With all of this drama going on outside, inside the Third Prince's Chambers, the air was heavy with warmth, the soft light from the nearby lanterns casting flickering shadows across the walls, amplifying the sense of privacy and intimacy in the room.
The bathing pool, with its heated water, sent curls of steam rising lazily into the air, creating a delicate veil between them, though nothing could mask the intensity simmering between husband and wife.
Alaric stood at the edge of the pool, his sharp, sculpted form illuminated in the low light, his pale skin glistening slightly from the warmth that surrounded them.
Salviana sat half-submerged in the pool, her body reacting to the closeness of her husband in such an enclosed place. Her heart raced, each beat a pounding reminder of the uncertainty she felt, yet also of the magnetic pull that had been growing between them since the day they wed.
Alaric had caught her staring, and his lips curved into a knowing smile, one that spoke volumes without words—a silent acknowledgment of the mutual awareness that had been building since that first night.
The tension in the room was palpable, yet somehow soft, an unspoken understanding woven through the delicate atmosphere. Alaric's expression, usually so stern and cold, had softened, and there was a warmth in his gaze that left her breathless.
He began to undress further, his movements slow, deliberate, as though savoring the way her eyes followed every motion. His belt clinked as it fell to the ground, followed by the sound of his boots, but Salviana's gaze never left him.
His shirt was gone, revealing broad, muscular shoulders that seemed to stretch on forever, tapering down to a defined chest and abdomen.
Every muscle seemed to ripple with a restrained strength, and the sight of him, so bare, so vulnerable in this moment, took her breath away.
There was a power in his presence, but more than that, there was a tenderness—a gentle edge to the intensity she had grown accustomed to.
Her breath came faster, her chest rising and falling as she struggled to maintain composure. This man was her husband, but this closeness, this intimacy—it was new, unfamiliar.
The heat of the water seemed to pale in comparison to the fire igniting inside her. The room was quiet save for the occasional drip of water and the steady rhythm of their breathing.
Alaric took a step forward, nearing the edge of the pool, and Salviana's heart leapt in response. The closer he got, the more her mind swirled with conflicting emotions.
She could see the want in his eyes, a need that mirrored something deep within her, something that had slowly been unraveling since their marriage began.
It was no longer just about duty; there was a connection forming between them, one that terrified her just as much as it thrilled her.
"You're coming in the water?" she blurted out, her voice quiet, almost hesitant, though her eyes betrayed her curiosity.
He chuckled softly, the sound deep and rumbling, sending shivers down her spine. "Quiet the observation," he teased, his voice rich with amusement. "But yes, I am."
Her throat tightened, her mind racing for a reason to slow the moment, to catch her breath, though she wasn't entirely sure why. "I… Now? Why?" she asked, her voice wavering, her fingers curling slightly around the edge of the pool as if to anchor herself.
Alaric paused, his gaze steady and unwavering as he regarded her. "You need a massage," he said simply, as though the answer were obvious. "The water alone won't help you relax."
As her eyes followed the movement of his hands, stripping away the last remnants of his clothing, Salviana's mind wandered.
Back home, I was the divine lady—honored, praised… exploited, yes—but acknowledged.
The thought weighed heavily on Salviana as she sank deeper into the hot water. Memories clawed their way back, tugging her into the past. She remembered a cold evening when her body had been wracked with fever after saving a young boy's life. She had barely been able to stand, let alone sit upright, but her duty had been called upon nonetheless.
Her mother's voice echoed in her mind, sharp and unyielding. "You must. It is your role, Salviana. Lord Oris has come a great distance to consult you. You cannot fail your people now."
But I'm sick... she had thought. She'd wanted to scream it, but all that left her lips was a hoarse whisper. Her entire body had trembled with weakness, and the room had spun around her. She had pleaded with her mother. "Please, I can't... not like this."
Her mother had ignored her. The lord had waited.
Salviana had sat before her easel, brushes in hand, her vision blurry from fever. The canvas had stared back at her like a pale ghost demanding her attention. As a divine painter of the future, she had no choice. Despite the burning ache in her bones, despite the haze clouding her mind, she had painted.
The strokes had been jagged, rough—nothing like her usual work. Yet they had captured the truth, a future laced with misfortune. Lord Oris's downfall. The canvas had revealed his end—poverty, disgrace, death.
When she had finished, her hand trembling, she had met the lord's eyes. His face had twisted in fury. "What nonsense is this? You call this a future? You dare mock me, divine lady?" His voice had boomed across the room, heavy with rage.
Salviana had flinched; her strength had already drained. "I'm sorry... but it's what I see..."
But her apology had fallen on deaf ears. The lord had stormed out, cursing her name, and within the hour, her father had ordered her confinement. "Do you understand what you've done?" her mother had scolded her as the doors to her room were locked. "You've shamed us all."
She had been left there for months, her illness ignored, her mind consumed by loneliness. She was the divine lady—the one who saw all futures, yet her own had been so bleak, so... powerless.
Salviana shuddered as the memory washed over her like a bitter tide, the tightness in her chest growing at the contrast between her past and present. Here, among these royals, no one sees me for who I am. No one except...