CHAPTER 458: SEE IN THE DARK

Later that night, when Salviana had finally drifted into uneasy sleep, Alaric slipped from their chambers without a sound.

He moved through the castle’s silent corridors like a shadow unmoored, the guards too wary—or too wise—to question where he was going.

His black cloak billowed behind him as he descended the back stair, avoiding the main gates. The moon was high over Wyfkeep, silvering the rooftops of the city below.

Lanterns flickered in the narrow streets, and the night air smelled of cold stone and chimney smoke.

He told himself it was only necessity. That he needed the strength. That if he didn’t feed, he was a danger to her—to all of them.

But as he passed under the creaking iron arch of the outer wall and vanished into Wyfellon’s dark veins, he knew a part of him simply needed to remember who he was before her softness threatened to unmake him.

The first stop was a dim alley behind the Sable Lantern, a low tavern where sailors and caravan drivers slumped over cheap ale.

He watched from the shadows, boots silent on the frozen cobblestones, until he saw a brawny dockworker stumble into the darkness to relieve himself.

It was easy. It was always easy.

A hand over the man’s mouth. One arm locking him still. A whispered word—Sleep.

And then Alaric fed, the metallic heat of blood flooding his senses, searing away the confusion and the softness. He drank sparingly—enough to dull the ache in his bones, not enough to kill.

He eased the man to the ground, brushing his hair back so no one would see the punctures. Drunkards never remembered anything clearly anyway.

He moved on.

Through the winding courts where lesser nobles sprawled half-dressed on velvet cushions, oblivious to the cold.

He found a woman with rings on every finger and wine staining her lips, dreaming of some petty triumph. He tasted her blood with the same ruthless practicality, leaving her slumped against her lover’s shoulder, still breathing.

I am a monster, he thought, as he wiped his mouth on the back of his glove. But I am their monster.

He thought of Salviana’s voice, warm and unguarded. "Is it always going to feel like this?"

Gods.

In the end, he stood at the old bridge above the canal, staring down at the icy black water as it moved beneath him, as relentless and cold as his own hunger.

He did not know how long he stood there.

When he finally turned back toward the castle, the eastern horizon was paling, the first suggestion of dawn. His steps were steadier now. His heartbeat slower.

He did not feel better. But he felt ready—ready to keep pretending he could be something more than this.

Something worthy of the woman waiting in his bed.

And so he returned to Wyfkeep before the city woke, cloak trailing, a silent darkness retreating to the place he still dared to call home.

The cold side of the bed sent a chill crawling up Salviana’s spine.

She stirred beneath the silken covers, reaching out instinctively, but her hand touched only the empty indent where Alaric should’ve been. Her fingers brushed over rumpled fabric—warm still, but rapidly cooling. Her brows furrowed. A strange tightness curled in her chest.

She sat up, wrapping her shawl tightly around her shoulders. The room was silent, save for the rustle of night air slipping through the high balcony window. Something about the stillness felt... off. Unsettling.

Carefully, she slid out of bed and padded barefoot to the chamber door. Her heartbeat ticked louder with every step.

The castle halls were darker than usual.

Candles had burned low, casting shadows that danced like ghosts across the stone walls. The air had a different weight—thick, still, almost...watchful.

She descended the stairs slowly, each creak beneath her toes making her flinch. The way the castle curved around her, with every corridor too quiet and too long, only made her more certain something wasn’t right.

She wasn’t sure what she expected to find, but the longer she searched, the more her unease grew.

Then—

A voice, low and thick with something strange, echoed from the corner of the hall near the library.

"Why are you looking for me?"

Salviana gasped and spun, hand flying to her chest. "Alaric?!"

She squinted into the darkness—nothing but shadows.

His voice came again, deeper this time, amused. "Can you not see me?"

She blinked, "I—barely. Can you see in this?"

His response came slow and poetic, slurred but not meaningless.

"I would see even in a waterfall... in a deep, dark well... while I’m dying."

Her stomach dropped. That voice—he was drunk. Not on wine. On blood.

"Alaric," she breathed softly, finally tracing the sound to where he sat slumped in a high-backed chair in the far corner. His silhouette melted into the gloom, tall and cloaked, but his head lolled against the wall.

She moved toward him cautiously, heart clenched. "What did you do?"

"What I had to," he replied wearily. "To stay who I am... for you."

She dropped to her knees in front of him, feeling for his leg, until her hand met cold leather. She reached up and found his hand resting limply on the armrest. His fingers curled around hers on instinct.

"Salviana..." he breathed, and this time, it was almost a plea. "I love you."

Her heart swelled painfully. "I love you too," she whispered. "And I’m sorry for earlier. I shouldn’t have snapped at you. I—I know I hurt you. I was just scared."

He gave a soft groan—not of pain, but exhaustion. His breath was slow and measured now, the drunkenness from the stolen blood starting to settle into something heavier.

"Hey," she murmured gently, leaning closer. "Hello, my love."

One of his hands reached out slowly, blindly, brushing against her waist as if making sure she was truly there. And then, in his usual irreverent tone, he muttered:

"My fiery wife... are you trying to give your husband pleasure, kneeling in the dark like this?"

"Trying to suck my cock?"