The night pressed down upon Duke Cedric's mansion like a velvet shroud, thick with silence and heavy with a sense of unseen eyes. The moon, pale and distant, carved thin beams through the tall windows, illuminating the polished floors in fractured slivers of silver. Somewhere beyond the manicured gardens, the city slumbered; yet here, inside the walls of the Duke's estate, wakefulness held its grip.
Alaric moved like a shadow given form. His steps made no sound, yet his presence seemed to ripple through the very air, commanding the stillness to lean in, to hush. The heavy stone pillars, the hanging tapestries, even the faint smoke curling from the sconces seemed to acknowledge him—an intruder, yes, but one whose dominion surpassed bricks and bloodlines.
The king's amber eyes glowed faintly in the gloom, catching what little light the house afforded him. There was no haste in his stride, no recklessness. Alaric was a predator, and predators did not stumble. They studied, they circled, they claimed. Tonight, his quarry was not some distant battlefield, nor some wayward courtier whispering rebellion—it was the presence that tugged at him with each breath. Lyanna.
Her name, though unknown and unspoken unspoken, seemed to hum faintly in his chest, vibrating along the tether of destiny he could no longer ignore. He had traced the scent of her presence here, to this house, where human walls and human schemes sought to conceal what should never have been hidden from him.
He paused in the gallery, his gaze sweeping over portraits of Cedric's forebears—smiling nobles frozen in gilded frames, their painted eyes unaware that a king cloaked in something older than crowns now walked beneath them. His lips curved, not with amusement, but with a recognition of irony. These men and women had thought themselves powerful, protectors of legacy. What legacy could stand against the march of bloodlines older than empires? Against him?
Yet before he could take another step toward the chambers where he knew his quarry lingered, a voice cut across the stillness.
"Your Majesty," came Eamon's low tone, steady but urgent.
Alaric's eyes flicked toward the sound. Eamon stood with his head bowed, the torchlight throwing deep shadows across his sharp features. His loyalty was unquestionable, but even loyalty bowed to necessity.
"What is it?" Alaric's words were quiet, but in them coiled power.
"My king, forgive the intrusion," Eamon said, his posture never faltering. "But something urgent requires your presence at the castle. It is… grave, and it cannot be delayed."
For a long moment, silence stretched. The faint crackle of a dying torch filled the gap, and Alaric did not move. His amber eyes narrowed, and when he spoke, his voice was almost a whisper.
"Grave? Or inconvenient?"
Eamon met the king's gaze, unwavering. "It touches the castle itself. To ignore it risks unraveling what we have carefully preserved."
Alaric studied him, the predator weighing whether to abandon the scent of prey for the demands of the throne. His jaw tightened. Then, slowly, he exhaled, a sound like a sigh of molten stone cooling.
"You would dare summon me away when I stand at the edge of discovery."
"I would, sire," Eamon replied, and though his tone was respectful, it carried a steel Alaric did not miss.
The king's lips curved—dangerous, deliberate. "Very well. Lead me back. But this is not abandonment." His eyes swept toward the chamber doors at the far end of the hall, the invisible thread tugging harder at his chest. "It is only a pause."
With a turn as smooth as water shifting course, Alaric followed Eamon into the shadows of the corridor. Yet even as he stepped away, the pull did not lessen. If anything, it sharpened.
Unaware of the decision unfolding in the gallery, Lyanna lingered by her window. The candlelight in her chamber had long since dwindled, leaving only the silver wash of moonlight to paint her features in shades of pale and shadow. She pressed closer to the glass, her breath fogging faintly against the cold surface.
Her heart fluttered with a rhythm she could not still, a mixture of curiosity and dread. Somewhere beyond these walls had walked the king—Alaric, the man cloaked in rumor, power, and a darkness she could neither name nor understand. She had not seen his face, not even a silhouette, but the house itself had seemed to shiver at his presence.
Her fingers tightened around the windowsill. If she leaned just a little farther, perhaps she might glimpse him, even the faintest outline of the figure who held all of Velrathis in thrall.
But the night was too deep. The gardens stretched below, veiled in shadow, the path swallowed by blackness. Her eyes strained, but nothing revealed itself. A small breath escaped her lips—half disappointment, half relief.
And then she felt it.
The weight of a gaze.
Her pulse stilled. Slowly, fearfully, she let her eyes wander past the hedges, past the fountain glistening faintly under moonlight, to the far edge of the grounds where the shadows thickened.
