The storm in Alaric's chest hadn't passed. Even after the confrontation with the maids, he didn't return to his chambers. Something pulled him back—something quiet but persistent, like a splinter in his skin. He kept seeing her dazed face. Her laugh. Her tiny fingers clutching him like he was her only anchor.
He swore under his breath.
A child, they had called her. A marriage sealed by law and war, nothing else. Yet here she was, drunk, humiliated, confused—left to rot in a mansion full of wolves. And he? He'd been content to pretend she didn't exist.
He returned.
This time, he knocked.
No answer.
He stepped inside quietly, pushing the heavy door shut behind him with a click. The lantern still burned low, casting a soft orange glow across the room. And there she was—curled on the bed, her hanfu half-mussed from movement, hair falling loose over her shoulders. She wasn't asleep. Her eyes were open but glazed, staring at nothing.
"…Lan?"
Her head turned at the sound, slowly, drunkenly. Then came the smile—fragile, dazed.
"Prince… Alaric…" she whispered. "Did you come… to laugh too?"
He walked to her, the scent of alcohol heavy around her. She reached up and touched his arm. Her skin was so warm—too warm.
"No," he murmured, pulling up the blanket that had slipped halfway down her legs. "You need to sober up."
She giggled faintly. "Mmm… I don't wanna. Everything hurts when I'm… sober…"
His jaw clenched. Her lips were dry. Her eyes glistened, not with tears, but with emptiness. The kind of emptiness he'd only seen on warfields.
He reached for the pitcher on the side table and poured her a cup of cold water. "Drink this."
She pouted slightly but took the cup. Halfway to her lips, she spilled some, soaking her collar. The thin fabric darkened, clinging to her skin—and as it shifted, so did her neckline, exposing the soft curve of her collarbone. He looked away sharply.
"Slowly," he said, voice harder now.
She obeyed.
Then suddenly, her voice dropped. "Am I… ugly?"
He looked at her.
Lan was blinking at him, her expression strangely serious in her drunken haze. "My father… said that no one would marry a girl with cold eyes. But you did. So maybe…" Her voice broke into another giggle. "Maybe you're as broken as me…"
He didn't answer. Didn't know how.
"I'm just… a thing now," she whispered. "Right? Something sellable."
Alaric's gaze snapped to hers. Those words. Sellable. The exact word his commander had used three years ago when he'd wanted to run his sword through her. He remembered her then—small, shivering in rags, surrounded by the corpses of her family. That day… he had nearly ended her life.
And now she sat in front of him. Beautiful. Broken.
And his.
"Stop talking," he said lowly, almost like a plea.
But Lan moved closer, crawling toward him across the bed. The hanfu slipped again, the loose fabric sliding from her shoulder, revealing more pale skin. She reached out, her fingers brushing the edge of his coat, the warmth of her breath catching against his chest.
"I must be disgusting to you," she whispered, head tilted back to look at him. "But… you're so warm…"
He caught her wrist before she could touch more.
Her eyes widened.
"You need to sleep," he growled, forcing her back gently onto the bed.
But she resisted—not violently, just weakly—hooking her fingers around the front of his robe, pulling him closer. Her breath was hot against his throat.
"Will you leave me again?" she asked, voice trembling now. "Please… don't."
Something cracked in him. His hand moved to her face—cupping her cheek—not with lust but with quiet fury at the world that had done this to her. She closed her eyes at the touch, sighing like it was the only real thing she had felt in days.
"Sleep," he said again, softer.
She didn't let go.
So, he stayed.
He climbed into the bed beside her, still dressed. She curled into him immediately, like instinct—pressing her face against his chest, her small body drawing into itself like a wounded animal.
And slowly, her breathing evened.
She fell asleep like that—tangled in his warmth, clinging to the only kindness she'd received.
Alaric stared at the ceiling, his eyes unblinking. He didn't move for hours.
He could still feel the ghost of her fingers on his collar. The sadness in her drunken laugh. The way she said sellable.
This wasn't marriage.
This was war.
And he was starting to feel like he was losing.
...
Morning sunlight poured through the lattice windows, casting golden bars over the cold marble floor. Lan stirred beneath heavy layers of silk and confusion, her head pounding softly as if her mind were wrapped in thick wool. Her mouth was dry. Her limbs ached.
Something was off.
She sat up slowly, vision blurring for a moment before settling. Her hair was a mess—half-tangled, and her hanfu loose around the collar. It took her a second to realize the thin blanket covering her hadn't been there before. Nor the faint scent of leather and wind clinging to the pillow beside her.
Lan blinked, frowning.
Flashes of the previous night came in pieces: Laughter. Her fingers tracing embroidered seams. A warmth beside her. A sharp voice. Eyes—cold, grey, and furious. And shame. That too.
She stood, wobbling slightly on bare feet, clutching the wall to steady herself. As she crossed the room to push open the door, the hallway beyond was unusually silent.
But someone was waiting.
"Mina?" Lan's voice cracked—raw from sleep and something deeper.
The girl looked up from where she stood by the doorway, her tray of folded linens held tight against her chest. Her face lit with quiet shock.
"My lady!"
Lan didn't hesitate.
She ran to her and threw her arms around the maid, burying her face in her shoulder like a frightened child. She didn't cry—she had cried enough. But the silence in her arms said more than words.
"I thought you left," Lan whispered. "They all said you ran away. That you didn't want to serve me anymore."
Mina froze, arms hovering for a second before she wrapped them around the trembling princess.
"No. Never," she said gently. "They lied, Lan. It was just… something came up. I wasn't allowed near the guest wing for two nights. Orders."
"Whose orders?"
Mina didn't answer. But the flicker of bitterness in her eyes said enough.
Lan stepped back slowly, brushing at her tangled hair. "I made a fool of myself, didn't I?"
Mina hesitated. "What do you remember?"
"Not much," Lan said, eyes darting away. "Someone gave me tea… or wine. It tasted strange. I think I laughed. I remember feeling warm. Then angry. Then…"
Her voice trailed off. She looked down at her wrinkled dress.
"Did he… was Alaric—?"
"He left before dawn," Mina replied quickly, sensing the direction of the question. "He didn't lay a hand on you. You're fine."
Lan nodded, though her heart didn't quite agree.
"Everyone here hates me," she whispered. "They smile but they hate me. Why did I even sign that contract?"
"Because you were brave," Mina said softly. "Because you had no choice."
Silence stretched between them again. Then Mina placed the linens down gently on a chair, walked over, and picked up Lan's hairbrush.
"Come sit. Let me fix your hair."
Lan obeyed.
As Mina's fingers carefully parted and combed through the knots, Lan stared blankly ahead. Her reflection in the polished cabinet mirror didn't feel like hers. It looked like a doll—painted blue eyes, fragile skin, an expression always bordering on shattered.
"They'll try to break you," Mina murmured as she brushed. "All of them."
"Then they'll have to try harder," Lan said quietly.
Her voice didn't tremble this time.