The walk back to his quarters stretched longer than it should have. Each corridor of the palace hummed with silence, torches flickering against marbled walls that seemed to lean closer, as though listening. Lucian's shoulders were stiff, his steps steady only because he forced them to be.
The image clung to him.
Alaric.
The mighty, unshakable Crown Prince. The man whose voice usually cut like polished steel, whose posture never bent even beneath the weight of duty. He had been curled in that dim chamber like a boy stripped of his armor. Tears clung to his lashes, his breath catching in ragged, soundless sobs.
Lucian had watched from the wardrobe longer than he should have, uninvited, unannounced. He could not help himself. That glimpse — raw, pitiful, fragile — was a vision no one was meant to see. Certainly not him.
He knew better than to linger. And yet, the sight burned itself into him, impossible to shake.
