CHAPTER 481: EMBREZ IN THE HALL

The dining hall of Wyfkeep was built to awe—and to intimidate. Golden chandeliers dripped light from high, arched ceilings, and the walls were lined with portraits of ancestors whose painted eyes seemed to judge every guest in silence.

At the center stretched a long obsidian table, polished so fine it caught every flicker of the candles and every ripple of dark wine in goblets. The air was rich with roasted meat, sugared fruits, and spiced sauces—yet beneath the indulgence clung a quiet unease, sharp as smoke.

Salviana smoothed her hands across her lap, the silk of her gown whispering as she shifted beside Alaric. He seemed wholly disinterested in pomp and politics, his hand brushing hers beneath the table, thumb tracing lazy circles into her skin as though he needed her nearness to stay tethered.

A voice broke the uneasy lull.

"The king doesn’t intend to join us, I suppose."

The words fell like a blade. Servants froze mid-step, trays trembling faintly. Silence pressed heavy over the room until Alaric gave a pointed roll of his eyes and leaned closer to Salviana, tucking a curl behind her ear as though no tension existed at all.

But before his lips could graze her temple, a throat cleared.

"Ah." Prince Spencer’s voice was sharp, too deliberate. "I hear you’re to be married again."

Chairs creaked as heads turned. Alaric’s storm-gray gaze darkened, a warning unspoken—but before he could reply, another voice swept smoothly through the hall.

"Yes," said Prince Embrez as he entered, and the air shifted with him.

If Alaric was steel and shadow, Embrez was fire and light. His golden hair caught the glow of the chandeliers like flame, and his black eyes glittered with ease and confidence. He smiled as though he belonged to everyone, charming and effortless, and when he looked at Salviana, his gaze lingered a fraction too long.

"They must show the world how much their love has grown since the day they first wed," he continued lightly, though his eyes did not stray from her. "Besides..." his smile sharpened, "I missed the first celebration. I would not miss this one."

A ripple of discomfort stirred the table.

Spencer laughed too loudly, too eagerly. "Then it will be quite the spectacle. I, for one, cannot wait."

Salviana inclined her head with practiced grace. "Your presence would honor us, my prince."

The brief exchange was enough to spark tension. Across the table, Benjamin’s jaw flexed until his knuckles whitened around his goblet. His wife, Lilian, sat still as stone, eyes downcast, her silence more telling than words.

Unbothered by rank, Embrez chose an empty seat mid-table and sat without ceremony. The casualness unsettled as much as it intrigued. Servants scrambled to refill his cup, to set platters before him, and slowly the hall resumed its rhythm—silver against porcelain, murmured talk of foreign emissaries and spice shipments.

Alaric, however, seemed content to ignore it all. He fed Salviana roasted pheasant in tender slices, slipped honeyed figs against her lips until she relented, whispering when she protested, "Good. Let them see how I love you. Let them choke on it."

Her cheeks burned crimson, both at the sweetness of the fruit and the wicked gleam in his eyes. Across the table, Jolene muttered something that made Christina smirk, while Florence rolled her eyes and rested a protective hand over her stomach.

Her husband leaned close, murmuring softly as he adjusted her goblet. Salviana warmed at the sight, turning to her sister-in-law with a smile. "You’re glowing tonight, Florence. Pregnancy suits you."

Florence’s lips curved shyly. "You’re only saying that because Alaric makes you believe everyone glows when you do."

Salviana laughed, swatting Alaric’s pinching hand beneath the table. "Even so, you look radiant. And your husband seems determined never to let you lift a finger."

Florence’s expression softened. "He treats me as though I might shatter." She hesitated, eyes lowering. "Sometimes I wonder if it’s devotion... or fear of losing me."

The words lingered, and for a breath Salviana thought of Alaric’s fierce protectiveness, of the way he clung to her even here under watchful eyes. Love, yes—but beneath it, was there fear too?

The hall buzzed with chatter—Christina and Jolene whispering over new hunting hounds, Lucas quietly debating border troubles with a duke, Benjamin smoldering in silence. Salviana remained grounded in Florence’s gentle company and the steady weight of Alaric’s hand over hers.

And in the corner of her vision, she caught Embrez watching—not with fury, not with calculation, but with quiet curiosity. And that unsettled her more than open hostility.

The rhythm of silver and glass lulled again until Lilian’s voice pierced it, too bright, too rehearsed.

"Princess Salviana," she said with a smile stretched too wide, "there’s a tea party in the gardens tomorrow. Would you attend?"

The table stilled.

"You are invited," Jolene chimed, smooth as silk, as if the words had been practiced together.

Salviana tilted her head, polite curiosity masking her suspicion. "Oh? When?"

"Tomorrow," Lilian repeated quickly, almost gleeful, though her twisting fingers betrayed her.

Salviana nodded, composed. "Very well. I will bring my lady-in-waiting, if that’s acceptable."

A scoff cracked the performance. Christina.

