CHAPTER 439: INTO THE QUARRY

He pulled back just enough to search her face, his thumb brushing against her damp cheek.

"When did you start doing this?"

His voice was low. Rough. A storm trying to contain itself.

Salviana hesitated, heart thudding. How much should I say? How long had she known?

She drew a breath. "You hadn’t fed in days. You said you were fine." Her eyes met his, unwavering. "But I knew you weren’t. You were shaking in your sleep."

Alaric closed his eyes, jaw clenching.

"I mixed a little into foods you eat and," she went on. "You slept better that night. After that... you could taste food, you became better."

"That was the reason? The reason I could taste food?"

"Yes," Salviana said not at all shamefully.

"Gods." He turned from her, hands on his hips, pacing the edge of the room like a man unhinged.

"Alaric—"

"Do you understand

what this means?" he said, spinning to face her. "What if someone had tasted that bowl? What if Lucius had walked in and smelled it? Your blood is—" he faltered, his voice dropping to a hoarse whisper, "Salviana, your blood is divine."

She stepped closer, defiant. "And what of it? I’m already hunted, already misunderstood, already labeled a witch; I just want my husband to be fine!"

He stared at her as if she were made of starlight and madness.

"Do you know what that kind of blood does to a vampire?" he said. "To me?"

"I know it kept you breathing and almost human?."

His voice dropped to something darker, wounded. "It doesn’t just nourish. It changes us. It binds us. It awakens... old things. Dangerous things."

She blinked. "Like what?"

But he didn’t answer. He turned away, hand dragging through his hair like he was trying to wrestle the beast inside. The silence pressed in around them, thick and trembling.

Finally, he whispered, "Salviana, if I take too much of your blood, if I crave it—I might lose control. Not just of myself... but of who I am."

Her lips parted. "You think I care if you become something more?"

"I care!" he snapped. "Because I don’t want to hurt you. Because the part of me that loves you is still fighting the part of me that wants to drain you dry."

The silence after that was deafening.

And then—softly, quietly—Salviana stepped forward. Took his hand and pressed it to her heart.

"You won’t hurt me," she said, her voice steady. "Because you are still you. And I trust you to fight. Even if it kills you."

Alaric’s hand trembled against her chest. His throat bobbed with emotion. And something inside him shattered and reforged all at once.

"But what if one day I lose?" he murmured.

She smiled, sad and bold all at once. "Then I’ll bleed for you again. And remind you who you are."

Later, in a candlelit room that smelled of spice and old cedar, they shared food—roasted roots, smoked meats, cheese, and crusty bread.

It wasn’t royal fare, but after what they’d endured, it might as well have been a feast.

Jean, wrapped in fresh robes, sank into her chair and sighed. "I would kill for wine."

Lucius handed her a cup. "Then don’t. You’re already drinking it."

She raised it to him, tired but amused. "You continue to be useful, my lord."

Alaric sat close to Salviana, one arm draped over her shoulder, his fingers playing absently with the ends of her damp hair. She smelled like honey and clean earth now. Her cheeks had color again.

They were still in danger. The roads were still riddled with spies and the crown’s reach still stretched far.

But here, in this stone city built into the bones of the world, they found something they hadn’t touched in days.

Peace.

Even if it was borrowed.

The cold bit into their bones before sunrise.

Wind whipped through the narrow paths as Alaric, Salviana, Jean, and Lucius made their way down the winding cliffside trail, the towering spires of Wyfstone Quarry rising like jagged gods in the morning mist.

By now they have come to the understanding that the Wyfhelm Mountains didn’t welcome guests. They loomed, carved by ancient hands and unforgiving storms. And the quarry at their heart—where the kingdom’s finest stone and metals were forged—was its most guarded secret.

"So this is where kings build wars," Jean murmured, adjusting her scarf as her boots crunched over the gravel.

Lucius glanced sideways, lips twitching. "And where we’re currently traitors."

Alaric said nothing. His cloak billowed behind him like a shadow of the man he once was.

A traitor. A prince. A husband. A war waiting to happen.

He had been here before—back when his seal meant something. Before the king branded him a criminal.

The massive iron gates of the quarry came into view, bolted shut with layers of enchantment and industrial steel. The walls were twice the height of a man, rigged with watchmen, mechanical gears, and crossbows that never missed.

"Tight fence," Salviana whispered. "They really don’t like visitors."

"They like wyfin’s and allegiance," Alaric replied. "And we have neither."

"Then what do we have?" Jean asked.

Alaric’s jaw clenched. "A plan. And desperation."

They approached the gate. A pair of sentries, broad-shouldered and armor-clad, crossed halberds in warning.

"State your purpose," one barked.

Alaric stepped forward. "Tell your foreman a dark prince is here. He’ll know the name."

The guard squinted. "And why should I—"

Lucius moved beside him, eyes gleaming unnaturally. "Because if you don’t, he’ll bury your bones under this quarry, and no one will dare dig them up."

The air went still.

The guard paled, then signaled to the tower above. After a tense silence, the gears groaned. The gate began to part.

"How do you know the foreman will even speak to us? They think we are trouble," Jean asked under her breath as they entered.

Salviana smiled sadly. "We are trouble," she said.

"Because I saved his life twelve years ago," Alaric muttered. "Let’s hope he remembers."