CHAPTER 479: PREPARING FOR DINNER AFTER REALIZATION

Salviana gasped. The mirror no longer showed the room—it showed somewhere else. Dark woods stretching beneath a blood-red sky.

What is this place?

A castle crumbling at the edges of a cliff. And in the far distance... shadows moving, whispering, as if the glass itself carried voices from another realm.

"Do you see that?" she whispered.

"Yes," Alaric breathed, his jaw tightening. His hand gripped her shoulder protectively. "Don’t lean too far in, Salviana. These mirrors... they can take more than just a glimpse if you’re not careful."

Her lips parted as her gaze darted deeper. The image shifted again—this time a familiar place flickered across the waterlike surface. Salviana gasped.

The mirror no longer held their room—it opened. Dark woods unfurled beneath a blood-red sky, the trees like rib bones clawing at a dying sun. Far off, a cliff bit into the horizon, and on its edge a black castle hunched, crumbling, as if some giant hand had worried its corners for centuries.

The glass itself seemed to breathe; shadows moved inside it, whispering against the silver like moth wings.

"What is this place?" she breathed, the words fogging the cold surface.

Alaric leaned closer without letting his weight touch the frame, his hand settling—a steady, possessive warm—on her shoulder. "I see it," he said, voice low, jaw taut. "Don’t lean too far in, Salviana. Mirrors like this... they can take more than a glimpse if you give them the chance."

Her lips parted. "Take...?"

"Memories," he murmured. "Names. Sometimes—paths you can’t find your way back from."

Before she could answer, the vision broke like water and reformed. A flash—soft blue light, silver reeds, a surface like thickened glass. Salviana’s breath caught. "Alaric," she whispered, "that’s—"

"Our lake," he finished, eyes narrowing. That gel-smooth water, the one he’d shown her the first week of their marriage. The place that had felt holy and wrong in equal measure.

"Why am I seeing this?" Salviana asked, her voice gone small and—frighteningly—hopeful.

"Ask your questions into the mirror, my love," Alaric said, shifting behind her. He gathered her hair up with one hand, exposing the delicate line of her nape—a habit of his, a protection and a prayer.

Salviana steadied herself and let the divine prickle rise in her blood. "Where is the way to the Dark World?" she asked, clear and sure. "Show me the vampires’ road." She lifted her chin. "I need to see it."

For a heartbeat, nothing. Then the glass rippled again: the lake—still, viscous, moon-bright even in daylight—then the jagged castle on the cliff; back to the lake, then the castle once more, as if the mirror were striking a bell and letting the two notes vibrate together.

"I think it’s telling us the same thing two ways," Alaric said, thinking aloud. "Door and destination."

"The lake is the door," Salviana whispered. The words felt right in her mouth, heavy with knowing.

She lowered the mirror into her lap and turned to look at him. The question rose so naturally it surprised them both. "Was that why you took me there?"

A muscle twitched in his cheek. "Gathered information led me to believe it might be," he admitted, voice hushed. "Old maps. Older rumors. But when you stepped in that day and nothing happened, I assumed I was wrong."

She blinked. "You didn’t tell me."

"I didn’t want to push you toward a threshold I did not understand," he said simply. It was the truth—and it stung anyway.

Silence swelled between them, not cruel, just dense with all the roads they hadn’t taken. The mirror purred faintly, like the sea in a shell.

"So... we go back," Salviana said at last, anchoring the moment. Her fingers tightened on the frame. "We try again. This time on purpose."

Alaric’s gaze traced her face, the sure line of her mouth when she chose courage. Gods, how he loved that mouth. "We will," he promised. Then he exhaled, a practical breath cutting through the pull of fate. "But not this moment. It’s near the dinner hour. If we vanish now, we rattle every hornet in Wyfkeep. We’ll go when the castle sleeps."

She studied him, weighing prudence against urgency, and nodded. "Are you sure?"

"Yes." His mouth softened, the hard edges of command easing into something more intimate. "I’ll leave you to prepare—unless you’d like me to be scandalously opinionated about which gown you choose." The tease lilted, warm and wicked.

Heat rose in her cheeks despite herself. Salviana shifted closer on the mattress, looping her arms around his shoulders, wrists crossing behind his neck. "You’re already scandalously opinionated," she whispered.

He smiled against her hair, then drew back just enough to look at her—really look. "You brave, beautiful trouble." He slid the mirror from her lap to the coverlet with careful hands, set it aside, and framed her face as if it were the only map he trusted. "For the record," he added, softer, "if the way forward asks for blood, it will be mine first. Not yours."

