Selene & Valtor

Selene's POV:

The garden behind the western wing was nearly empty at dusk—just as I liked it. Mist curled low across the stone paths, and the willows draped over the edges like they were listening. The fountain whispered in the center, catching the last flickers of light on its surface like secrets waiting to be spilled.

I stood beside it, hands gloved, spine straight, my silhouette a statue in the fading gold. I hadn't told anyone I'd be here.

But I knew he'd come.

He always did.

The sound of boots on gravel reached me first—measured, deliberate. Valtor never rushed. That was part of his charm, or his curse, depending on who you asked.

I didn't turn. I didn't need to. I could feel him like a storm gathering just behind my shoulder.

"You're late," I said.

"I wasn't aware I'd been summoned," he replied, voice smooth and clipped like a blade freshly whetted. "But here I am."

I turned slowly, letting our eyes meet. Cold steel to cold steel.

He emerged from the veil of greenery, his coat thrown over one shoulder, wind-tousled hair glinting like obsidian. That ever-unchanging expression—cool, unreadable, born of years spent being sculpted into something more than a prince. A weapon. A king in waiting.

"Now, how does it feel," I asked, "being leashed to a token? You—the Queen's jewel—sent off with the boy who shouldn't exist."

His brow arched, but his voice was like polished steel. "Jealousy, Selene? That doesn't suit you."

I didn't rise to the bait. I never did.

"You should be furious," I said, turning to face him. Our eyes locked—flint against flint. "She's testing you. Pairing you with him is a game, and you know it."

He took a step closer. Always calculated. Always exact.

But this time, he didn't stop at the usual distance. He passed me, gaze drifting toward the veiled spires of the palace. The Crownlands shimmered under twilight—silent, golden, still. As if nothing had ever cracked.

"If I'm to rule Valerya one day," he said quietly, "I follow her command. No true heir defies the Queen and expects to wear the crown. This expedition—it's not punishment. It's not an errand. And it's certainly not just politics."

I scoffed and narrowed my eyes. "Then what is it?"

"It's observation," he said. "Proof that I can lead—not just in the polished halls of court but in the shadows that stretch beyond it. Even when the path is twisted. Even when I walk beside someone like him."

"Someone like him?" I echoed.

He didn't answer. But he didn't need to. His silence was louder than anything he could've said.

In this kingdom—Valerya—magic was more than mere power. It was identity, status, and divine purpose. A sacred inheritance passed down like blood itself, woven into the very bones of noble houses. It wasn't simply learned. It was bestowed—one gift, one element, granted at birth and believed to be the heavens' personal mark of favor.

Fire, water, wind, earth, ice, dream, stormbringer, summoners, metal, illusion, and many more—each affinity tied to a lineage, to a family crest, to a long and carefully preserved ancestry that could trace its blessings back through centuries. Your magic defined you. Not just what you could do—but who you were allowed to become.

To wield more than one element?

That's unheard of. Blasphemous.

To wield both light and darkness?

Impossible.

In Valerya, duality did not exist in magic. There were no exceptions. You were chosen once, and that was the full extent of your divine right. A person could only wield a single elemental gift in their lifetime—never more, never less. Even when born of two powerful bloodlines, a child would not inherit both gifts. Instead, the union of different elemental legacies might manifest as a new, singular gift—a blend, not a fusion.

For instance, if a father possessed fire magic and the mother wielded water, their child would not inherit both elements. Rather, the magic might manifest as wind—a unique expression shaped by lineage but still one singular affinity.

This was considered natural, blessed, and within the divine order. It followed the unspoken law of balance in Valerya.

But anything beyond that—the ability to wield more than one element, or worse, opposite forces like light and darkness—was not only unheard of, it was seen as a violation of divine design. A danger to the foundation of magic itself. A threat not just to tradition but to the kingdom's very identity.

Then, if you were born without a gift at all, you were simply ordinary—a subject of the Valeryan Crown, nothing more. You lived quietly, honored your queen, paid your dues, and raised your children with the hope that maybe, just maybe, one of them might be born touched by the heavens.

But for the nobles—for the heirs—that gift was everything. It was what separated the powerful from the powerless. The ruler was from the ruled.

That's why Aric was a threat.

Not because he had power—but because his very existence challenged the sanctity of the order. He had no noble blood. No ancestral crest. No divine right. And yet—he wielded both the light and the dark.

In a kingdom like Valerya, that wasn't a miracle. It wasn't a divine right.

It was heresy. Dangerous. An affront to everything we'd been taught to believe since birth. Magic was sacred—bestowed by the heavens, shaped by lineage, and regulated by balance. Anything outside that order was a threat. And threats, in Valerya, were not tolerated.

They should be eradicated.

"Do you remember what happened during the second trial?" he asked suddenly, his voice quieter now—almost grim, like the memory itself tasted of ash.

I stiffened, the echo of that day still buried in the marrow of my bones. Maybe because it had only happened two nights ago, and none of us were anywhere close to being over it.

"Of course," I murmured, looking away. "Most of us were surprised by the attack... by those creatures made of shadow and death."

No one had seen them coming. No warnings. No signs. Just a forest that turned on us like it had been waiting for centuries to do so.

And perhaps... perhaps we wouldn't be having this conversation at all if that moment hadn't shattered the illusion of peace. If the darkness hadn't crept past the wards and swallowed part of the trial whole, revealing something ancient—something wrong—lurking beneath the surface of our kingdom.

He looked at me then, and I hated the way his eyes could hold you still without moving a muscle.

