The mornings in the manor had grown softer. Winter's bite was fading, replaced by gentle fog that hung between the hills like breath from a sleeping beast.
Alric sat by the window of their shared chamber, his fingers lightly tracing the rim of a goblet left untouched since last night's dinner. Below, servants moved like shadows through the courtyard. Quiet efficiency. Polished smiles.
Everything seemed… in order.
And yet, something gnawed at the edges of his calm.
He had learned, through years of war and whispers, that danger didn't always arrive with trumpets. Sometimes it came cloaked in silk, with lips that tasted of truth and eyes that never flinched.
Sometimes, it came as a wife.
---
Saren sat at her writing desk, just beyond his line of sight. Her quill danced across parchment, its strokes fluid and fast. Another letter. Another name to be crossed, another plan moving forward beneath the mask of normalcy.
She could feel Alric's gaze on her, though he didn't speak.
She didn't need to ask what he was thinking.
He's growing suspicious. The thought passed through her like a chill.
Still, she kept her face calm. Her shoulders relaxed. She dipped her quill again.
"I was thinking," Alric finally said, voice low, "about the day we met."
She looked up slowly, a soft smile curving her lips. "At the ball?"
He nodded, turning slightly toward her. "You wore blue. You didn't smile once the entire evening. I thought you hated everyone."
"I did," she said with a chuckle. "Except you."
That part, at least, was true. Mostly.
"I remember thinking you looked like a storm about to break," he said. "And still… I walked toward it."
"Why?"
He hesitated.
"I don't know. Something in me just—trusted you."
Her smile faltered, just for a breath.
---
Later that night, Alric found himself unable to sleep. He lay beside her, eyes open to the shadows playing across the ceiling.
Saren breathed softly at his side, curled toward the warmth of his body.
But something lingered beneath the quiet.
A letter had gone missing. A guard, loyal to his house, had reported whispers — quiet meetings in the eastern wing. Names mentioned that should never pass her lips.
Am I a fool? he wondered. Or have I simply chosen blindness… for love?
Still, when her hand found his in the dark, he held it.
Still, he whispered, "I love you."
And she, half-asleep or pretending, whispered back, "I love you too."
---
Saren did not sleep that night.
She stared at the ceiling long after his breathing slowed, her fingers curled tightly into the sheets.
He was beginning to see through her. Not all the way—but enough to raise questions. Enough to crack the mask she'd so carefully shaped.
And yet…
The sound of his voice when he said her name. The way he never turned cold even in suspicion. The warmth of his hand holding hers like it belonged there.
It was getting harder.
Harder to remember that he was only supposed to be a pawn.
Harder to remember she wasn't supposed to love him.
....to be continued...
Author's Note:
This chapter marks the quiet shift—the moment where love begins to blur the lines between truth and betrayal. Saren's mask is cracking, and Alric's doubts are growing. They lie side by side, both holding secrets and yet still reaching for each other in the dark.
Thank you for reading this far. If you felt the ache in their silence, the weight of unspoken love and looming heartbreak… then you're right where I want you to be.
Let me know what you think of their moment—did it feel tender, tense, or both? Your comments always keep this story alive.
— With heart,
Your author