"Shared," she corrected, a spark in her eyes. "Always shared."

His gaze went molten. "Then let me share this."

He leaned in. The kiss he gave her wasn’t hungry; it was claiming and gentle at once, a vow written in the quiet press of mouth to mouth. She sighed into it, fingers curving at the nape of his neck, and he deepened only a fraction—enough to taste her yes, enough to seal the moment.

When they parted, he rested his forehead to hers. "Dinner," he murmured, and the word sounded like an invitation to battle and a dance both.

"Dinner," she echoed, smiling; the kind of smile that made him want to carry her back into the dark and lock the world out.

He stole one last kiss—quick, possessive, shameless—and then rose, his hand reaching for hers as though it had always belonged there. She slid her fingers into his, warmth meeting warmth, and together they stood.

Behind them, upon the tangled sheets, the mermaid’s mirror lay abandoned—silent, gleaming faintly, like a storm biding its time.

Tonight, the hall.

After midnight, the lake.

And beyond that, if the glass spoke true—the door to the Dark World.

The door closed softly after Alaric, his lingering warmth still clinging to her lips.

Salviana sat for a moment, hands pressed against her heart, willing it to steady. She hadn’t even caught her breath when the knock came.

Without waiting for an answer, the door swung open and her three maids swept in like a flurry of ribbons and whispers. Sarah—the eldest and sharpest—clapped her hands in brisk command.

Emma trailed behind, eyes bright with admiration, while Thalia, the youngest, stumbled in with her arms full of fabrics and perfumes, nearly tripping on the rug.

"My lady," Sarah said, her voice edged with authority though softened by care, "the hour is upon us. You cannot attend the Dean’s dinner looking as though you’ve just... well—" Her sharp eyes darted to Salviana’s lips, still faintly swollen from Alaric’s kiss, and she coughed delicately.

Emma, less discreet, giggled. "Her lips look like rose petals crushed by a storm. Don’t you think so, Thalia?"

Thalia flushed, nearly dropping the silver tray of crystal vials. "I—I think the lord would prefer them just so," she stammered.

Salviana, cheeks warming, rose to her feet, drawing herself into the regal poise her mother once told her never to abandon. I am the Divine Lady, she reminded herself, but I am also a wife... and a woman in love.

"Enough chattering," Sarah ordered, already tugging Salviana toward the vanity. "Sit. If you arrive late, the court will whisper, and I won’t have their tongues wagging at your expense."

Salviana sat obediently, though her mind spun elsewhere—back to the mirror, to the blood-red sky, to Alaric’s eyes shadowed with warning.

Thalia placed the vials on the vanity, uncorking one to release the scent of jasmine and sandalwood. "This one, my lady. It clings to the skin and lingers all night. He won’t forget you."

Emma held up the gown—midnight velvet stitched with threads of silver that shimmered like constellations. "The seamstress swore it was enchanted to catch the light. You’ll look like a goddess descending from the stars."

Sarah, practical as ever, combed Salviana’s long hair with deft strokes, muttering under her breath. "If only your hair would tame itself. Like wildfire, it is. Glorious, yes—but untamed. Just like its mistress."

Salviana arched a brow at the reflection in the mirror. "Are you saying I am unruly, Sarah?"

"I’m saying," Sarah replied dryly, pinning up a strand, "that men will look at you and forget the wine in their hands. And women will look and wish you tripped over your own gown."

Emma gasped, half-laughing. "Sarah! That’s wicked!"

"It’s true," Thalia whispered timidly. "But my lady... even if you did trip, you’d rise like a queen, and they’d only love you more."

Their chatter filled the room, a veil of comfort over Salviana’s drifting thoughts. She let them fuss—powder on her cheeks, kohl to her lashes, lips painted a shade too bold for her taste but perfect for the court.

When they fastened the final clasp at her back, Salviana stood. The dress spilled around her like midnight rain, every silver thread alive with its own quiet flame. The maids stepped back, a collective breath leaving their throats.

"You look..." Emma began, but words failed her.

"Untouchable," Sarah finished.

"No," Thalia whispered reverently, hands clasped. "You look like temptation itself."

Salviana turned to her reflection, almost startled at the woman staring back. The divine lady cloaked in starlight, eyes heavy with secrets, lips that still carried Alaric’s taste.

But beneath it all, she thought, I am still just Salviana... and tonight, I must play their goddess.