Alaric’s gaze snapped to Jaron, who was smoothing his tunic as though he had just hurried over. His face was a little too composed — like he’d carefully arranged his expression monts before stepping through the door.
Alaric’s jaw tightened until his teeth ached. His vision blurred at the edges, and the world seed to tilt on its axis.
Did Jaron have sothing to do with Salviana’s disappearance?
Was she—was she sowhere close by, hidden within these very walls?
And why did it seem like Jaron was trying too hard to appear normal?
King Gideon’s voice cut through Alaric’s boiling thoughts. "So, Third Prince, what say you to this marriage truce between Wyfn-garde and Tackeros?"
Alaric didn’t respond.
He was already moving — his feet carrying him slowly, deliberately, toward Jaron.
Lucius, still lurking in the shadows with his ever-present umbrella, tilted his head curiously.
The air in the hall crackled.
Jaron blinked, feigning confusion. "Is sothing the matter, Cousin Prince?"
Alaric stopped a breath away from him. His voice ca out low, a dangerous rasp—
"Where is my wife?"
The hall seed to close in on itself, the weight of Alaric’s fury pressing into every stone, every silent observer.
Jaron blinked again — too quickly this ti — and straightened his collar. "I don’t know what you’re talking about."
Alaric’s nostrils flared. His hands curled into fists at his sides, every muscle in his body a wire pulled tight. "Don’t lie to ."
"Third Prince," King Gideon’s voice was a calm warning, but the edge beneath it was unmistakable. "This is a diplomatic eting."
Lucius shifted in the background, his umbrella tilting ever so slightly, his eyes never leaving Alaric — not in worry, but in curiosity, like he was watching a fla crawl toward a trail of oil.
The Tackeros envoy exchanged glances, clearly caught off guard by the sudden shift in atmosphere.
"I said—" Alaric’s voice broke like a whip, "where is my wife?"
Jaron raised his hands, palms out, a thin smile plastered on his lips. "I haven’t seen Salviana since the last feast—"
"You reek of her." Alaric’s voice was a deadly snarl now, loud enough that even the guards tensed. "Her scent ca into this room before you did."
A stunned silence followed.
It was Irene, Jaron’s wife, who reacted first. She stepped forward, her face pale, a forced laugh bubbling out. "This is absurd, your grace—are you suggesting my husband—"
"I am."
Gasps rippled through the room.
Jaron’s jaw tightened. "You dare accuse —"
"I dare." Alaric’s teeth clenched so hard the word almost didn’t escape. "Because my wife is missing, and you..." His voice lowered, and the fury simring beneath his skin turned into sothing colder. "You sll like you’ve been near her."
"Enough!" the king thundered, standing so abruptly his chair scraped back against the stone floor. "You!, you will not turn this hall into a spectacle of baseless accusations."
"Baseless?" Alaric laughed—a hollow, humorless sound. "Then let him explain why the scent of my wife lingers on his skin."
Jaron’s face was a storm of emotions—anger, denial, fear—twisting and untwisting too quickly for anyone to miss.
The Tackeros envoy leader raised an eyebrow. "It seems," he said slowly, "that the prince is dealing with... dostic issues."
More chuckles.
It was too much.
Alaric lunged.
A blur of motion—Lucius was suddenly at Alaric’s side, umbrella snapping out to block his path. The guards surged forward, grabbing Alaric by the arms before he could reach Jaron, their grips firm but hesitant, uncertain how far they could go against a prince.
"Let. . Go," Alaric growled, his voice barely human.
Jaron stepped back, but the color had drained from his face.
Irene clutched her chest, her mouth working open and shut like she wanted to defend her husband, but no words ca out.
The king’s voice thundered again. "Enough! This eting is over!"
But Alaric didn’t care.
He only had one thought—
If Jaron has touched a hair on Salviana’s head, I will kill him.
Jaron turned to leave and he imdiately felt Alaric after him.
Jaron’s back stiffened, his footsteps echoing down the stone corridor as he tried to keep a dignified pace—but Alaric was a shadow behind him, relentless, a storm barely restrained.
"You’re going to tell sothing," Alaric said, his voice low and rough, like a growl simring just below the surface. "Or I’m taking you."
Jaron halted, spinning on his heel. "What do you an taking ? I’m not a doll you can snatch and drag away—"
Alaric took a single step closer, the space between them charged with fury. His teeth flashed in a humorless smile. "Watch , then."
Jaron swallowed, his throat bobbing too hard for soone who claid innocence.
Alaric’s nostrils flared again, his senses burning as the faintest trace of Salviana still clung to Jaron’s clothes — subtle, but there, like an imprint left too long. It wasn’t just a passing brush of contact; the scent had settled on him.
"Where were you," Alaric’s voice cut through the corridor, "when I ca to your chambers?"
Jaron’s mouth opened—but no sound ca out at first.
"I— I was resting," he said finally, too quickly, too defensively.
"Liar," Alaric hissed, his voice soft but deadly.
Jaron flinched, his fingers twitching at his sides. "The trumpet—when it sounded, I rushed here like everyone else!"
Alaric’s gaze sharpened. "Where did you rush from?"
Silence.
A beat too long.
Jaron’s jaw worked as though he was scrambling for a believable answer, but his hesitation sealed his guilt.
Alaric leaned in ever so slightly. "I sll her on you."
"I didn’t—" Jaron’s voice cracked.
"Didn’t what?" Alaric pressed, his voice dangerously calm now, the kind of calm that ca before bloodshed.
Jaron took a shaky step back. "I wasn’t at the chambers... I was—"
"Where." Alaric’s voice was a blade.
Another silence.
Jaron’s pulse thundered in his neck, and Alaric’s every instinct scread that the man was hiding sothing.
"Speak," Alaric growled. "Or the next ti you blink, we’ll be in the dungeons."
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