Married To Darkness-Chapter 387: The Need To Create

Then they all moved to dine in the inns restaurant after getting ready for the day.

Golden light of dawn slanted through the inn’s broad windows, casting warm hues across the modest wooden dining room. The scent of spiced eggs, fresh bread, and something sweet—berry compote, maybe—floated through the air. Around a corner table, tucked beneath a long, carved beam, the fugitives sat, savoring the rare quiet.

Jean sat nestled beside Lucius, who had refused to let her lift a finger since her miraculous return from the fog. He made sure her tea stayed warm, kept an arm protectively draped along the back of her chair, and stole concerned glances every other bite, as if worried she’d vanish again.

"I’m fine," she finally whispered, nudging his knee beneath the table.

"I know," Lucius muttered, "but I’m not."

Alaric sat across from them, his long fingers expertly slicing through a chunk of warm bread, dipping it in a golden pool of honey before offering it to Salviana beside him.

She leaned in and took the bite from his hand, eyes fluttering shut with delight. "That is unreasonably good," she said around the mouthful.

"I was thinking the same," Alaric chuckled, licking honey from his thumb. He lied.

"I don’t think I’ve ever had food that actually made me want to live again," Jean murmured, and everyone laughed—softly, but with the weight of relief. It felt good to laugh again. It felt real.

Salviana reached for the teapot and refilled her cup, humming thoughtfully. "I wonder what they put in this. There’s a sweetness—almond? No, almost like vanilla..."

"It’s Wyfhaven cinnamon bark," Jean said, perking up. "I used to collect it with my father when I was younger. It grows closer to the water."

Lucius beamed. "See? She’s already smarter than the rest of us again."

"I don’t think that was ever in question," Alaric added.

Salviana gave a snort of laughter, just as she lifted the cup to her lips.

And then she froze.

Everything in her stilled—the cup trembling in her hand, her shoulders rigid, breath halted mid-inhale. Her eyes glazed over for a second, and then widened in alarm, as though she were looking at something only she could see.

"I need to paint," she said.

The cup clattered to the table.

Alaric’s head snapped toward her, his expression startled. "Like... right now?"

Salviana clutched her chest, breath shallow, her pupils dilated. "Yes. Please—I need something to draw, anything. Ah—!" She pressed her palms against her temples, as if trying to hold in a storm of thoughts. "It’s all pouring in at once, it’s too much!"

Lucius stood halfway from his chair, already glancing around. "There’s no paint, there’s no ink," Jean said quickly, her own panic rising.

"We need to get her somewhere private," Alaric said, already moving around the table. He crouched beside her, one hand gently on her back. "You’re having a vision, aren’t you?"

Salviana whimpered, nodding.

"I need to get it out or I’ll lose it," she gasped. "It’s clawing at my chest—I see it but it’s fading."

"Blood," Lucius said without thinking, voice sharp. "Use blood. Yours, someone else’s—it worked for the old witches—"

"Lucius!" Jean snapped, grabbing his arm and hissing. "You want people to hear you?"

Too late. A few other diners were already staring, forks paused mid-air, brows raised in suspicion.

Alaric exhaled through his nose, lowering his voice to a whisper as he held Salviana close. "Charcoal."

"What?"

"Charcoal," he repeated. "From the inn’s stove. It’ll work in a pinch. Salviana—can you draw with that?"

"Yes," she panted. "Yes, anything—I just need to start."

Alaric didn’t hesitate. He scooped her into his arms as though she weighed nothing, lifting her bridal-style and ignoring the whispers behind them. Her arms wound instinctively around his neck, her eyes closed, focusing on the vision pressing against her skull like a flood held back by paper walls.

Lucius stood, nodded to Jean. "Stay here. I’ll get paper. You stay warm."

"Be careful," she whispered.

They left the dining room in a rush—Lucius darting out the back, and Alaric and Salviana heading straight for the kitchen.

Linz, half-asleep and tying his apron as he walked, nearly bumped into them. "Whoa—what’s going on?"

"She needs charcoal. Now," Alaric barked.

Linz blinked. "For what—"

"Art. It’s urgent," Salviana gasped, fingers digging into Alaric’s shirt. "Please!"

"O—okay, okay!" He turned on his heel and shouted toward the pantry. "Ma! Charcoal, quick! The black kind, clean if we have it!"

His mother, half-surprised and half-irritated, grumbled something about "mad guests and their moods" but tossed a wrapped bundle of kitchen charcoal into Linz’s hands.

He ran back, breathless, handing it over. "Here—this is what we use to start the morning ovens. Will it do?"

"Yes," Alaric nodded, already gripping it in his free hand. "Where’s the drawing room?"

"Back left, by the storage hall," Linz said.

"I’ll take her," Alaric said. "She’s about to birth something divine."

He disappeared down the corridor with Salviana clinging to him, her body trembling, her mind unraveling in the most beautiful, chaotic way.

And no one—not Jean, not Lucius, not Linz—could have predicted what her hands would create when she finally touched the charcoal to the wall.

They all stood watching.

It started... ordinary.

She took the crushed charcoal that Alaric had helped grind, her fingers now blackened and smudged, and scattered it onto the flattened canvas of parchment spread over a large stone slab. Wind rustled softly through the trees, birds beginning to chirp in the distance.

The others stood still, breaths caught in their throats as they watched her. Jeanette’s arms were folded, eyes sharp. Lucius paced like a caged animal, his mind screaming for answers. Alaric just stood silent and ready.

Salviana worked slowly. Her movements were almost trance-like, each gesture graceful, calculated. Like a goddess in some ancient rite, she moved with divine purpose, dragging her fingers and broken charcoal sticks through the dust.

At first, it looked like random markings—swirls, jagged lines, smudges. But then a pattern began to emerge.

A figure. Another. And then another.

Three male shapes. Three female. Their outlines were abstract, yet somehow haunting. The kind of faces that almost looked familiar, but not quite.

"What’s she making?" Lucius muttered.