There.
He stood at a distance, half-claimed by the night, yet his form unmistakable. Tall. Still. Radiant in an otherworldly way, as if the darkness bent to outline him. His amber eyes glimmered faintly, unerringly fixed on her.
Lyanna froze. Her breath caught sharp in her throat, her hands trembling against the sill. Did he see her? Could he truly see her through the dark?
As if in answer, the faintest curve touched his lips. A smile—subtle, slow, carrying no rush of threat, yet heavy with inevitability.
The moonlight fell upon her face, betraying what concealment the house had offered. In that moment, Lyanna felt as though every secret Rowena had tried to bury, every lie Duke Cedric had spun, had been stripped bare beneath that gaze.
She stumbled back a step from the window, her pulse hammering in her ears. The red pendant at her throat grew warm, almost alive, pressing against her skin as if to shield her, to answer the unspoken challenge that had passed between them.
Alaric did not move closer. He did not speak. He only smiled, as though the game he had waited centuries to begin had finally revealed its first piece. Then, just as swiftly as the shadows had revealed him, they swallowed him whole.
Lyanna pressed her hand to her chest, trembling. "Did he… see me?" she whispered into the quiet.
Her reflection in the window looked back at her, pale and wide-eyed, offering no answer.
From the upper corridor, Rowena had watched everything. Her figure blended into the draperies, unseen, her sharp eyes tracking both her sister's every movement and the king's distant form. Where Lyanna trembled, Rowena's jaw tightened. Where Lyanna recoiled, Rowena calculated.
So. The king had found her. Not yet claimed, not yet taken, but found.
Rowena folded her arms, her thoughts spinning swiftly. This was no longer a matter of hiding her sister from whispers in the court or the prying eyes of Cedric's allies. This was Alaric—king, predator, sovereign. To catch the gaze of such a man was to be marked.
Her lips pressed into a thin line. "If he seeks her," she murmured under her breath, "then he will not find her easily. He will chase shadows. He will be made to doubt his own certainty."
Already, the beginnings of a counter-strategy took root in her mind. Letters would be sent. Servants redirected. Rumors carefully seeded, twisting truths into mazes. If Alaric wished to hunt, Rowena would make the terrain treacherous.
For Lyanna's survival, she would sow misdirection. For her own, she would sow doubt.
At the castle, silence clung to the marble halls like mist, broken only by the king's steady stride. He returned not as a monarch reluctantly answering duty, but as a storm contained within walls, his power simmering beneath his calm exterior.
Eamon walked two steps behind, his own mind heavy with the knowledge of what he had interrupted. He knew his king well enough to understand the restraint Alaric had exercised tonight was not infinite.
At length, Eamon spoke. "Your Majesty… her caution is not unworthy of note. She hides well. She is clever."
Alaric's eyes narrowed, his voice low, deliberate. "Cleverness is good. It makes the hunt interesting. But cleverness is also finite. Sooner or later, she will falter. And when she does…" He let the words trail, though the meaning reverberated like thunder unspoken.
His smile lingered, faint but unshakable. He had seen her. At last. And nothing—no Duke, no sister, no pendant—would keep him from certainty.
Meanwhile, Lyanna sat at the edge of her bed, her hands clasped tight in her lap. The window loomed behind her, but she dared not look again. Her mind replayed the scene—the stillness of his figure, the sharpness of his gaze, the curve of that smile.
"Rowena…" Her voice was small, breaking the silence.
Her sister stepped from the shadows of the chamber, her face calm, but her eyes hard. "You saw him."
Lyanna nodded slowly. "Or he saw me." Her hands trembled. "Rowena… what have we stepped into?"
Rowena's reply came without hesitation. "Into a storm." She crossed the room, kneeling before her sister, her hands clasping Lyanna's with unexpected warmth. "But storms can be weathered, Lyanna. And this one—we will face it together."
The words carried a strength Lyanna clung to, though her heart still trembled.
Yet Rowena's mind, ever sharper than her voice betrayed, was already moving ahead. Strategies forming, contingencies laying themselves out like pieces on a board. For if Alaric had seen Lyanna, then the board was set, and the game had begun.
And in that game, there would be no room for weakness.
The night deepened, the silence thickened, and within it thrummed the first echoes of shadows—shadows that would soon become inescapable.