Chapter 451: A Very Bad Time

The corridors of Havenwood smelled of dry timber, faint lye soap, and the cold draft sweeping through the floor from the lower cellars.

Down at the end of the second-floor hallway, ten-year-old Toby stood face-first against the post of the stair railing, his small hands slapped over his eyes as he counted aloud into the empty wood.

"...sixteen! Seventeen! Eighteen!"

"Hurry!" Libby whispered furiously, her small fingers tugging hard at the hem of Philia’s sleeve.

She scurried down the narrow passageway on her bare feet, her little shadow bouncing against the lime-washed walls under the sunlight streaming through the high, curtainless windows. Philia followed right behind her, his boots making almost no sound as he matched her quick, frantic pace.

His torso were throbbing with a dull, rhythmic ache, but he kept his posture relaxed, forcing a soft, quiet smile every time Libby shot a panicked look over her shoulder.

"In here," Libby hissed, skidding to a stop in front of a cramped storage alcove tucked behind the old linen closets.

It was a tight, dusty space, barely wide enough for two people, stacked high with folded wool blankets, spare straw mattresses, and dry winter coats that smelled faintly of mothballs. Libby ducked inside first, scrambling behind a tall pile of rough blankets and pulling her knees up to her chest.

Philia stepped in after her, leaning back against the alcove frame to pull the narrow wooden door nearly shut, leaving only a tiny crack of sunlight slicing across the floor.

"Twenty!" Toby’s voice echoed muffled from the far stairwell. "Ready or not, here I come!"

Libby giggled, clapping both hands over her mouth and wiggling further back into the shadows. "He’s never going to find us here," she whispered, her round eyes sparkling with excitement.

"Not a chance," Philia murmured back softly.

To make himself smaller, Philia slowly bent his knees, attempting to crouch down into the narrow gap beside Libby’s blanket stack. But the moment his knees hit a right angle, his torso folded forward, and the sudden, sharp tension pulled directly across his left chest.

Snap

It was a quiet, sickening feeling under his skin, like a dry thread snapping deep inside a layer of fresh leather.

A blinding, razor-thin shock of pain tore straight through Philia’s torso, slicing through his chest and radiating down his ribs so fast his vision flickered black at the edges. He froze instantly, his breath locking dead in his throat, a sharp, choked gasp trapped behind his teeth.

"Philia?" Libby whispered, turning her head slightly. "Did you hear him?"

Philia couldn’t answer. He couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe, couldn’t shift his weight back up without feeling like his skin was being sheared away from his ribs. Cold sweat instantly broke out across his temples, his right hand slamming flat against the wall to keep his body from collapsing sideways onto the dusty floorboards.

The stitches, he thought wildly, his pulse hammering against his ears like a heavy drum. The knot gave out.

"Philia?" Libby repeated, reaching out through the cramped space to touch his shoulder. "Are you okay?"

"I’m... fine, Libby," Philia managed to whisper, his voice thin, raspy, and entirely devoid of air. "Just... stay quiet."

Libby shifted closer, trying to squeeze into the space beside him. In the cramped space, her small elbow bumped heavily right against the left side of his cotton shirt, striking the exact spot where the fresh wound sat beneath the thin bandages.

Philia’s entire body flinched violently. A muffled groan escaped his lips before he could stop it, his fingers digging into the rough wall wood so hard his fingernails nearly split.

"Ow," Libby murmured, pulling her arm back. "Did I bump you? Soft clothes aren’t supposed to be..."

She stopped talking.

Her small fingers, which had brushed against his waist when she stumbled, felt something thick, warm, and slick clinging to her skin.

In the narrow beam of moonlight filtering through the crack in the door, Libby held her right hand up toward her face. Her hand was smeared in wet crimson, the heavy fluid glistening sticky in the light.

She blinked, her eyes widening in slow, silent horror. She looked down at Philia’s chest.

Through his thin white linen shirt, a heavy bloom of blood was spreading with terrifying speed. It was soaking through the cloth, turning the crisp cotton into a black, wet stain that widened from his collarbone straight down to his waistline, dripping down onto his trousers.

"P-Philia..." Libby stammered, her tiny voice trembling violently as she raised her blood-covered fingers toward him. "You’re... you’re bleeding."

Philia looked down at her hands, his eyes widening with sheer, unadulterated panic, not from the agony tearing through his chest, but from seeing his blood staining the child’s skin.

"Don’t touch it!" Philia gasped out, his voice sharp and ragged as he frantically grabbed her small wrist, holding her bloody hand completely clear of her clothes. "Libby, don’t touch it!"

"Is that blood?" Libby whimpered, her lip trembling as tears instantly pooled in her round eyes. "Philia, are you dying? Did you fall?"

"No... no, I’m not dying! I’m fine!" Philia choked out, struggling to stand up as his knees buckled under the searing weight of the pain. He clamped his left hand flat over his bleeding chest, trying to press the wound shut through his soaked shirt, but fresh blood kept squelching out between his pale fingers. "Look at me, Libby! Look at me!"

Libby began to sob, her small chest heaving as she stared at the bright red fluid coating her fingers and wrist.

Before her small cry could turn into a loud scream that would alert every child in the hallway, the narrow door of the alcove was yanked open with a quiet, forceful swing.

Valen stood in the doorway, his tall frame blocking out the light from the hallway. His eyes instantly took in the scene, the blood pooling down Philia’s shirt, the slick red hand of the terrified little girl, and Philia trembling against the wooden wall with a face as pale as a corpse.

Valen didn’t freeze. He didn’t ask a single question.

In one quick motion, Valen stepped inside, scooped Libby up under one arm to keep her from stepping in the blood on the floorboards, and pressed his broad palm gently over her mouth to muffle her frightened sob.

"Not a word, little one," Valen whispered into Libby’s ear, his tone dropping into that low, strangely steady register that instantly commanded obedience. "He is fine. It was an accident while we were throwing out the trash earlier this morning. I’m taking care of him."

Valen looked over Libby’s head at Philia, his mouth tightening into a thin line.

"Get up, My Lord," Valen said quietly, his eyes resting on Philia’s trembling hand. "We need to clean all this mess."