~~~{──────────
Night.
Bedroom, 3rd Prince Chambers.
Wyfkeep Castle, Wyfellon.
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Salviana rushed through the hallways, her heart pounding in her chest, the searing sting on her shoulder a distant echo compared to the ache in her soul. Emma followed closely behind her, silent but concerned, her presence a small comfort in the otherwise oppressive atmosphere. The chamber guards, sensing the tension, stepped aside as they approached the doors to her chambers, their eyes averted but alert.
As soon as the door closed behind her, Salviana turned to the maids who had trailed in, eager to assist her with the elaborate night preparations, but she shook her head, her voice quiet yet firm. "No, leave me," she whispered. "I'll manage alone tonight."
They hesitated, uncertain, but eventually bowed and exited without protest. When the door clicked shut, the silence that followed was deafening.
Her hands shook as she reached for the pins in her hair, undoing the intricate, headache-inducing fashion with quick, desperate movements. The heavy curls fell around her shoulders, the release offering little relief from the weight she felt inside. Her reflection in the mirror stood ignored as she stripped off the dress, the fine fabric slipping to the floor in a pool of silken elegance that she barely noticed.
Salviana slipped into a simple, flimsy white gown and crawled into the bed, pulling the blanket up to her chin. It was soft and comforting, but it could do little to shield her from the turmoil in her heart. She lay on her side, clutching the bedspread, her knuckles white with the effort of holding onto something—anything—that could anchor her in this storm.
A tear slipped down her cheek, silent and unchecked, soaking into the pillow beneath her. She didn't try to stop it. This was going to be a forever journey—a life tied to a royal family that felt nothing but disdain for her. They were cold, heartless, and cruel, and each passing moment seemed to chip away at the small hope she'd once held that she could find a place here.
She closed her eyes, feeling the burn on her shoulder, though she didn't bother to check it in the mirror. Her neck and shoulder would heal; they would be fine, even if no one cared. But her heart—her spirit—was what she feared for the most.
The tears she had held back shimmered at the edge of her eyes, but she quickly blinked them away.
Where was Alaric?
She had stood alone at that table, endured their mockery, their cruelty. And he hadn't been there. No one had stood beside her. She had married into this family, into this life, for reasons she barely understood, and already she was beginning to feel like she was losing herself.
Her grip tightened on the blanket as more tears threatened to fall, but she forced them back. She couldn't afford to break, not yet. Not here.
But in the quiet darkness of her chambers, beneath the weight of the heavy blanket, Salviana allowed herself this one moment of weakness—this one tear for a future that suddenly seemed so bleak.
~~~{────────────
Night.
Wyfwood Forest, Wyfmoor.
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Meanwhile, Alaric was in the Wyfwood forest where the air was thick with tension, the damp earth beneath Alaric's boots barely muffling the snarls and growls that echoed from the depths of the trees.
The sun had long set, and the only light was the faint glow of the moon filtering through the dense canopy above. He had been hunting for hours, searching for the source of the chaos, but now that he had found the monsters, there was no turning back.
Before him stood a pack of vile-infected humans, their once-human forms grotesquely distorted. Their skin was pallid, eyes glazed over with a sickly yellow hue. Black veins crawled across their bodies like vines, pulsating with the dark infection that controlled them. Their mouths twisted into horrifying grins, teeth bared in animalistic rage, as they stalked toward him with unnatural movements.
These were no longer people; they were walking embodiments of pain and suffering, driven only by the urge to inflict agony.
Alaric's grip tightened on his sword, the familiar weight in his hand giving him some comfort amidst the chaos. He took a steadying breath, pushing the exhaustion and hunger from his mind. There was no room for weakness here.
The first vile-infected lunged at him, its shriek piercing the cold night air. Alaric dodged to the side, his blade cutting through the monster's chest with brutal precision. Black blood sprayed from the wound, and the creature stumbled but didn't stop. It clawed at him with frenzied desperation, its nails sharp like talons. Alaric snarled, pivoting and bringing his sword down again, this time severing its head from its body.
As the head hit the ground, another infected human was already upon him, biting and gnashing its teeth. Alaric blocked the attack, gritting his teeth as he shoved the creature back with all his strength. They were relentless, seemingly immune to pain themselves, and their strength was fueled by madness. His sword flashed through the air again, cleaving through flesh and bone, but for every one he felled, two more took its place.
