"His Grace left again almost imdiately."
Jean lifted a brow.
"He returned only to disappear?"
Sarah lowered her voice carefully. "He entered briefly, then was summoned and departed again."
Thalia, standing near the doorway, gave a small bow and stepped out, leaving the room quieter than before.
Salviana remained still for a mont.
"Alright," she said at last.
Her tone was even, though sothing beneath it had cooled.
Sarah waited for further instruction, but none ca imdiately.
Instead Salviana crossed slowly toward the sitting area and removed the outer clasp of her sleeves.
Jean watched her.
"You expected him to be here."
"I did not."
"You did."
Salviana ignored that.
But once Sarah withdrew discreetly toward the adjoining chamber, leaving them privacy, Salviana sank into the nearest seat.
The room felt strangely large again.
The warmth from earlier had thinned.
And because silence always made thought louder, Jean’s earlier words returned too easily.
Maybe his heart belonged to another.
Without aning to, Salviana’s gaze drifted toward the fire.
Toward nothing.
The image ca uninvited—
Alaric seated before her in the painting room, sleeve drawn back, his voice calm as he said the na without hesitation.
Anne-Marie.
As though mory had spoken before caution.
As though the na lived sowhere untouched.
Jean studied her for a mont, then chose not to press further.
Instead she moved toward the table and poured water into a small cup.
"You are thinking too loudly again."
Salviana gave the faintest exhale.
"He ca back and did not ask for ."
Jean handed her the cup.
"Or he returned for work and left before he could."
"He knew I was not here."
"And perhaps he assud you were with ."
Salviana accepted the cup but did not drink.
The room felt warr than before, but not comforting.
Sothing unsettled had followed Salviana inside.
She removed her gloves slowly, setting them on the table with more care than necessary, while Jean crossed toward the sitting area and lowered herself into one of the chairs near the window.
For a brief mont neither of them spoke.
Then Jean, still thoughtful from everything they had heard, said quietly,
"Maybe his heart belonged to another."
The words landed so suddenly that the room itself seed to pause.
Silence descended.
Salviana’s fingers stopped moving.
Very slowly, she turned.
"What did you say?"
Jean looked up, realizing too late how sharply the thought had entered the room.
"I’m sorry," she said, softer now, though she did not withdraw the idea. "I am only thinking aloud. If there was soone before you... perhaps he loved her before he ever t you."
She hesitated, then added gently,
"But you are his wife now."
Still Salviana did not answer.
The silence stretched so long that Jean began to think perhaps she had pushed too far.
Then, at last—
"No."
The word ca barely above a whisper.
Jean frowned slightly. "What?"
Salviana’s eyes remained lowered, but her voice ca clearer this ti. "No."
She lifted her face slowly, and there was sothing deeply unsettled in her expression now—sothing that had not been there even when Ava’s lie was discussed.
"I cannot marry soone whose heart belongs to another."
Jean straightened at once.
"Salviana—"
"No," Salviana said again, quieter but firr, as if the thought had already begun forming long before Jean had spoken it aloud. "I cannot."
Her gaze drifted away, toward nothing visible. "There is another wedding coming."
The words ca asured now, almost as though she were arranging facts before herself.
"The marriage can still be left unfinished."
Jean imdiately understood what she ant.
Their first union had bound them by law and ceremony—but not fully by the final intimacy expected of husband and wife.
There were still traditions not yet completed. Still exits not yet closed.
Salviana’s brow tightened. "If his heart remains elsewhere... if there is another woman inside him still..."
Her mouth hardened faintly.
"Then what right do I have to stand where I do not belong?"
Jean stared at her.
"That is not what I ant."
But Salviana barely seed to hear.
"He does not love enough."
The sentence ca softer now, but more dangerous because of how certain it sounded.
Jean rose imdiately. "That is not true."
Salviana gave a faint, bitter exhale. "Then why has he refused ?"
Jean blinked. "He has not refused you, he is protecting you."
"He keeps distance," Salviana said, frowning now as though finally speaking thoughts she had guarded alone. "He cares for , yes. He protects , yes. But protection is not love."
Her eyes lifted.
"And if a man truly desired his wife, would he remain this restrained?"
Jean opened her mouth, but Salviana continued before she could answer. "Perhaps I am only convenient to him. A duty. A promise. A political wound he chose to bandage."
The quiet fire crackled.
Jean moved closer. "Salviana, I think it is painfully obvious that he loves you."
Salviana looked unconvinced.
Jean spoke more firmly now.
"You have both crossed too much together for that bond to an nothing."
Still no answer.
"You think a man who does not care would banish a woman before noon for insulting your na?"
"That could be pride." Salviana.
"You think pride explains the way he watches you?"
Salviana’s eyes flickered.
Jean continued.
"The way he listens when you speak even when he pretends indifference? The way he appears whenever sothing threatens you? The way half the palace already understands your importance to him before you do?"
Salviana looked away.
But Jean saw it—saw that the words had reached her and yet not settled.
Because doubt, once invited, rarely left quickly.
Then Salviana spoke, very calm now.
"No, Jean."
Sothing about that tone made Jean stop.
"You have cleared my eyes," Salviana said quietly. "And perhaps I should thank you for that."
Jean frowned. "That was not my intention."
"I know."
Salviana moved toward the chair nearest the fire and sat, folding her hands in her lap with unusual composure.
"Thank you for staying."
The gentleness in her voice was almost worse than anger.
Then she added:
"I would like to be alone now."
Jean studied her carefully.
For a mont she nearly argued.
But sothing in Salviana’s expression warned her not to.
So instead she gave a slow nod.
"Alright."
She crossed toward her, touched her shoulder briefly, then withdrew.
"I will excuse you now."
At the door, Jean paused.
As though she wanted to say one final thing.
But whatever thought ca, she kept it.
The door closed softly behind her.
And then Salviana was alone.
The fire crackled.
Outside, winter light had already begun fading across the palace walls.
Inside the silence, one thought returned with unbearable clarity—
Anne-Marie.
A na written into skin.
A na spoken without hesitation.
A na that now stood between her and every certainty she had tried to build.
And for the first ti since marrying Alaric, Salviana wondered whether she had entered a life where love had already arrived before her—
and simply never left.
After a mont Salviana called Jean back in but then she stayed without words.
The silence stretched.
Then she asked, quietly— "Have you ever wondered what it feels like to enter a life already carrying soone else’s shadow?"
Jean’s expression shifted imdiately.
The question had not been casual.
"It depends," Jean answered carefully. "On whether the shadow is real... or only fear. Maybe she doesn’t exist"
Salviana looked down at the water. "And if it is both?"
Before Jean could answer, footsteps sounded again outside.
asured.
Heavier this ti.
Not servants.
Not guards.
A pause followed at the door— and then the handle moved.
Both won looked up.
Because only one person entered without announcent when the room belonged partly to him.
But the vibe changed when they saw who it was.
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