The chamber was dimly lit when Alaric finally entered, the silver light of the moon spilling across the marble floor like a veil of liquid glass. The air was quiet, thick with the lingering fragrance of the candles the maids had extinguished earlier, leaving behind only their faint smoky trails. His steps made no sound as he crossed the room, his gaze settling at once upon the sight before him: Lyanna curled up delicately upon the bed, her pale face half-illumined by the shaft of moonlight, lips slightly parted in sleep, her hand still curled around a small bundle resting on her chest. The little bag was tied with a yellow ribbon, and the faint sweet scent rising from it betrayed its contents. Cookies. His cookies. He drew closer, his shadow gliding over her, and with careful fingers he slipped the bag from where it rested, but the subtle movement was enough to stir her from slumber. Her lashes fluttered, and she sat up slowly, rubbing her eyes with the back of her hand in the most childlike of gestures, before blinking at him in bleary surprise. "You're back… when did you come in? I didn't notice you," she murmured, her voice still heavy with sleep as she straightened her posture. Alaric, standing at her bedside, allowed a rare softness to graze his expression, though his words carried that teasing undertone he always wielded with her.
"I just came in… only to discover that my little bride already ate the cookies meant for me," he said, holding the bag lightly between his fingers as though weighing both the sweets and her guilt. A faint blush bloomed across her cheeks, quickly followed by a defensive tilt of her chin.
"I got tired of waiting for you… and I got hungry," she confessed, her tone somewhere between a sulky child and a proud defiant lady. His lips curved into a smirk, and he leaned a little closer, his gaze steady on hers.
"It's no problem. I'm not at all upset. In fact…" his voice dropped, silky and edged with amusement, "I'm glad that you thought of me." The way he looked at her made her heart skip, and she quickly shook her head, her hands fluttering as if to ward off the meaning behind his words.
"I… it's not what you're thinking!" she insisted, her tone quick, eager to dispel whatever notions might be spinning in that maddening head of his.
"It's not? If it's not, then what is it?" Alaric pressed, his voice low and deliberately provoking, enjoying the flicker of irritation in her eyes. Before she could form a retort, a sudden growl echoed from her stomach, breaking the tension entirely. The sound was loud in the silence of the chamber, and Lyanna's face burned with embarrassment. Alaric's smirk deepened.
"Hmm… seems my little bride is really hungry." He did not wait for her denial. Instead, he snapped his fingers twice, a sharp, commanding gesture that broke the stillness. Immediately, the heavy door creaked open and a procession of servants filed in, balancing silver trays laden with dishes that steamed and shimmered under the moonlight. Lyanna's eyes widened in delight, her face lighting up as though she had just been given the greatest treasure. Her expression alone made Alaric's chest tighten with something dangerously close to warmth. The servants set the dishes carefully on the low dining table placed inside her chamber, arranging them with practiced precision before bowing and retreating silently, leaving only the two of them behind. Lyanna turned her face toward Alaric, her eyes sparkling like a child seeking permission, and he gave her the smallest of nods. That was all she needed. She leapt forward, taking up her fork and digging into the food with unabashed eagerness. The sight of her eating, with such honesty and lack of pretense, was strangely disarming. She ate until the plates were half-cleared, before finally lifting her head to realize that she was the only one indulging. Alaric had not touched a single dish, merely sitting back in his chair, watching her with quiet intensity. "Aren't you eating?" she asked, puzzled, a piece of bread halfway to her mouth. He shook his head slightly, the corner of his lips curving as he reached for the bag of cookies again.
"No, I'm not. I'm fine with the cookies you made." He plucked one delicately from the bundle and bit into it with slow deliberation, as though to taunt her with the proof of his words. She frowned. "Don't you get hungry?"
"I do," he answered, his smile faint, controlled, his eyes holding hers steadily. "Then why not eat the food? Is it not to your liking?" she pressed, confused. He leaned back, the shadows cloaking half his face, and let his words slip out like a secret wrapped in silk. "The food is not up to my liking."
"Oh. I… see. So what kind of food is up to your liking?" she asked, half-curious, half-annoyed by his elusive replies. He didn't miss a beat.
