CHAPTER 483: NIGHT PAINTING

"Is that enough?" he asked.

"More," she whispered, breathless with the thrill buzzing through her.

He chuckled but obliged, lighting every wick in sight until the room was awash in golden warmth. Then, remembering, he fetched the jar of fireflies and set it carefully on the window ledge. Their soft, greenish light shimmered beside the candles, casting a surreal glow that made the whole space feel enchanted.

Salviana wasted no time. She gathered her brushes with shaking hands, swept open a fresh canvas, and dipped into her paints. Her movements were fevered, driven, her body bending and swaying with each stroke.

Alaric leaned against the wall, arms folded, watching her. His eyes softened at the sight—his divine wife bathed in firefly light and candle flame, every line of her body alive with purpose. He said nothing, only shifted a candle closer when her hand drifted into shadow, only blew softly to keep smoke from blurring her strokes.

"Do you see them?" she whispered without looking away from the canvas.

"See what?"

"The fireflies. How they pulse. How they breathe like tiny hearts. I want to capture them before they fade." Her voice shook with passion, with that strange divine urgency.

"I see them," Alaric murmured, moving closer. His hand rested lightly on her shoulder. "But none shine brighter than you do now."

Her brush faltered, her lips curving into a trembling smile. "Don’t distract me," she whispered, though her cheeks glowed as if he had painted her himself.

He only laughed quietly and leaned down, kissing the crown of her head again.

And so she painted, and he stayed—her steady anchor, her candle-bearer, her quiet worshipper.

Her brush moved as if guided by something outside herself. Stroke after stroke, the blank canvas gave way to shadows. Towers rose, jagged and severe, their spires piercing a starless sky. Walls stretched, weathered by centuries, draped in ivy as though nature itself tried to reclaim them.

It was the castle.

The one she had seen in that fleeting, impossible vision—the maid by the sea mirror, the glimpse of another world. A place steeped in silence, cold and strange.

Dark. Haunted.

And yet... not dead.

The stone looked abandoned at first glance, but Salviana painted as if she knew better. She wove in faint glimmers—small sparks of light in high windows, shadows that hinted at movement within. Not a ruin, but a dwelling. A lair of creatures who lived by night, who had no need for the bright pomp of chandeliers or golden trappings.

The brush seemed to work without her. She forgot Alaric. Forgot her own hands. Hours blurred into moments.

Behind her, he stood motionless, a figure of carved shadow, his eyes drinking in every flick of her wrist, every tightening of her breath. He had the stillness only a vampire could possess, the patience of a predator who could watch for centuries without tiring. And so he did, silent and eternal, his storm-gray gaze fixed on his wife as she bared her vision on the canvas.

The candles dwindled, wax spilling like molten tears. The fireflies dimmed to a slower rhythm. Outside, the night wind grew sharper, sliding through the open window to raise gooseflesh on her arms. Still, Salviana painted.

Hours later, Her breath steadied, slow and shallow, when the silence behind her finally broke.

"You’ll freeze if you stay here."

His voice was low, a velvet rasp against the hush of the dying candles. She startled, having almost forgotten he was there, and turned just as Alaric slipped his coat from his shoulders. He draped it around her with a gentleness that contradicted his size, pulling the fur-lined edges close beneath her chin.

"You’ve been at it for hours," he murmured, his hand brushing over her chilled arms. His eyes lifted to the canvas, storm-gray irises narrowing. "This place again..."

Suspicion tightened his jaw. The painted castle loomed on the canvas like a wound, its silhouette too sharp, too familiar. A world pressing too close into theirs.

Salviana’s lips parted, wanting to explain, but he shook his head faintly. His hand cupped her cheek instead, grounding her. "Enough for tonight. Come to bed. You must be tired."

A soft, tired laugh escaped her. "Exhausted."

He bent, pressing a trail of kisses along the curve of her neck, lingering at the hollow where her pulse fluttered. Each touch stole a sigh from her lips, her body easing against him. "Alaric..." she mumbled, warmth threading her voice despite her weariness but she resumed.

At last, her hand trembled, her body aching from its trance. She stretched, spine arching, head tilting back with a weary sigh. The brush slipped from her grasp, clattering against the floor.

She inhaled sharply, as though waking from a dream. Her chest rose and fell, breaths ragged, lips parted in exhaustion.

And in that quiet... she realized how cold the room had become. How heavy the silence was. And how she had forgotten—completely forgotten—that Alaric had been standing there the whole time.

She pushed herself to stand, legs stiff from sitting too long, and without thinking, she turned and wrapped her arms around his neck.

He welcomed her, arms circling her waist, pulling her against him with a strength that was almost desperate. A sigh broke from both of them at once, mingling into the hush of the room. For a moment, it was just them—their warmth, their breath, the sound of the fireflies tapping faintly against the glass.

Then Alaric bent his head, lips brushing her temple, and whispered, "Mine."

Her answer was a muffled hum against his chest, her body melting fully into his hold.

He lifted her easily, as though she weighed nothing, his grip sure, protective. She clung tighter, her arms still looped around his neck, her cheek resting against him.

The painting loomed behind them, unfinished, watching like a silent sentinel. But Alaric carried her away from it—toward the door, toward the promise of rest, his heart heavy with thoughts he did not speak.

With her arms looped around his neck and her weight cradled against him, Alaric didn’t walk—he blurred.

The world tilted, air rushing past her skin, and in less than a heartbeat they were upstairs. Salviana squealed, her legs tightening around his waist, her laughter spilling out of her before she could stop it.

"Ohhh!" she gasped, dizzy from the rush. "Alaric!"