The ground beneath him became slick with blood—human in origin but corrupted by the vile infection that turned them into these monsters. Alaric was beginning to feel the strain of the fight, his muscles burning, his breathing labored. His coat was torn, and a shallow cut across his side stung, but there was no time to check his injuries. He had to keep fighting.
Suddenly, a shadow moved in the corner of his eye, and a familiar voice called out, "Need a hand?"
Richard burst through the trees, his blade already flashing in the moonlight as he slashed at a vile-infected rushing toward Alaric's blind spot. The creature screamed as it fell, twitching on the ground before going still.
Alaric smirked despite himself, his sword slicing through another infected. "Took you long enough."
Richard chuckled darkly. "I had to find the portal and I love when you soften monsters up for me."
Then they turned to the monsters, the two fought in tandem, their movements sharp and practised. Where Alaric's strikes were swift and brutal, Richard's were measured and precise. Together, they pushed the infected back, cutting down one after another as the pack closed in around them. The vile-infected moved in erratic patterns, their wild, uncontrolled limbs flailing in vicious arcs, trying to latch onto any part of them they could reach.
At one point, a particularly large infected barreled into Alaric, knocking him to the ground. It snarled in his face, its black-veined hands gripping his throat as it tried to crush the life out of him. Alaric grunted, struggling under its weight, but just as he raised his dagger to stab it in the neck, Richard's sword flashed, slicing cleanly through the creature's back.
"Get up, Alaric. I don't like playing hero," Richard grinned, offering him a hand.
Alaric accepted, his breath coming in short gasps. "I'll return the favour next time."
The fight raged on, the infected humans throwing themselves at them in a frenzy. The dark infection that consumed them made them unpredictable and difficult to kill. Their bodies didn't feel pain; their limbs kept moving long after they should have fallen. But Alaric and Richard were relentless, cutting them down one by one, though both were growing weary.
The night stretched on, and the sounds of battle echoed through the forest. The infected screeched and howled, but the two men fought on, their swords flashing in the dim light.
Finally, after what felt like hours, the last infected human fell with a final gurgled scream, its body twitching before going still in the pool of dark blood that soaked the earth. Silence fell over the forest, broken only by the laboured breathing of the two men.
Alaric stood over the corpses, blood dripping from his blade, his chest heaving with exertion. His body ached, and the wounds he had accumulated during the fight burned. The hunger gnawed at his insides, sharp and insistent, but he pushed it down.
Richard wiped the blood from his sword on a piece of cloth and glanced over at him. "Well, that was fun."
Alaric gave a short, humourless laugh. "If that's what you call fun, I'll leave you to it next time."
"Come on, we both know they come for you, I'm just a sidekick." Richard sheathed his sword with a satisfied grin.
Alaric sighed, looking around at the carnage. The infected lay scattered, their twisted bodies slowly returning to their human forms in death. They had once been people—innocent lives consumed by the vile infection. It was always a tragic sight, but Alaric had no choice but to kill them. There was no cure, no way to save them once the vile had taken hold.
As he cleaned his blade, the sound of hurried footsteps approached. The magistrate they had met earlier burst through the treeline, his face pale and wide-eyed. "Are they… are they all dead?" he asked, his voice trembling.
Alaric nodded, sheathing his sword with a tired sigh. "It's over. For now."
The magistrate glanced nervously at the bodies, his face etched with fear. "Thank the gods… I feared you wouldn't make it."
Richard clapped Alaric on the shoulder, though the gesture lacked any real warmth. "You doubt us? It was just a couple of crazed monsters."
Alaric shot Richard a look before turning to the magistrate. "We'll send word if there are any more signs of infection. For now, get your people out of here. It's not safe."
The magistrate nodded quickly and scurried off, eager to put distance between himself and the scene.
Alaric exhaled deeply, the weight of the day's events pressing heavily on him. His body ached, his wounds stung, and his mind was clouded with exhaustion. The hunger clawed at him again, sharper this time, but he ignored it.
"I'm going home," he said, his voice quieter than before. "It's been an exhausting day."
Richard nodded, his usual grin gone, replaced by a more serious expression. "I'll see you back at the castle."
As Alaric turned toward the path leading back to the castle, the exhaustion settled deeper into his bones. The fight was over, but the real battle—the one inside him—was far from finished.