Chapter 45: Strange conversation
TERESA’S P.O.V.
Kneeling in the grass, my hands covered in the dry dust of the earth, I was lost in the quiet sanctuary of the valley. It had only been three weeks since I’d come to this small, hidden town tucked between rugged mountains. This was my refuge, the place where I hoped Lucian’s reach wouldn’t extend. The thought of him finding me—and finding out about the babies—was a terror that kept me awake every night. The mountains were my silent protectors, and the whispering trees felt like watchful friends, guarding my secret.
I was picking wildflowers today, little splashes of color to bring back to Mr. Ben’s bookshop, where I’d been helping part-time. He was a very kind man just like everyone I met so far and the idea of adding something bright to that cozy old shop felt comforting, like maybe I could add a little light to my life, too. I tucked a sprig of lavender into my basket, breathing in its calming scent when a faint rustling caught my ear. My heart jumped in my chest, and I glanced up, fingers pausing mid-reach.
A man stepped out from the shadowed edge of the woods, his tall form moving with an easy, almost unnatural grace. He had a long, dark mane of hair that shimmered in the dappled sunlight, his skin was a bit pale, and his eyes—such an unusual, vibrant shade of purple, like violets caught in twilight. His gaze settled on me, soft but intense, as if he saw something more than what lay in plain sight. There was kindness in his smile, almost a warmth, yet beneath it lay something deeper, something unsettling and strangely compelling.
"Good afternoon, Ma’am," he greeted, his voice smooth and echoing, holding an air of calm as if he owned the very concept of time itself. He strolled toward me without haste, each step seeming deliberate. The way he moved, his voice, it all felt... old somehow, like someone from another era speaking through him.
I scrambled to my feet, brushing dust off my hands and feeling slightly off-balance, clutching my flower basket like it might offer some protection. "Oh... hello."
The corners of his mouth lifted, and he extended his hand. "I am Adrian Daegon," he said with a soft, almost solemn formality, his voice animated with an old-fashioned rhythm. "But most folks here just call me... ’Helper.’"
Helper? I blinked, trying to make sense of it, but before I could ask, his hand slipped into mine—a brief, cold touch, like a winter stream against my palm—then retreated, leaving only the memory of its chill. I swallowed, unnerved but intrigued.
"And you are?" he asked, his voice still gentle, the words carrying a weight that made them feel... significant, somehow.