The door shut behind him with a dull, final thud.
Alaric barely had ti to take in the familiar chamber—the way the servants had laid fresh linens on the bed, the fire crackling low in the hearth—before Salviana’s voice cut through the quiet.
"So you killed him," she said.
It wasn’t a question.
He froze where he stood, halfway out of his leather armor, and turned to face her. Her red hair was unbound, tumbling over her shoulders, her eyes bright with sothing between sorrow and fury.
"Salviana..."
She took a step closer, voice shaking. "I want you to tell plainly, Alaric. Did you kill Prince Jaron?"
A long silence blood between them, heavy as stone.
He exhaled slowly, eting her gaze without flinching. "Yes."
The word landed in the room like a blade.
Her lips parted, her breath hitching as she searched his face, desperate for sothing—remorse, justification, an apology she could understand. "Why?" she whispered, her throat tight. "Why would you do that when you knew I’d left the decision to ?"
He ran a hand over his face, jaw flexing. "Because I knew what you’d decide."
"You don’t know that," she shot back, voice rising. "You don’t get to decide what justice ans for !"
"You were too rciful," he growled, anger seeping in around the edges of his restraint. "You would have let him rot in a cell until the kingdom forgot what he did—and he would have found a way to crawl out again. He was never going to stop coming for you."
Salviana shook her head hard, tears brightening her eyes. "And what about the law? What about letting the kingdom see that we do not rule by slaughter?"
"Law?" He barked out a bitter laugh, stepping toward her. "The law never protected you. The law never protected any of us. The night he took you, Salviana—"
His voice cracked. He swallowed it down.
"The night I found you bleeding on the stones, your wrists bound, half-conscious and still trying to fight him off... I made myself a promise."
She wrapped her arms around herself, voice small. "What promise?"
"That if he ever laid a hand on you again—if he even dared to draw breath in your direction—I would end him. I am not sorry for keeping that promise."
Silence crashed over them again. The fire popped in the grate.
Salviana looked away, her hand pressing to her mouth as if to hold back everything she couldn’t say. "You should have told ," she said, voice hoarse. "We were hunted for weeks. We nearly died. And all this ti—"
"All this ti, you’ve been blaming yourself," he interrupted, his voice suddenly quieter, rawer. "Thinking it was your failure that made you leave him alive. When it was . I took that burden off your hands because you shouldn’t have had to carry it."
"But you decided that alone," she whispered, her eyes lifting back to his. "You took the choice from ."
He looked at her then—really looked at her, the woman he had fought for and bled for, the woman who sohow believed there could still be a better way. His chest felt like it might break open from all he could never say aloud.
"And I would do it again," he said, low and sure. "Because you are my wife. Because I will never let this world grind you down into sothing cold and cruel just to survive it."
Salviana pressed the heel of her hand to her eyes, a single tear slipping free. "You think I’m too soft," she choked out.
"No." He crossed to her in three strides, his hands framing her face. "I think you are good. And if one of us has to be the monster, let it be ."
Her lip trembled. She didn’t pull away from him, but she didn’t lean in either. "Then what does that make us? What does it make , if I love you anyway?"
He bowed his head until their foreheads touched, his breath unsteady.
"It makes you the only reason I rember why any of this matters," he murmured. "The only thing that keeps from turning into what they all think I am."
She closed her eyes, a sob catching in her throat. "I don’t know if this was right," she whispered.
"Neither do I," he admitted. "But it’s done. And if the gods damn for it—fine. They’ve been looking for a reason long enough."
For a long mont, neither of them moved. Her tears slipped over his thumbs where he held her face. His heart beat against hers like a war drum.
Finally, she drew a trembling breath and opened her eyes. "I don’t forgive you. Not yet."
He nodded, his own gaze clouded. "I wouldn’t expect you to."
"But I do still love you," she whispered.
He swallowed hard. "Then that will have to be enough."
And for the mont, it was.
They stood together in the hush of the chamber, two people who had seen too much, lost too much—and who still refused to let go of each other.
Finally, she drew a trembling breath and opened her eyes. "I don’t forgive you. Not yet."
He nodded, his own gaze clouded. "I wouldn’t expect you to."
"But I do still love you," she whispered.
He swallowed hard. "Then that will have to be enough."
And for the mont, it was.
They stood together in the hush of the chamber, two people who had seen too much, lost too much—and who still refused to let go of each other.
Finally, she drew a trembling breath and opened her eyes. "I don’t forgive you. Not yet."
He nodded, his own gaze clouded. "I wouldn’t expect you to."
"But I do still love you," she whispered.
He swallowed hard. "Then that will have to be enough."
And for the mont, it was.
They stood together in the hush of the chamber, two people who had seen too much, lost too much—and who still refused to let go of each other.
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