NOVEL NEXT Chapter 272: clipped
"I don't know. And I don't want to talk about her." The words came out clipped, a wall thrown up to keep the past at bay.
Silvia leaned forward slightly.
Her tone softened further, almost pleading.
"She's not what you think, Lor. Kiara's... broken, in her own way. She regrets what she did. She is just a foolish girl."
Lor turned slowly, his silhouette sharp against the dim light filtering through the curtains.
His face was unreadable for a moment, before something harder surfaced, tightening the line of his jaw.
"Sad?" His voice carried a dry, bitter edge, almost a laugh but too sharp for humor.
"That's convenient. Regret's a cheap currency when you've already spent someone else's trust."
Silvia didn't reply immediately.
She just watched him, her hands clasped loosely in front of her, fingers laced tightly enough to betray her unease.
The firelight danced across her face, highlighting the faint creases of worry at her brow, but she let him speak, giving him the space to unravel.
"If she wanted revenge, that's fine," Lor went on, his tone sharpening now, like he was carving them out of himself.
He took a step closer, his boots thudding softly on the floor, his presence filling the small room.
"If she wanted to use me to get back at someone else—fine. I could've handled that. But she didn't just use me, Miss Silvia. She lied. She played with my feelings." His voice dipped, heavy with the weight of betrayal.
"She acted like she loved me, like I was something to her—those intimate talks, the way she'd laugh at my dumb jokes, the way she'd lean into me when we were alone. The way she looked at me. The way she touched me. All of it, rehearsed. A performance."
He paused, his eyes dropping to the floor, where a stray ember from the hearth had left a faint scorch mark on the wood.
His voice grew quieter, but it carried a raw edge that made the air feel heavier.
"Do you know what that does to someone? To wake up one day and realize every moment you thought meant something—the affection, the trust, the way she looked at me like I was her whole world—was just a script she was reading to get what she wanted?"
Silvia's lips parted, but no words came.
She'd seen students at the academy lose themselves to ambition, to jealousy, to magic that twisted their hearts into knots—bright young mages who burned out or broke under the weight of their own choices.
But Lor's pain wasn't academic, wasn't something she could annotate in a textbook or fix with a potion.
It was raw, jagged, human, and it hung between them like a storm cloud.
She regretted telling him about Kiara.
Her fingers twitched, as if she wanted to reach out, but she stayed rooted, her breath catching softly.
"She took my mana orb," he continued, his voice dropping to a near-whisper, rough with the memory.
"I gave her a choice. Because I believed in her." He paused, his jaw tightening, a muscle ticking beneath the stubble.
"And she took it. Took that and walked away with both like they were nothing."
The room went still, the only sound the soft crackle of the fire and the faint hiss of the kettle, forgotten on the hearth.
The air itself seemed to hold its breath, heavy with the weight of his words.
Silvia exhaled softly, her shoulders sagging as if his pain had settled onto her too.
"Everyone carries a past, Lor," she said quietly, her voice steady but laced with empathy.
"Sometimes it drags us down paths we never meant to take, blinds us to the hurt we cause. Kiara's choices shaped yours, just as yours shaped hers. That's what makes it all so… cruelly human."
Her eyes flickered with something personal, a shadow of her own regrets.
Lor's gaze softened for half a heartbeat, caught by the quiet sincerity in her voice, but then it dimmed again, his walls snapping back into place.
"Maybe," he said, the word flat, final. "But that doesn't mean I have to forgive her. Or that I should."
She tilted her head slightly, studying him.
Her robe shifted, the silk catching the light, and for a fleeting moment, the curve of her thigh was outlined through the fabric.
"Would you ever give her a chance?" Silvia asked, her voice softer now, almost afraid of the answer. "After all of this—if she came back, truly sorry, and tried to make it right?"
"No." The word shot out instantly, sharp and unyielding, cutting through the room like a blade.
"I'm done with her. Done with second chances for people who don't deserve them."
The finality in his tone was a door slamming shut, leaving no room for argument.
Silvia's lips pressed into a thin line, and she nodded slowly, absorbing his resolve like a scholar noting a failed experiment.
Her fingers unclenched, resting limply in her lap, and the firelight caught the faint sheen of unshed tears in her eyes—for Kiara, and for the weight Lor carried, the kind of hurt that magic couldn't fix.
He reached for the door again, his hand steady this time.
"Thank you," he said, not looking back, his voice quieter now, carrying a grudging gratitude. "For tonight. For... fixing it."
Silvia's lips parted as if to say something more—a warning, a plea, or maybe just his name—but she caught herself, swallowing the words.
The door closed with a soft click, the sound swallowed by the heavy silence of the room.
Outside, the night stretched cold and still, the cobblestones slick with the remnants of the earlier rain, reflecting the faint glow of a crescent moon.
Lor stepped down the narrow path, his boots scuffing the stone with a rhythmic crunch, the sound grounding him as the cool air pressed against his face, sharp and cleansing.
He exhaled slowly, his breath misting in the chill, the tension bleeding from his shoulders like water running off stone.
The bond was gone, the weight lifted, but the ache of Kiara's betrayal lingered like a bruise he couldn't stop prodding.
Something made him glance back, a prickle of instinct or maybe just habit.
One of the upstairs windows glimmered faintly with candlelight, the flame wavering as if stirred by a draft.
Behind the glass, a figure stood, half-hidden by the sheer curtain.
Blue eyes watched him.
Kiara.
For an instant, time stilled, the world narrowing to that single point of connection.
Her silhouette was unmistakable—the cascade of her black hair catching the candle's glow, the slight tilt of her head, the way her hands pressed against the glass, fingers splayed as if reaching for something she couldn't touch.
She didn't move, didn't hide, just looked at him with those eyes that used to make his heart race—the same eyes that had once held laughter, promises, and a warmth that felt like home before it all shattered.
Lor's expression didn't change, his face a mask of stone, but his chest tightened, a flicker of old emotions—anger, longing, betrayal—stirring like embers.
He didn't call out, didn't ask why she was there or what she'd overheard.
He didn't want to know.
The sight of her, after everything, was a punch he hadn't braced for, and the drama of it twisted in his gut, threatening to pull him back into her orbit.
"Typical," he muttered under his breath, the word dripping with sardonic humor.
His lips twitched in a bitter half-smile, the kind that said he wasn't surprised, not really, but it still stung.
Without another glance, he turned away, stepping to the edge of the raised walkway.
Behind the window, Kiara's reflection trembled in the flickering candlelight, her blue eyes glistening with something unspoken—regret, maybe, or a longing she'd never voice.
Her fingers lingered on the glass a moment longer, then fell away as she turned from view, the curtain swaying faintly in her wake, leaving only the dim glow of the candle to mark her presence.
.
.
Ameth sat in the wooden tub, the water steaming around her, clouds of heat rising in lazy curls that fogged the small bathroom's single window.
The scent of lavender soap mingled with the faint tang of cedar from the tub, her pale skin glistening as she scrubbed methodically, her movements precise and unhurried.
Her blonde hair was pinned up, a few damp strands clinging to her neck, but her face remained impassive, her blue eyes fixed on some distant point as if the act of bathing were just another task to check off.
The day's labor—selling vegetables, dealing with fellow seller, chopping wood, hauling carts, dealing with Lor's antics—had left her muscles sore but her mind untouched, as calm and cold as the ice she wielded.
She'd made good coin today, more than usual.
The logs had sold well at Velnar's, and Lor's impulsive bargaining for her bra and panties had tipped her profit higher—ninety silver coins total, with Lor taking only twenty percent after his greedy deal.