Married To Darkness

"What is that?" she asked.

"Dried apricots and honey cakes," he said with a wink. "The royal lunch is usually cold and tedious. I thought you might prefer something sweet while we wait for the dogs to find the trail."

The sheer level of care was staggering. He was treating her like a treasure he had spent a lifetime searching for, a stark contrast to the way the other princes treated their wives—as accessories or political burdens.

As the final horn sounded, Alaric mounted his own horse, the massive, coal-black Obsidian. He drew his longbow from its sheath, the dark wood polished to a mirror finish, and slung his quiver of black-fletched arrows over his shoulder. He looked every bit the Dark Prince now—lethal, focused, and terrifying—but when he looked at Salviana, that shadow vanished.

He reached out, his gloved hand catching hers one last time.

"Just watch, Salviana," he repeated, his gaze burning with a fierce, protective light. "Watch how a monster protects his heart."

With a snap of the reins, they moved out of the alcove and joined the thundering procession. As they rode past the "Outsiders," Salviana noticed the way Lady Charity’s eyes widened and how HechKay tilted his head in curiosity. They saw a Prince who wasn’t just riding to a hunt; they saw a man who had finally found his purpose.

The woods loomed ahead, a wall of deep green and shifting shadows. Benjamin was already leading the charge, shouting commands to his hounds, but Alaric remained steady at Salviana’s side, a silent, dark sentinel.

The games had officially begun, but for the first time since arriving at Wyfkeep, Salviana didn’t feel like a player. She felt like a queen being escorted through her own kingdom.

The iron gates of Wyfkeep groaned open like the jaws of a great beast, and the Royal Hunting Party surged forward. It was a chaotic, magnificent display of power: the thunder of a hundred hooves, the frantic baying of the scent-hounds, and the snap of silk banners against the midday wind.

Before the main body of the party had even cleared the courtyard, a subtle shift occurred. Alaric, seated high atop Obsidian, didn’t turn his head, but his eyes slid toward the periphery where Lucius Drake stood.

The "Shadow" of the Third Prince was a stark contrast to the armored knights around him. Lucius held his black, ivory-handled umbrella with a casual, almost bored elegance. No words were exchanged—there was no need. Alaric’s gaze sharpened for a fraction of a second, a silent, ocular command that only a soul-bound friend could decipher.

Find the rot before it finds us.

With a faint, knowing smirk, Lucius tilted his umbrella. In the blink of an eye, while the court was distracted by the King’s mounting of his stallion, Lucius vanished into the stone corridors of the castle, a ghost retreating into the darkness to do the work the "Dark Prince" could not do in the light.

As the carriage and horsemen began the trek toward the treeline, Jean maneuvered her mare close to Salviana. She leaned over, checking the cinch of Salviana’s saddle one last time with the practiced eye of someone who had survived the Mist.

"You look steady, my Lady," Jean whispered, her eyes scanning the surrounding royals with distrust. "But keep your hand near the pommel. The air out here feels... heavy. Worse than the breakfast hall."

Salviana nodded, feeling the weight of Alaric’s earlier pampering acting as a shield. "I’m ready, Jeanie. Alaric told me to just watch."

Behind them, the Third Prince’s personal guard formed a tight, diamond-shaped perimeter. These weren’t the King’s men; these were the warriors who had bled for Alaric in the North. Sebastian and Simon rode at the front, their hands never straying far from the hilts of their claymores.

Heappal, the most eagle-eyed of the scouts, stood in his stirrups for a moment, his head tilting as he scanned the ridgeline. "The wind is shifting," he muttered to Samion, the last of the four-knight vanguard. "The hounds are excited, but the birds are too quiet. Something’s already in the woods, and it didn’t wait for an invitation."

Samion checked the draw on his short-bow. "Let it come. We’ve fought through the Mist; a royal park in the South is a playground by comparison."

The transition from the sun-drenched courtyard to the forest was abrupt. The canopy of ancient oaks and pines closed over them like a heavy velvet curtain, plunging the party into a world of flickering shadows and cool, damp air.

The "Outsiders" were already spreading out. Lady Charity rode with a group of minor lords, her phoenix-feathered hat bobbing like a strange bird through the brush. Morgan was still shouting, though his voice was now muffled by the dense foliage, while HechKay had drifted toward the rear, his tinted spectacles reflecting nothing but the green leaves.

Prince Benjamin led the vanguard, his hounds leading the way with frantic yaps. He kept glancing back at Alaric and Salviana, his face still flushed with a mixture of wine and humiliation. He wanted a kill—something big, something bloody—to wash away the memory of falling off his chair.

Alaric, however, remained a silent, dark sentinel at Salviana’s side. He didn’t participate in the shouting or the competitive posturing of his brothers. He rode with a terrifying, predator-like stillness. His eyes weren’t searching for deer; they were tracking the movement of every guard, every "Outsider," and every shadow that didn’t move with the wind.

"Stay within the perimeter, Simon," Alaric commanded, his voice a low vibration. "If the line breaks, you pull the Lady to the center. Understood?"

"With my life, Highness," Simon replied, his hand tightening on his reins.

The Royal Herald stood atop a moss-covered boulder, his voice booming through the damp forest air to deliver the Traditional Mandate of the Wild Hunt. This was no curated chase through the King’s private gardens; this was the Great Southern Wilds, a territory where the boars grew tusks like scimitars and the shadows held teeth.

"By the King’s decree," the Herald shouted, "this is an Actual Hunt. The safety of the Keep does not extend beyond the treeline. Every hand may hold a weapon—bow, blade, or spear—but every soul is responsible for the steel they carry. Let no man cry foul if the forest bites back."