Married To Darkness-Chapter 423: Morning Clangs

"Ladies," Alaric began, folding his arms across his chest in mock severity, "as honored as I am by your lovely invasion, I believe this room was assigned to my wife and me."

"Oh no," Emma groaned dramatically, tossing a cushion that had been on her lap onto the couch. "He’s pulling rank!"

They were all still acting like high ladies.

"We should’ve locked the door," muttered Sarah with a laugh.

He raised an eyebrow. "Next time, I will."

The girls laughed but began rising one by one, stretching and grumbling like mischievous cats being ushered out of a warm nest.

They kissed Salviana’s cheek surprising her, Jean ruffled her hair, and shot Alaric knowing smirks as they passed him.

"Take good care of her, Prince Brooding," one of them whispered while immediately giggling.

"I always do," he replied smoothly, eyes locked on his wife.

When the last girl slipped out and the door closed, a hush fell over the room. The fire crackled. Outside, the wind sang low against the glass.

Salviana stood, brushing imaginary wrinkles from her nightgown, and gave him a playful look. "You chased them off."

"They were crowding my pillow," he said, walking toward her.

Her lips quirked. "You don’t share well."

"Not when it comes to you."

He stopped in front of her, his eyes softening. One hand rose to tuck a lock of her fiery hair behind her ear. She leaned into his touch without hesitation.

"I love you," Alaric murmured, more confession than statement.

Her breath hitched, just a little. "I know."

"I don’t say it enough."

"You don’t need to," she whispered, cupping his cheek. "But I like hearing it."

He kissed her gently—slow, reverent, like a man who still couldn’t believe he was allowed to. Then he pulled her close, forehead resting against hers.

"I won’t let anything happen to you," he whispered. "Not war. Not politics. Not even tradition."

Her arms tightened around his waist. "I know."

And for a moment, all the burdens of the crown, the blood-soaked secrets, the vampire prince, and the negotiations to come—faded.

Here, in the quiet warmth of his chambers, Alaric allowed himself to simply breathe.

With her.

Back at the deck,

The wind had picked up, stirring the edges of Embrez’s cloak and tousling Lucius’s ink-black hair. Moonlight bathed the wooden deck in silver, catching the shimmer in Lucius’s cold gaze.

He was about to descend the marble steps when a firm hand clamped down on his shoulder.

Lucius didn’t flinch—but he stopped.

"You’re not going after him," Embrez said, voice low, calm, but edged with command.

Lucius didn’t turn. "He told me to enjoy the night. I intend to."

Embrez stepped beside him, his taller frame casting a shadow across the vampire’s. "Alaric is my cousin. My younger cousin. I may laugh with him, tease him, but if you hurt him..." He let the words linger like smoke.

Lucius cocked his head, a quiet smile playing on his lips. "If I wanted to hurt him, I’d have done it already."

"That’s not comforting," Embrez replied flatly. "And you’re not some starved newborn. You’re an old soul, aren’t you? Wise enough to know what being the bigger man looks like."

Lucius raised a brow, but said nothing.

Embrez moved to stand in front of him now, gaze serious, almost solemn. "I don’t care how many centuries you’ve walked through, vampire. You’re standing in my house. You’ve looked into Alaric’s eyes, shared wine with him, called him brother in jest or truth—so listen closely."

Lucius’s shoulders stiffened with respect.

"Never betray him. Not in action. Not in silence. Not in thought."

A charged silence passed between them.

Then Lucius slowly nodded once. "I may be cold-blooded, but I’m not a traitor."

"Words mean little to my family," Embrez replied, turning as if to leave. But Lucius spoke again.

"I would rather walk into the sun... and burn in silence than turn my back on Alaric."

Embrez paused, glancing over his shoulder.

"There’s something in your blood, Lucius. Something tied to his. He feels it. I see it. I’ve been told. Maybe your souls knew each other in another life. Maybe not. But you’d be a fool to throw away whatever this... thread between you two is."

Lucius stared at the moon now, pensive.

"We’re trying to find it," he said, quieter this time. "I believe we already started to."

Embrez gave a single approving nod, then exhaled through his nose. "Good."

Then the prince tilted his head toward the door. "Come. Enough theatrics. The deck is cold, and the night is long. Let’s not make it heavier than it has to be."

Lucius followed silently. No more words were needed.

They left the deck together, two shadows returning to the castle—but not without a shared understanding:

Loyalty was no longer optional. It was sworn.

Embrez cleared his throat to stop Lucius as he moved, "Also this doesn’t stop my pursuit for your love,"

"I should not be threatened by you," Lucius gritted out.

"Yet you are!" Embrez smirked as he tapped Lucius’s shoulders.

Lucius groaned and walked back in.

Jean was his and he won’t let a silly prince take her.

>

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TRAINING GROUNDS, EARLY MORNING

The cold mist still hung low over the fields, curling around boots and blades as the sun peeked through thick, silver clouds.

Clashing steel rang through the silence.

Alaric and Embrez danced across the dewy grass, swords flashing, breaths visible in the cold air. Their movements were fluid—a dangerous ballet. Each slash came with a grin. Each block, a bark of laughter.

"You’ve gone rusty, cousin," Embrez teased, circling. "Is that gray in your beard I see?"

Alaric huffed, spinning low, blade whistling past Embrez’s side. "Says the dusty relic of the west wing. You creak when you dodge."

"Oh-ho! Still got that tongue."

"And still got that speed."

CLANG.

The sound of steel-on-steel echoed as Embrez staggered slightly from the force of Alaric’s strike.

They paused for a breath, swords still crossed between them, smiles curling at their lips.

"Not bad," Embrez admitted. "You’ve been training."

"Wars. Travels. Surprises," Alaric said, flicking his blade free. "Unlike you, I don’t lounge around with poetry and pastries."

"I do not lounge—!" Embrez lunged forward but missed. Alaric ducked, swept his leg, and knocked him flat.

Thud.

Silence.

Then a groan. "Ugh. Dusty indeed."

Alaric offered a hand, grinning. "Need help up, old man?"

Embrez took it, laughing as he stood. "I let you win. For morale."

"I’ll write a ballad about your generosity."

Nearby, Jaefel and Samion stood under the shade of a frost-covered tree, arms crossed, watching with bemused eyes.

Jaefel leaned in. "They’re acting like fools."

"Fools with blades," Samion replied. "One slip, and it’s a funeral."

Jaefel shook his head, eyes narrowing. "Where’s Thalia this morning?"

Samion didn’t answer immediately, gaze distant. "Or Heappal."

"Do you think...?" Jaefel whispered.

"I don’t know," Samion said, low. "But if they’re gone... that’s a problem."

Back on the field, Alaric clapped Embrez on the back and said, "Let’s go again."

But Embrez was already bending over, catching his breath. "Maybe... after breakfast."

"Ha. Rusty and hungry."

They both laughed—but the tension from the observers wasn’t missed.

The sun rose slowly above them all, but with it came questions heavier than mist.