The candlelight shimmered along the edges of the glass as Saren leaned against the balcony, staring out into the cold stretch of the palace grounds. From her vantage, the world looked still. Peaceful. But she knew better — peace was the most fragile lie of all.
She felt it in the way the guards stiffened as she passed.
In the way Alric looked at her — not distant, not angry… just different.
He hadn't mentioned the letter. Not a word. And yet something in his silence curled tight around her ribs like a noose made of silk.
Does he know?
She wasn't sure. He was no fool, not the lovesick boy she once thought he'd be.
And yet… he hadn't turned on her.
Not yet.
"Saren," came his voice, warm and low behind her.
She turned, slow and careful, schooling her face into something soft. "You should be asleep."
"So should you."
He stepped closer, offering her a goblet of wine. She took it, fingers brushing his — and for a flicker of a heartbeat, she felt it: that gentleness. That ache.
"I was thinking of our wedding night," he said, casually.
Saren smiled faintly. "Were you disappointed?"
"No," Alric said. "Only… wondering which part of it was real."
She stilled.
But he only sipped his wine and looked away, as if it had been an innocent musing — not the dagger it was.
She tilted her head, watching him carefully. "Do you regret marrying me, my lord?"
He turned to her again, and this time, there was no mask. Only a truth that gleamed like ice in his eyes. "Even if I should, I never will."
Her breath caught.
It was a dangerous thing — the way his love lived like that. Enduring. Foolish. Beautiful.
And undeserved.
"Alric…" she whispered, voice almost breaking.
He moved closer, brushing a strand of hair from her cheek. "Whatever game you're playing, Saren… I hope you know you've already won."
And then he left her standing there, with wine cooling in her hands and guilt burning in her chest like poison.
.....to be continued....
Author's Note:
Whew. That sting you felt? That wasn't the wine. That was Alric, striking with velvet words and bleeding quiet truths.
He knows. She suspects he knows.
And yet they dance—closer, softer, like lovers who both carry knives behind their backs and can't stop touching anyway.
In another life, maybe this could've been love untainted.
But in this one?
It's war in disguise.
And heartbreak is sharpening its claws.
– Yours, smiling through the wreckage,
Your author.