Chapter Ten – Missed Moments, Twisted Shadows

Sierra’s POV

The corridors were empty, cloaked in moonlight and the occasional flickering lantern. Shadows crawled across the stone floor in uneven stripes, stretching long and crooked with every gust that rattled the glass panes. Sierra’s boots slapped softly as she hurried through the East Wing, her heartbeat echoing louder than her footsteps.

She couldn’t sleep. Not with everything that had happened today. Not with him tangled in her thoughts like barbed wire and wildfire.

His shirt still sat folded on her desk, an unspoken secret burning in plain sight. His scent still clung to her skin—smoke and cedar, edged with something darker, something that pulled at her even when she tried to resist. And the feel of his hands—strong but hesitant, as if he’d been holding back an entire storm—still lingered in her bones.

She hadn’t even thanked him properly. That gnawed at her worst of all.

I needed to talk to him. Now. Before the nethankein.

The East Tower was mostly deserted at this hour. The old wards along the walls buzzed faintly, lavender light pulsing in slow, steady rhythm, like a heartbeat not her own. She turned a corner, teeth sinking into her lip—and froze.

Voices.

Low. Muffled. Too close.

And then—

Laughter. Soft. Feminine.

Elara.

Sierra pressed herself against the cold stone wall, breath catching in her throat. The lantern above her guttered, shadows trembling across the archway as she risked a glance.

Her heart plummeted.

Malick stood there, tall and tense, framed in torchlight. Elara was pressed close, one hand splayed against his chest like she owned the right to touch him. Her nails traced idle patterns over the fabric, her head tilted with that perfect little smirk that made Sierra’s stomach knot. Above them, her crow familiar shifted on the stone ledge, feathers glinting oily black as it watched like a sentinel.

Malick didn’t touch her back.

But he didn’t push her away, either.

He looked… tired. Worn down. Caught between wanting to shove her off and not caring enough to waste the energy. Trapped in plain sight.

And then—just for a breath—his gaze lifted. Past Elara. Past her smirk. Past the crow.

Straight down the corridor.

Straight at Sierra.

Her stomach dropped clean out of her.

He saw me.

And he didn’t say a word.

Didn’t stop Elara. Didn’t move. Didn’t reach.

The world blurred. Her vision smeared with heat she refused to name. At her feet, shadows writhed like snakes, coiling, hissing, reacting to the sharp spike of betrayal before she could lock it down.

Sierra bit the inside of her cheek hard enough to taste blood—then turned on her heel and ran.

Back through the corridors. Back to the dorms. Back to the silence that was safer than hope.

Back to the version of herself that didn’t feel stupid for wanting him.

Malick’s POV

He should’ve known Elara would find him.

She always did. Like rot in a silver apple—slick on the outside, poison at the core.

He’d been making his way back from the old spirit vaults, his head crowded with smoke and ink from ancient texts. He’d risked hours combing through records for mentions of Vale bloodlines, hidden familiars, forbidden bonds. Every scrap of it led him back to her.

Sierra Vale.

The way her lips pressed into a line when she tried to lie. The way her shadows curled instinctively at her feet when she was angry. The sound of her soul when it brushed against his—a resonance that hit him like memory, like recognition, like home.

And saints help me, that shirt. I don’t even wanted it back. The thought of her keeping it… wearing it… set my blood on fire.

So when Elara blocked his path by the staircase, legs long, smile sweet as venom, he was already in a mood.

“Ooh, Malick,” she purred, looping her arm around his bicep like she’d already won. “You’ve been so hard to pin down lately.”

“That’s because I’ve been trying to avoid you,” he said flatly.

She laughed, the sound all silk and knives. “Oh, don’t be cruel. I only wanted to thank you for standing up for our little stray in PE today. Very noble of you.”

The word stray dripped from her tongue like rot.

He clenched his jaw and tried to move past her. She moved with him, her crow fluttering down a step closer.

“Elara,” he warned, voice low, eyes narrowing. “Now’s not the time.”

“But you’re so tense,” she whispered, trailing her fingers lower, brushing along the edge of his belt. “Why don’t I help you unwind?”

His gut twisted with disgust. He was about to shove her off when movement flickered in the corner of his vision.

He looked up.

And froze.

Sierra stood in the archway.

Her eyes locked on his—hurt, wide, luminous with something she couldn’t hide fast enough. Her mouth parted, just barely, like she wanted to say his name but couldn’t trust herself to.

And then she was gone.

“Elara, fuck off,” Malick growled, wrenching free at last. He shoved past her, footsteps pounding as he rushed into the corridor.

But it was empty.

The echo of Sierra’s footsteps had already been swallowed by the castle walls.

He cursed low and fierce, dragging a hand through his hair until it ached at the roots. He hadn’t wanted that. Saints, he hadn’t even been listening to Elara. He hadn’t felt a damn thing from her touch but irritation.

But Sierra had seen.

And now she thought—

She thought—

He snarled under his breath and stalked back toward the dorms, fury buzzing under his skin like static.

Later that night, Malick lay shirtless in his narrow bed, the dormitory too quiet, too loud. Shadows shifted across the ceiling in restless patterns, as if reflecting the storm inside him. His pulse wouldn’t settle. His skin felt too tight, his thoughts too loud.

He didn’t dream of his mother that night. Didn’t see fire, blood, or the endless corridors of steel.

Instead—

He dreamt of her.

A girl with smoke in her eyes and shadows curling at her fingertips. A girl who carried silence like armor and secrets like a knife.

He dreamt of her lips brushing his neck, soft but electric. Of her shadows twining with his own, purring when they met. Of magic that wrapped around him like a tether, dangerous and inevitable.

It wasn’t just a dream. It was a claim.

And when he jolted awake before dawn, chest slick with sweat, heart hammering like a war drum—

He was still whispering her name.