CHAPTER 441: THE EMBERCRUMBS PANTRY

Jean stood before a mirror, testing the weight of a short sword. Her eyes flicked up to meet her reflection—and for a moment, she didn’t see the gentle scholar.

She saw the woman who had survived pirates, betrayal, a royal siege, and now... was arming herself beside a vampire.

"Who are we becoming?" she murmured.

Lucius came up behind her, saw the look on her face, and touched her shoulder.

"We’ve always been this," he whispered. "You’re just finally dressed for it."

When the choosing was done, the party stood at the edge of the vault: Lucius dressed in shadow, Jean in leather armor with emerald stitching, Salviana wearing her polished breastplate over a crimson riding dress, and Alaric in black steel from shoulder to boot.

"They won’t be ready for us," Lucius said.

"No," Alaric replied. "But we’ll be ready for them."

The mountain had bent for them.

Now it was time to set the world aflame.

The air in Wyfhelm was sharper now, charged with the energy of coming war—and yet, it hummed around Alaric like a storm that had not yet broken.

He turned from the last fitting of his gauntlet, his cape snapping slightly in the cold air of the store’s entry.

His black armor gleamed like volcanic glass under the dim torchlight.

And then he heard her voice behind him—soft, but charged.

"But what do you say, Alaric?"

She was leaning casually by the door, arms crossed, her silver-etched breastplate fitted snugly over the deep crimson folds of her riding dress.

Her hair tumbled freely over her shoulder, windswept from the forge’s heat and the mountain’s chill.

"Shall we walk this stone-cold city now that we’re armed like gods?"

Alaric’s lips twitched. Gods, this woman.

"You always ask like I have a choice," he said, strolling to her, his eyes never leaving hers.

"You don’t."

She slipped her hand into the crook of his elbow with royal grace. "Your fate is bound to me, remember?"

"By blood and vow," he murmured, and kissed the top of her hand.

Salviana blinked at the bow part, they still need to strengthen that vow like Embrez said.The city of Wyfhelm spread before them in granite blues and misted greys. It was noon, and the mountain wind twisted through the narrow stone streets like ancient whispers.

They strolled slowly—two figures that are in love and hunted.

Citizens moved around them, heads bowed, unaware of who they truly were.

"Do you ever think about what we’d be doing right now if none of this happened?" Salviana asked softly.

Alaric glanced sideways. "What, like... me seducing you in some palace balcony while the nobles scheme indoors?"

She laughed. "Exactly that."

"Then yes," he said, solemn now. "Every day."

They passed a fountain where children played, oblivious. The clang of hammers in a nearby forge rang like a memory of purpose. Salviana stared at them—hardworking, simple, safe.

"Do you think we’ll ever have that?" she asked.

Alaric stopped walking. Turned to her.

"I don’t know if we were meant for normal."

"But we can try?"

He tilted her chin up, the lovely sunlight catching her cheekbones. "For you? I’ll build you a garden in the middle of war."

"Then start with a pastry." She said with a grin.

"Excuse me?" he blinked.

"You heard me," she said. "There’s a bakery down the slope and I want the warmest, flakiest, cinnamon-soaked pastry this mountain can provide."

He smirked. "As you command, my divine tyrant."

As They Walked On...

Behind them, the armory grew smaller.

Before them, fate waited with claws and crowns.

But for now?

Alaric held her hand, armed with steel...

And walked like a man who’d already won the war—because she smiled beside him.

The smell hit first.

Sweet, spiced, buttery warmth that curled into Salviana’s nose and drew a sigh from her lips.

"I told you," she murmured dreamily as she led Alaric by the hand toward a squat little bakery nestled between two stacked stone towers. "It’s practically divine. I smelled cinnamon from the forge gates."

"You smell everything these days. The wine, my neck... now pastries?" He teased her.

"I’m evolving," she grinned.

The pastry shop was quaint, almost charming in its crookedness—wooden beams that creaked overhead, windows fogged by oven steam, and a glass case lined with golden-brown indulgences: braided tarts, sugared loaves, and coils of cinnamon rolls dripping in glaze.

A young girl behind the counter beamed at them.

"Welcome to Embercrumbs!" she chirped. "Fresh from the hearth! What can I get you, my lord and lady?"

Alaric raised a brow but said nothing. He scanned the room once, then twice. Three other patrons. One old man sipping from a tankard. Two younger men near the corner table—one reading, the other pretending to.

"Two of those," Salviana said, pointing at a pair of cinnamon spirals steaming behind the glass. "And tea."

They sat near the window, moonlight making Salviana’s hair glow silver. Alaric didn’t eat, of course, but he watched her with fond amusement as she practically purred into the warm pastry.

"How does something this soft survive up here in the mountains?" she whispered, licking a smear of glaze from her thumb.

"Like you," he said.

Her eyes flicked up. "You always flirt like a warrior."

"That’s because I fight for what I want."

Salviana blushed softly, "You already have me, Prince Alaric."

"Then I’ll fight to keep you." he declared.

She rolled her eyes, cheeks pink from the warmth and the words.

But Alaric’s eyes darkened slightly.

His gaze flicked to the corner table again. One of the young men had stood. Slowly. Not toward the door, but toward their table. He was too relaxed. Too precise.

The other reached into his coat with a flicker of motion too fast for a baker, too slow for a drunk.

"Don’t swallow," Alaric murmured.

Salviana froze, mid-bite.

"Why—?"

He was already standing.

The man reached their table with a fake smile and a bottle in his hand. "Said you wanted more tea, yes?"

Alaric moved. So fast the table groaned. In a blur, his hand shot out and caught the man’s wrist, squeezing hard. Bone cracked.

The bottle shattered on the floor. Liquid splashed and hissed, hissed, against the wood. The smell was wrong. Sharp. Metallic.

"Poison," Alaric said coldly.