk away. Should thank her again and leave before I say something I can't take back, before I push too hard against the fragile boundaries we're trying to maintain.
But I can't seem to make myself move.
"Do you remember?" The words escape despite my better judgment. "That night in the kitchen. When you asked what you were to me."
Her throat works on a swallow. "I remember."
"Do you remember what I said?"
"You said..." She pauses, her voice dropping quieter. "You said I wasn't property. That I was someone you'd really like to know."
"I meant it then." I push off the counter but don't move closer, just stand there with my hands at my sides and my heart somewhere in the vicinity of my throat.
"I mean it now. The contract doesn't change that, Keira.
It doesn't change how I see you or what I want or why I've spent the last eight months trying to earn your trust."
Her eyes search my face and I let her look. Let her see every raw edge, every desperate hope, every feeling I'm trying so hard to keep contained because she asked for time and I'll give her all the time in the world if that's what it takes.
"I still just want to know you," I finish quietly. "That's all I've ever wanted. And that's all I'll ever ask for. Your choice. Your decision. Not because you're obligated or owned or have no other option, but because you actually want to choose this. Choose me."
The silence that follows feels eternal. I watch her process the words, watch emotions flicker across her face too quickly for me to name them all. Fear and longing and uncertainty and something else that makes my pulse stutter.
But I don't push. Don't demand an answer or crowd her space or use any of the power the law has granted me.
I just stand there and wait for her to decide what she wants to do with what I've offered.
Finally, she nods. Just once. A small dip of her chin that could mean anything or nothing, but feels like everything.
It's enough.
It has to be enough.
I turn before I can do something stupid like close the distance between us and kiss her the way I've been dreaming about for days. Before I can beg her to understand that losing Daryn has made me realize exactly how much I can't bear to lose her too.
"We leave tomorrow morning," I say over my shoulder as I head for the door. "Pack light. It's a small cabin and we won't need much."
I make it to the doorway before I pause, my hand on the frame, my back still to her.
"Thank you for coming with us, starlight." My voice comes out rougher than intended, threaded with emotions I'm not quite ready to name even to myself. "It means more than you know."
Then I leave before I can say anything else. Before I can turn around and see her expression and crack completely under the weight of everything I'm feeling.
I walk down the hallway with my hands shaking and my chest so tight it's hard to breathe, and I'm almost certain—gods help me, I'm almost certain I love her.
And I'm absolutely certain I'll do anything to keep her from walking away.