The afternoon sun bled through the high stained-glass windows of the royal suite, painting long crimson shadows across the marble floor like the palace itself was bleeding slowly. It was the kind of light that made everything look dramatic — and honestly, given the last twenty-four hours, dramatic felt about right.
Silas had been moved to a comfortable chair by the hearth, wrapped in a thick robe that smelled entirely of Alaric. He looked hauntingly beautiful in the firelight, like a ghost that had decided, reluctantly, to return to the living. But his silence sat in the room like a third person who hadn't been invited and had no plans to leave.
Alaric paced. Back and forth. Back and forth. His boots made slow, heavy sounds against the floor, and every time he completed a lap of the room, his eyes would slide to Silas — checking, measuring, hoping — and find nothing looking back at him.
