Page 4 of Mourning Wings (Whitmore Legacy #1)

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VALERIA

16 YEARS OLD

I clutch the edge of the wooden banister, my knuckles white as I strain to see Camila one last time. My chest tightens, a sharp pain spreading through me as the heavy front doors of the orphanage creak open. I feel like my heart might shatter into a million pieces.

“ No !” I cry out, my voice breaking. I try to run after her, but Sister Agnes’s firm hands pull me back. Her grip is gentle yet unyielding, and I twist in her hold, tears streaming down my face. “ Please , don’t let her go!”

Camila turns at the door, her small face pale, eyes wide with the same fear and sadness tearing me apart. She looks so tiny standing there—even though she’s a year older than me—her suitcase in hand. The stern-looking couple is distinctly cold. The husband’s face is serious, with sharp, angular features and piercing gray eyes that seem to scrutinize everything around him. His wife has perfectly styled blonde hair and a statuesque figure. Her pale blue eyes are icy, her expression perpetually distant, as if she’s preoccupied with something more important than what’s in front of her.

I want to scream, to tear Camila away from them, but all that comes out is a choked sob. My body trembles, and I feel like I’m falling apart, piece by piece. The cold air in the hallway feels even more biting, cutting through the thin fabric of my dress.

“ Valeria , hush now,” Sister Agnes murmurs, her voice soft but firm. She pulls me closer, wrapping her arms around me, but it does nothing to stop the flood of tears. I bury my face in her rough, scratchy habit, my hands gripping the coarse fabric as if it could anchor me to something solid.

But nothing feels solid anymore. Camila was the only one who understood me on a deeper level, the only one who knew how to make the endless days in this dark, looming place feel less lonely.

I peek over Sister Agnes’s shoulder. Hurt and fear are etched into Camila’s expression, the way her hands clench tightly at her sides, as if she’s trying to hold herself together. The distance between us feels like a chasm, one we’ve never had to face before. The words we’ve said to each other countless times flicker through my mind, and I know she’s thinking the same.

“ Mors tua, vita mea ,” I mouth silently to her. It’s our saying, our bond—an understanding born from watching the delicate, fragile life cycle of butterflies. We always knew one’s life often means another’s end, but it has never felt as real as it does now.

Her lips tremble, and she swallows hard, fighting back tears. She doesn’t say anything, but her eyes speak volumes. There’s anger there, but beneath it, I see the raw, aching sadness she can’t hide. She raises her hand slightly, as if she wants to reach out, but she stops, letting it fall back to her side, the weight of goodbye too heavy to lift.

I can’t bear to look at her anymore.

She nods, just barely, her shoulders slumping, as if the words have drained the last of her strength.

The heavy doors groan shut behind her.

I let out a final, heart-wrenching sob, feeling the weight of it all pressing down on me. My legs buckle, and Sister Agnes holds me up, whispering words I can’t hear over the sound of my own broken heart.