Alric entered the grand hall with a tired gait, the weight of the council resting heavily on his shoulders. The lords had argued for hours, voices rising like thunder over border tariffs and the northern unrest. He had spoken in measured tones, defended his views with reason — but found himself outnumbered, unsupported.
Strange. He'd once held sway with these men. Why now did they look past him, their eyes flickering toward Queen's Hill — where the royal family resided?
When he returned to his chambers, Saren was already there, seated by the window in her evening dress, bathed in the glow of a fading sun. She looked like a portrait — one that could silence storms with a glance.
"You're early," she said, not looking up from the embroidery in her lap.
"I left the council in chaos," Alric replied, removing his cloak. "They don't listen anymore."
"Perhaps they are simply... adjusting," she offered, finally lifting her eyes to meet his. "You are not one of them by birth, remember."
He studied her face. There was no cruelty in her tone — only observation, like a physician diagnosing a slow illness. It should have hurt. It didn't.
He came to sit beside her. "And you? What would you have done?"
"I?" Her needle paused mid-air. "I would've fed their egos. Played to their fears of losing the northern strongholds. Promised what I could not give — to buy time."
Alric blinked. "That's... not the way I was taught."
She smiled gently. "Then perhaps it's time someone rewrites the teachings."
There was no malice in her words — only quiet cunning. But to Alric, it felt like a balm. He had always been straightforward, honorable. But maybe… too much so. Perhaps her way wasn't cruelty — but survival.
He leaned back in his chair, thinking.
---
Later that evening, Saren sat alone on the terrace. She watched the flickering lights in the distance — torches of nobles retiring to their villas. Her fingers, still stained with ink from the letter she had sent earlier that day, twitched with guilt.
She had written to her brother again — updating him on Alric's shifts in opinion, the progress in pushing their bloodline's claim further into noble circles. Her words were careful, hidden in code.
And yet… tonight, she felt hollow.
Alric had looked at her with such trust. Like she was not only his wife, but his compass. His anchor.
And I am the storm, she thought bitterly.
The wind carried the scent of burning wood from the village beyond. For a moment, she imagined setting fire to it all — the palace, the letters, the lies — just to be held by him without the weight of truth.
But ambition was a fire, too. And it had already caught her hem.
She closed her eyes.
Tomorrow, she would smile again. Speak softly. Guide gently.
Because that was how webs were spun.
Alric entered the grand hall with a tired gait, the weight of the council resting heavily on his shoulders. The lords had argued for hours, voices rising like thunder over border tariffs and the northern unrest. He had spoken in measured tones, defended his views with reason — but found himself outnumbered, unsupported.
Strange. He'd once held sway with these men. Why now did they look past him, their eyes flickering toward Queen's Hill — where the royal family resided?
When he returned to his chambers, Saren was already there, seated by the window in her evening dress, bathed in the glow of a fading sun. She looked like a portrait — one that could silence storms with a glance.
"You're early," she said, not looking up from the embroidery in her lap.
"I left the council in chaos," Alric replied, removing his cloak. "They don't listen anymore."
"Perhaps they are simply... adjusting," she offered, finally lifting her eyes to meet his. "You are not one of them by birth, remember."
He studied her face. There was no cruelty in her tone — only observation, like a physician diagnosing a slow illness. It should have hurt. It didn't.
He came to sit beside her. "And you? What would you have done?"
"I?" Her needle paused mid-air. "I would've fed their egos. Played to their fears of losing the northern strongholds. Promised what I could not give — to buy time."
Alric blinked. "That's... not the way I was taught."
She smiled gently. "Then perhaps it's time someone rewrites the teachings."
There was no malice in her words — only quiet cunning. But to Alric, it felt like a balm. He had always been straightforward, honorable. But maybe… too much so. Perhaps her way wasn't cruelty — but survival.
He leaned back in his chair, thinking.
---
Later that evening, Saren sat alone on the terrace. She watched the flickering lights in the distance — torches of nobles retiring to their villas. Her fingers, still stained with ink from the letter she had sent earlier that day, twitched with guilt.
She had written to her brother again — updating him on Alric's shifts in opinion, the progress in pushing their bloodline's claim further into noble circles. Her words were careful, hidden in code.
And yet… tonight, she felt hollow.
Alric had looked at her with such trust. Like she was not only his wife, but his compass. His anchor.
And I am the storm, she thought bitterly.
The wind carried the scent of burning wood from the village beyond. For a moment, she imagined setting fire to it all — the palace, the letters, the lies — just to be held by him without the weight of truth.
But ambition was a fire, too. And it had already caught her hem.
She closed her eyes.
Tomorrow, she would smile again. Speak softly. Guide gently.
Because that was how webs were spun.
.....to be continued....
Author's Note:
Well well well… look who's caught feelings. Again.
Our darling Duchess, spinning webs with silk and secrets, and Alric? Sweet, noble Alric — still playing chess with his heart wide open.
Will she burn it all down for love? Or keep feeding the fire of ambition until there's nothing left to save?
Stay tuned, lovelies. The storm hasn't even begun to howl.
— Your mildly dramatic, ink-stained author