"Lara," the prince’s voice was low and flirtatious. "I have co for another reason."
He had asked her to join him in the garden—the one nestled on the left side of the house, where the swing and a wooden garden set were after following a short cobblestone path. The biting chill of the January evening clung to her skin, prompting her to instinctively wrap her arms around herself.
Alaric noticed. Without a word, he unclasped the heavy cloak from his shoulders and stepped behind her. He draped it gently around her body, the gesture intimate, almost reverent.
"You’re cold," he murmured, as if stating sothing he already intended to change.
Lara noticed that his scent had changed. It was no longer the sll of herbs but sothing subtle and pleasant to the olfactory nerve. She breathed his lingering scent on the cloak, the sll of forest pine, musk, and sothing unmistakably him. Its warmth sank into her bones, offering more than just physical comfort.
"Thank you," Lara said softly. "What would you like to talk about?" Lara inquired, her voice soft yet curious, as she wrapped the heavy cloak tighter around her fra. The dim light from the moon flickered around them, casting soft, silver halos that danced across the garden walls and flicked shadows over their faces like a dream trying not to wake.
Alaric sat down lazily on a carved bench opposite her, separated by an old circular table, its top polished smooth from years of weathering—a tree stump, hollowed by ti and silence.
"You’ve learned of my illness," he said, his gaze steady. "So, I want you to cure it."
Lara blinked, her brows lifting slightly at the way he phrased it. I want. It wasn’t a suggestion. It was a command softened only by the velvet smoothness of his tone.
"But I have no idea how to cure it." Lara protested.
"If you were at the palace," he replied, almost casually, "and gave that answer, your head would be rolling by now."
The words should have frightened her, but there was no nace in them. His tone was far too gentle—like he was teasing the idea rather than threatening her. Still, her answer ca more cautiously this ti.
"I need your help to learn about the illness, then. What triggers it? When do you experience it? Are there symptoms before the illness overwhelms you?" Lara has shifted to doctor mode and asked a barrage of questions.
A faint smile flickered across Alaric’s lips, a brief glimr of warmth that was gone almost as quickly as it appeared. Lara, preoccupied with her thoughts, didn’t even notice the subtle transformation on his face, missing the brief spark of emotion that montarily lit up his features.
"Your highness?" Lara followed up.
Alaric hesitated. For a heartbeat, she thought he might deflect, but sothing shifted in his eyes—like the walls he had built so carefully were trembling under the weight of mory.
Revealing details about his ’illness’ felt like peeling back the layers of a long-festering scar, exposing deep wounds from the past that he desperately tried to overlook. Each recollection was a reminder of pain he wished to forget, yet the desire for treatnt urged him to confront those shadows. Despite the weight of his mories, he was driven by a flicker of hope, seeking a path to healing that he knew was almost within his grasp.
"Whenever I see a scene...sothing that reminds of my mother’s death," he said slowly, "that’s the trigger. I just blacked out."
Lara’s lips parted, but no words ca out. She could see how tightly he was holding himself together.
"That’s dangerous," she said finally, eyes narrowing in thought. "If soone, especially your enemy, if they found out, wouldn’t they use that against you?"
Silence stretched between them.
He knew. Of course, he knew.
Lara leaned forward slightly. "So, what do you do when you blacked out? I an after you beco conscious?" Lara’s curiosity was piqued. Does he turn to another person and do certain things?
"I hurt myself," he said simply, as if it was nothing more than a casual talk.
She stared. "Self-harm?" The words sounded foreign in the air, heavy and strange. "What do you an?"
"One ti, I was woken up by the pain in my wrist and found out that I cut it without knowing. I didn’t even rember doing it. I was twelve then."
"What?" Lara gasped softly, horror flashing across her face. "Do you hurt others?"
"No," Alaric replied calmly. "They’ll be hard only when they interfere with when I am in that state."
"I see." Her voice was low, reflective. She looked down at her hands, trying to draw from the limited dical knowledge she possessed, searching her mories for sothing—anything—that could help. She had attended professional classes on dicine, but she could not rember attending a course on dissociative disorder.
"Unfortunately, my specialization is suturing and treating wounds and common illnesses... not this." She looked up at him, eyes apologetic but determined. "Still... I’ll try. Even if I fail, I want to try."
He looked at her for a mont longer, his gaze unreadable. Then, he said softly, "Ari. Call Ari. I heard you yesterday... when I was in the darkness."
Lara’s eyes widened. "You heard ?" Her voice was almost a whisper. "Then... maybe the na ans sothing to you?"
"It’s what my mother used to call ," he said, his voice devoid of emotion—but sothing flickered in his eyes, a glint of pain that hadn’t fully dulled.
The dim light deepened the color of Lara’s eyes, turning them into pools of warm shadow. She t his gaze steadily, feeling the weight of unspoken things between them.
Is he saying that every ti I call him ’Ari’... he sees her mother in ? The thought pressed against her chest like a bruise. She thought that sohow she was special to him. But it was just her wishful thinking. But wasn’t she too young to be treated as a mother figure?
And sohow, that made her heart ache.
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