"Then don't pretend this is still about court games," he said. "Those things that came for us... they weren't summoned by petty ambition. They weren't illusions or tricks to test our mettle. They were ancient. Wrong. And familiar."

He paused.

"Seven years ago," he continued, "the Priesthood of Knowledge was destroyed. Everyone assumed it was a political act. A warning. An accident of power. But now..."

He let the rest hang between us.

But I understood what he meant. I could feel it, too.

"What are you saying?" I asked softly.

"That what happened to the Priesthood wasn't the end of something," he said. "It was the beginning. And whatever we faced in that second trial—those shadowed things, that unnatural magic—it was tied to the same root."

I looked away. The mist felt colder now.

"The Queen has ruled Valerya for decades without war," I said. "Without disruption."

"She has," he agreed. "But peace is an illusion if it blinds you to what festers beneath it. Aric's magic, the timing of his rise, the shadows in the forest, the reports we're receiving from other regions of the kingdom about disturbances similar to those during our second trial—none of it is coincidence. You want to see him as a rival, as a threat to your position at court. But what if he's more than that?"

I hated the chill his words planted in my spine.

"He was raised by the Priesthood," Valtor continued, voice low. "He must have survived the night it fell. His powers—both light and darkness—probably helped him. And now, years later, the echoes of that fall are surfacing again, stronger and more dangerous. This isn't just about inheritance anymore. It might be about survival."

I scoffed, but the sound felt hollow. "You sound like you believe in fate."

"No," he said. "I believe in patterns. And something old is repeating itself."

We were quiet for a long time.

And in that stillness, I hated how right he might be.

"I won't lose everything I've built," I said, finally. My voice was sharp, even. "Not to Aric. Not to the past."

He stepped back toward me, close enough that I could see the storm in his eyes—not chaos, but pressure. Control. A man standing against a tide and refusing to move.

"He's a mystery," Valtor said finally. "And mysteries are dangerous in a kingdom built on legacy. How could a commoner—no lineage, no history—could wield both light and darkness? How does someone who shouldn't exist eclipse the sons and daughters of nobility?"

My lips curled into something bitter. "And yet," I murmured, "every village you pass through will see him at your side—and that image alone will send a message: that he stands beside you now."

Valtor's jaw tightened, the ghost of a muscle twitching beneath his cheek. "No. He doesn't stand beside me. We're not allies—we're just on the same mission. A reconnaissance task, that's all. The Queen are sending us to investigate the disturbances along the southern border. The village of Erin, specifically—that's where most of the reports are coming from, remember?"

He exhaled slowly, controlled.

A pause.

"I have to go because I needed to see it for myself. What he is. What he could become. Because someone like him shouldn't exist—and yet he does. I need to understand him."

"Understand him only?" I echoed, my brows lifting, my voice edged with doubt.

Valtor's gaze shifted, distant for a breath before returning to me. "If you're asking whether I trust him—no. I don't." His voice dropped, quieter now, as if admitting it to himself more than to me. "But I also can't ignore him."

I leaned in slightly, my tone dark, deliberate. "And what is it that you think of him, then? Is he a threat?" I watched him closely, every word a test, trying to gauge which side he truly stood on—ours, or something else entirely.

"He could be," Valtor admitted. "To the court. To the throne. To everything we've been raised to believe."

My gaze flicked downward for a breath—to his hands, his shoulders, the way tension coiled through him like a barely bridled storm—and then up again, cooler than before.

"She's toying with you, Valtor. With all of us. Pairing you with a boy who wields both light and dark? The court will whisper about alliances, loyalty, prophecy. You know what they'll say."

Valtor's jaw ticked. "Let them whisper. I was raised to endure worse than murmurs."

"You were raised to rule," I corrected. My voice softened—not tender, but edged like silk over steel.

"Keep your sword close," I added, my voice low and sharp. "Or your hand wrapped around his throat."

A warning. A challenge. A reminder of the world we lived in.

His eyes darkened, a flicker of storm behind them, but I didn't flinch. I didn't blink. I wanted him to feel it—that I still knew the weight of power, of loyalty, of betrayal.

Silence fell between us, stretched thin and taut. Only the wind stirred—threading through the garden leaves, brushing past us like a whispered secret.

Then, slowly, his gaze dropped. Not to my face, but lower—to the hand I kept guarded at my side, gloved in velvet, fingers curled tightly against my hip.

To the ring I still wore.

Our ring.

Forged in fire and old promises. Bound by something more on our memories than duty.

"You still wear it," he murmured, and for the first time, his voice wasn't cold or controlled—but something else. Something quieter. Wounded.

I didn't answer. I didn't need to.

Some truths didn't need to be spoken aloud to be heard.

I didn't respond immediately. Then, just as softly, "Not everything deserves to be discarded when convenient."

Valtor stepped closer—close enough now that the chill between us grew warm with tension. His voice dipped low, private. "You don't approve of the mission?"

I shook my head. "I don't approve of being excluded. Of being sidelined while the Queen stages her little myth."

His expression didn't change, but something in the air did. The storm within him—restrained, always—rippled beneath the surface.

"I didn't choose Aric," Valtor said. "But I'll learn what I must. If he's a tool, I'll wield him. If he's a threat—" he paused "—I'll end him."

My lips curved into a small, knowing smile. "Good. Because the moment you hesitate, the court will crown someone else. And I won't wait for you to catch up."

We stood in that garden like pieces on a board, both beautiful, both lethal—an alliance carved in ambition, history, and something neither of us would dare call love.

Only purpose.

Only power.