"You should come and socialize a little," she said, her smile sharp. "It’s nothing but laughter and sisterhood. You’ll enjoy yourself."

"And endless compliments," Jolene added slyly. "The ladies will adore you, Salviana."

Lilian leaned in, too sweet. "Every princess needs her circle. Court life is easier that way."

Their smiles gleamed like blades.

Salviana’s matched them perfectly, warm and flawless. "Then I will gladly attend. It sounds... pleasant."

The three relaxed, satisfaction flickering between them, but Salviana’s mind was already elsewhere. A tea party? Then I shall dress for battle. If they mean to play sweet, I will be sweeter still.

Across the table, Alaric’s gaze was heavy on her, unreadable. When she met it, she offered a smile that was entirely real, entirely hers, and it soothed him only slightly. His thumb traced the rim of his goblet, thoughtful and wary.

The dining hall hummed on, voices soft beneath the glow of candlelight. Salviana chewed delicately, her thoughts already drifting to silks, jewels, and the battlefield of gardens tomorrow.

The three exchanged glances again, their smiles gleaming like polished daggers.

Salviana’s lips curved in return. The warmth in her expression was flawless, but inside her thoughts whispered different truths.

Strange. They’ve never sought my company before. Now they act as though we’ve always been close?

Still, she inclined her head, graceful as ever. "Then I will gladly attend. It sounds... pleasant."

Christina’s eyes glittered, Jolene beamed too hard, and Lilian exhaled as though she had secured something important.

The conversation drifted back to food and light chatter, but Salviana’s mind spun elsewhere. A tea party, she thought, her fork lifting to her lips as she smiled faintly.

Then I will dress as though I were stepping into battle. If they wish to play sweet, I shall play sweeter still.

Across the table, Alaric’s gaze never left her. Thoughtful, dark, unreadable.

He watched the curve of her smile, the polite tilt of her head, the way she accepted their invitation without hesitation.

His jaw flexed once, his thumb absently brushing the rim of his goblet. She isn’t falling for them... is she?

When she glanced up and caught his stare, she gave him a soft smile that was entirely real, entirely hers. And though it eased the knot in his chest, he still leaned back in his chair, thoughtful and wary.

Salviana kept eating, her mind already imagining silks, jewels, and the scent of flowers. She would attend their tea party—oh yes, she would—and she would look like no one they could ever pretend to overshadow.

The dining hall was alive with the murmur of nobles and the faint clatter of silver against porcelain.

Long candelabras spilled warm light over the polished mahogany table, throwing reflections off goblets filled with deep red wine. Salviana still sat close to Alaric, aware of the tension humming in the room, a subtle current beneath all the polite chatter.

Soon, The dining hall emptied in waves of murmurs, silk hems sweeping the floor, goblets half-drained and abandoned like forgotten secrets.

Salviana walked beside Alaric, her fingers brushing his until he caught her hand fully and laced their fingers tight, as though daring the world to try and separate them.

They stepped into the cool night air, leaving the warmth and tension of dinner behind.

The gardens stretched before them, silvered in moonlight, the castle’s lanterns glowing faintly in the distance.

The soft crunch of gravel underfoot echoed their steady pace.

"Do you think we should check on Jean now?" Salviana asked suddenly, her voice hushed, as if the night itself might carry her words into ears not meant to hear.

Alaric gave her a sideways glance, his thumb stroking across her knuckles. "If Lucius found her, she will be with him." His voice was steady, low, carrying certainty. "Let them have the night. Some bonds need quiet to knit themselves."

She nodded, though worry still tugged at her. But before she could dwell on it, he leaned slightly, his arm brushing against hers. "Besides," he said with a crooked smile, "I much prefer having you to myself."

Her heart fluttered at his words, and she leaned closer, letting her shoulder rest against his.

The night was calm, the sort of calm that hummed with secrets—until suddenly, a faint glow darted across their path.

Salviana gasped. "Alaric! Look!"

A single firefly drifted lazily in the air before them, its body pulsing with golden-green light. It hovered for a moment, then flickered away into the shadows like a fallen star.

Alaric chuckled, amused at her wide-eyed wonder. "It’s just a firefly, my love."

"Just?" Salviana exclaimed softly, her voice bubbling with childlike delight. "They’re magic. Little lanterns with wings!" She tugged on his hand. "Come—before it disappears."

And just like that, they were running, half-laughing, half-tripping, chasing the light that darted just out of reach.

Her gown, elegant and flowing, snagged on her legs as she moved, and she nearly stumbled. Alaric caught her with a swift arm, pulling her against him before she could fall.

"Careful, Salviana," he murmured, his lips brushing her ear. "I won’t have the stars themselves dim your glow."

She blushed, but her laughter spilled freely, rich and musical, carrying across the quiet garden.

Another firefly appeared, then another, until dozens shimmered above the hedges, tiny sparks floating against the deep navy sky.

"Oh," she breathed, eyes wide. "They’re everywhere."