"I prefer drinking human blood. It's actually… refreshing. Soothing to the nerves." Lyanna froze, her fork hovering mid-air, and stared at him in wide-eyed disbelief while staring at him like some crazy lunatic.
"Eww, that's gross! Is that even a joke to you?" "No, it's not," he replied evenly, his gaze dark, sharp as glass. "I'm dead serious." For a moment, silence sat heavy between them. Lyanna tilted her head, studying him, her eyes narrowing wondering if the person opposite her was actually sane. Then she let out a breath, setting her fork down as though she had simply decided not to play into his game. "I see," she said, her voice calm, almost dismissive. He studied her carefully. "So… are you scared of me now?" The question hung in the air, sharp, expectant. Lyanna met his eyes, her expression steady, her lips curving just slightly. "No. I'm not. You don't scare me a bit." The smirk returned to his lips, though it carried something softer beneath.
"I hope so." His gaze drifted then, catching on the corner of the room where something leaned against the wall. His expression shifted as he rose slowly and crossed to it, picking up the canvas. "What's that?" he asked. Lyanna's face brightened.
"It's the painting I drew. Want to see?" She leaned forward eagerly, handing it over to him with the open pride of someone waiting to be praised. "How is it? I'm a great artist, aren't I?" she asked, her tone bubbling with anticipation. But as Alaric's eyes fell upon the image painted there, his entire demeanor shifted. The light in his face darkened, his shoulders stiffening as though struck. The painting was of a towering black dragon with eyes like endless night, its wings spread wide over the spires of a burning castle. His grip on the canvas tightened imperceptibly. "Where did you see this?" he asked, his voice quiet, but heavy. Lyanna blinked, startled by the sudden gravity in his tone. "That's the castle, of course. Don't you recognize your own castle anymore?" she said lightly, still oblivious to the weight of the moment. "Not that," he said sharply, his finger pointing to the dragon etched in bold strokes across the canvas. "I'm not referring to that." Her brow furrowed in thought before her lips parted. "Oh… that. I dreamt about it and thought of drawing it out." His entire body stilled. His voice, when it came, was low and trembling with tension. "When? When was that?" "Back at my father's mansion," she replied with simple honesty. "But it was only once. Is something the problem?" He did not answer immediately. Inside, his mind churned with a storm of thoughts. How did she manage to dream of him? His pulse quickened, his body vibrating with restrained energy. The dragon was not him—it could not be. He was only half-dragon, his full transformation something he had resisted for years. The dragon in her painting, black as obsidian, with eyes like deep pits of shadow, was unmistakable. It was Draven. His half-brother. The only one of their kind whose form was wholly, terrifyingly dragon. But why would Lyanna dream of Draven? What could it mean? His chest ached with unspoken questions, with a dangerous mix of jealousy and unease. Was fate mocking him by letting his chosen bride see another in her visions? And worse—his rival, his blood. Lyanna watched him curiously, her innocence still untainted by the storm raging in his mind. "Is something the problem?" she repeated gently, her voice pulling him back from the edge of his thoughts. He forced a smile, carefully composed, though it did not touch his eyes. "No."
"You're sure?" she pressed, frowning slightly. "Yes, of course," he said more firmly this time. "You must be tired. I'll leave you to rest, hm?" She yawned softly, her lids drooping, nodding at his words. "Okay." He tucked the covers around her with surprising tenderness, his hand brushing lightly against her hair before he gestured for the servants to quietly clear the remains of the feast. Then, leaning down, he placed the faintest kiss against her forehead, a gesture both protective and possessive. "Goodnight, little one," he whispered, though she was already half-asleep. Straightening, he turned toward the door, pausing once more to look back at her sleeping figure, bathed in moonlight, the half-finished cookies still beside her. His gaze lingered, a flicker of both longing and dread crossing his face. Why did she dream of Draven, and not me? The thought echoed in his mind like a curse as he slipped into the shadows of the hall, the door closing softly behind him, leaving only silence and the lingering scent of sugar and moonlight in the chamber.