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Morning.
Dining Room, Third Prince Chambers,
Wyfkeep Castle, Wyfellon, Wyfn-Garde.
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Alaric's eyes lingered on Salviana's full, twirly red hair, the way it cascaded in soft waves over her shoulders. His fingers itched to run through it, to feel its texture against his skin, but he drew in a deep breath and tried to focus. Instead, his gaze drifted to her lips—smooth, soft-looking, and slightly parted as she spoke. He had never felt this way before.
The urge to trace the delicate lines of her nose, her jaw, to brush the hairline on her forehead and tuck her hair behind her ear was overwhelming. He even had a fleeting desire to pull her close, to hug her tightly, to feel her warmth. His heart beat faster, and a frown formed on his face as he fought to control the unfamiliar emotions. With effort, he focused on her words, but the pull of her presence was undeniable.
She finally spoke, "What's the first thing you ever remember tasting?"
He blinked, his brow creasing at her question. After a moment, he answered, his voice lower than before. "My mother's blood."
The whole temperature dropped drastically, chilled and choking.
Salviana stilled, unsure how to respond. Alaric's expression was unreadable as he continued, "I was born without a taste for anything else. And I was… starved until the hunger became unbearable."
A chill ran down her spine as she realized the depths of his reality. She could see that the memory held more than words could express, a reminder of who he was, what he was—something she hadn't considered fully. The idea of never knowing the joy of flavors or the comfort of a meal left her saddened, but at the same time, intrigued by the depth of his character.
She leaned forward, her voice quieter now, "Do you regret it?"
His dark eyes flicked to hers, scanning her face, as though searching for judgment. But when he found none, his expression softened.
"Regret?" he asked as if it were a foreign concept. "There was no choice. Regret is for those who had one."
Salviana's hand hovered over the table, not touching him but close enough for the warmth to be felt between them. She wasn't sure if she could comfort him—was he even the type to need it? But something inside her urged her to try, even if only in a small way. He was something he didn't know about.
"I suppose you're right," she whispered, "but maybe you'll find that choices aren't as rare as you think. Would you like to have options? A choice?"
He held her gaze, something flickering behind his eyes, before he shifted slightly, breaking the moment. "Two questions, Fiery," he reminded her, his teasing tone back in full force as if to lighten the mood again.
Salviana groaned, shaking her head. "I should've asked better ones."
He grinned, a rare and genuine smile that made him look boyish and less like the cold prince she had first met. "There's always tomorrow," he reassured.
They both went back to their meals, but now the air between them felt different. He may be a vampire who couldn't taste food, but somehow, Salviana felt like she was getting closer to tasting a part of him no one else had before.
As Salviana took another bite, Alaric leaned back in his chair, quietly observing her with that intense gaze again. Eating, to him, was a performance of beauty and grace that he could only watch but never experience. The way her lips closed delicately around the fork, the slight chew of her food, and the way she occasionally glanced up at him between bites—all these details mesmerized him.
It was like a slow art, a symphony of movement that involved her entire being. Every action was measured, thoughtful, and elegant. He found himself lost in it, as if watching her eat revealed a hidden world he couldn't fully comprehend. He wasn't one to enjoy watching humans eat before, but here he was now, enjoying her enjoyment and relishing her satisfaction.
His eyes traced the way her throat moved as she swallowed, and for a moment, he wondered what it must be like to experience such simple pleasures. The taste of a sweet or the texture of fresh bread. But then again, his own version of hunger had always been different.
Salviana noticed his gaze and paused, wiping her mouth with a napkin. "You're staring."
Alaric blinked, caught off guard. "It's… fascinating," he admitted softly, his voice barely above a whisper.
She chuckled, not mocking but amused. "I'm eating, Alaric. There's nothing fascinating about it."
"To you, perhaps," he said, eyes dark with an emotion she couldn't quite place. "But to me, it's… a world I'll never know."
Salviana's smile faded as she processed his words, and for the first time that evening, she felt the weight of his isolation. He was sitting right in front of her, but there was a chasm between them, one defined by centuries of existence in a way of life she couldn't fully understand.
But maybe, just maybe, she could help bridge that gap.
She reached across the table, holding her hand palm up toward him. "Would you like to try?"
He frowned. "Try?"
"Taste what I'm eating. Just a tiny bite. Maybe it'll be different this time."
For a moment, Alaric hesitated, his gaze flickering between her hand and the food on her plate. But then he leaned forward, taking her hand in his, and brought it to his lips, brushing his fingers gently over hers as he took the offered bite.
He chewed slowly, his expression unreadable. Then he swallowed and sat back, a small, disappointed sigh escaping him.
"Still nothing," he said quietly.
Salviana squeezed his hand. "Maybe one day."
Alaric gave her a look that was half amused, half skeptical. "One day."
As the fire crackled in the hearth, their conversation shifted, but the connection between them grew stronger, word by word, glance by glance. In the quiet of that dining room, two beings from different worlds began to unravel the mysteries of one another, one question at a time.