CHAPTER 473: MORNING SURPRISE

The morning sun bathed the royal chambers in hues of rose gold and drowsy warmth, filtering gently through the gauzy curtains that fluttered with the breeze.

The scent of burning lavender wood lingered in the air — faintly floral, faintly dangerous. Just like the woman Alaric loved.

Salviana stirred beneath the covers first, her long red hair tangled across the pillow like threads of living flame.

She blinked slowly, only to find Alaric already propped against the headboard, a loose linen robe around his shoulders, his ink-black eyes fixed on her — intense, amused, devouring.

"You stare at me like I’m your first sin," she murmured sleepily, voice rough with sleep.

"Because you are," he replied, leaning in to press a kiss to her forehead, then her nose, then her mouth. His voice was low, gravelly, and entirely too charming for someone who didn’t sleep at all. "And my favorite."

She flushed, slapping his chest softly. It didn’t move him an inch — the man was carved like a war god, all hard shoulders and that smirking mouth of his.

"How are you this awake already?"

"I’m undead, remember?" he smirked. "We don’t exactly ’sleep in.’ I only rested yesterday because someone sucked the soul out of me."

"You deserved it," she said primly, sitting up and brushing her hair out of her face. "And you’ll get more when you deserve it again."

Alaric hummed, catching her by the wrist and pulling her gently into his lap. "If you sit here again, I’ll forget how to behave in daylight."

"Stop it!" she giggled, shoving him before slipping off his lap and calling out, "Thalia!"

The door opened and in came Thalia and Emma, both bowing low before they got to work. Thalia held up the princess’s red velvet morning robe while Emma brought in the perfumes.

Sarah was already setting out fruit and bread at the breakfast tray near the sitting area.

"I’m not a doll, you know," Salviana muttered as Thalia began to braid her freshly brushed hair up.

"But a lovely doll you are, my lady," Emma said, winking.

Alaric chuckled as he stood — shirtless still — and stretched, the fabric of his black trousers clinging to his hips. Thalia tried not to stare too obviously. Emma failed.

"Thalia," Salviana hissed, catching her maid’s distracted gaze.

"Apologies, Princess!" Thalia squeaked, biting back a grin.

Alaric, shameless and pleased, walked over to where Salviana now sat by the window and leaned down to sniff her neck. Slowly. Deliberately.

She flinched slightly. "Alaric..."

"You still smell like me," he whispered against her skin.

"I should — you had your mouth all over me last night," she muttered, red rising to her cheeks.

He only smirked, eyes heavy-lidded. "Want me to refresh the scent?"

"Sir!" she shrieked, slapping him on the chest again. "Go put on your robe and stop being a demon."

"I am a rumored demon. You married one."

"I regret nothing."

"I regret everything," said Thalia dryly, stepping away as she finished pinning the last piece of Salviana’s updo.

Alaric finally pulled on his formal robe — rich black with silver embroidery at the hem — and joined her by the sitting area where breakfast waited. He poured her a glass of pomegranate juice and handed it over, placing a kiss to her knuckles.

Domestic. Intimate. They could’ve been an ordinary couple, if not for the shadows that always loomed somewhere nearby.

Just as they took their first bites of bread, Sarah returned — a scroll clutched tightly in her hands.

"An invitation came for you both, my prince, my lady," she said, offering it on a silver tray.

Salviana raised a brow and took the scroll. The paper was thick, sealed with deep green wax and a crest she didn’t immediately recognize.

"Well, this can’t be good," Alaric muttered, leaning over her shoulder.

"Could be harmless."

"When are invitations from the palace ever harmless?"

She cracked it open, letting the scroll unravel gently across her lap.

Both their faces shifted—brows raised, expressions unreadable.

"Official Scroll of the Wyfn-Garde Royal Court

By decree of His Majesty, Sovereign of the Blood-Crowned Throne,

and Her Grace, the Queen Consort of Wyfn-Garde,

Let it be known to all noble houses, foreign courts, and citizens of esteemed standing,

that the heavens and the ancient oaths of our forebears bear witness to this union.

You are hereby cordially summoned to the Grand Nuptials of:

Her Divine Grace, Salviana Agnes Hawthorne,

of Frostviel Hallow Kingdom, Bloomer of Frostviel fortune, descendant of the Elder Veil, and heralded in song as the Lady of the Myth,

to

His Highness, Alaric Gerard Velthorne,

Third Prince of Wyfn-Garde, Lord of the Black Moon Castle, Commander of every war,

and Son of the last queen of Wyfn-Garde.

The matrimonial rites shall be performed under the High Vaulted Dome of Eternal Stars within the Royal Citadel of Wyfn-Garde, in accordance with the Wyfn Ritual—an ancient binding ceremony blessed by the Blood Moon and sealed in the waters of the Silver Basin.

Attire: Regal Formal, adorned in the hues of moonlight and winter frost.

Gifts: Only those worthy of the Crown and the Divine Lady’s dowry.

Date: On the Eve of the Blood Moon, Year 876 of the Royal Calendar.

Presence: Not a request, but an honor.

By Royal Command, The prince of Wyfn-Garde.

Signed in the Seal of Wyfn-Garde

— The Chamberlain of the Crown""

Salviana lowered the scroll, her brows furrowing in disbelief.

Alaric, sprawled on the chaise lounge like a king with nowhere better to be, swirled his wine lazily.

"Do we have to go?" he asked, voice dripping with dry amusement, taking a slow sip as if bracing for an unpleasant truth.

She blinked at him. "We’re the ones getting married, Alaric."

His dark eyes glittered with feigned confusion. "Exactly. Shouldn’t we have the choice to... not?"

Her lips twitched mockingly. "Oh yes, let’s just send them a polite note: Sorry, the bride and groom couldn’t make it."

Alaric’s grin sharpened into something wicked. "Sounds perfect."

Before she could stop him, he reached for the nearby writing desk, picked up a fresh sheet of parchment, dipped the quill in ink, and began scribbling.

"Oh, you are not doing this," Salviana gasped, crossing the room in a swirl of silk and skirts.

He smirked without looking up. "Why not? ’Your Highnesses regret to inform you that the happy couple has decided to remain in bed for the rest of their lives.’ Signed, yours truly."

She lunged for the paper, fingers brushing his knuckles. "Alaric!"