The days following Alaric's return bled into one another, marked by a serene domesticity entirely focused on Princess Griselda.
For Alaric, it was a performance, meticulously crafted.
For Griselda, it was bliss.
He woke beside her each morning in the opulent master suite.
Candlelight gave way to soft dawn filtering through silk curtains.
Her dark hair was invariably spread across the pillows, her plump form radiating warmth beside him.
"Husband…" she'd murmur sleepily, blue eyes fluttering open, a soft blush already staining her cheeks as memory of the night returned.
"Good morning, dear wife," Alaric would reply, his voice kept deliberately soft, gentle. He'd brush a stray strand of hair from her face, his ruby eyes holding only tender affection.
He played the part of the devoted newlywed to perfection.
