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Evening.
Training Grounds.
Wyfkeep Castle. Wyfellon.
Wyfn-Garde.
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The sun hung high over the vast training grounds of Wyfn-Garde, casting sharp shadows across the manicured grass.
A cacophony of clattering armor and the rhythmic thud of boots echoed as knights and guards engaged in their drills, each movement a display of discipline and readiness.
At the forefront, Commander Wall stood tall, his presence commanding as he barked orders. "Form ranks! Move with purpose! We are not just preparing for a fight; we are preparing to protect our kingdom!"
The knights snapped into formation, swords glinting in the sunlight. A group of guards practiced their footwork, their shields raised as they blocked imaginary blows.
Wall paced in front of them, his gaze sharp. "Remember, your duty is not only to yourselves but to each other! Trust in your comrades!"
A pair of knights sparred nearby, the clang of steel resonating in the air. One knight, Sir Montes, landed a swift strike against his opponent, who stumbled back, laughing. "You'll have to do better than that, Montes!" he taunted, rising to his feet.
"Focus!" Wall shouted, halting the banter. "Every moment counts! This isn't a game; it's our lives at stake!"
The knights quickly regained their seriousness, their smiles fading as they returned to their drills. The air was thick with tension, the looming threat of war weighing heavily on everyone's shoulders.
"Archers!" Wall turned, his voice booming. "To your stations! I want a volley in five!"
The archers moved swiftly to the designated line, nocking arrows with practiced ease. A hush fell over the field as they aimed at distant targets. "Fire!" Wall commanded.
A chorus of bows snapped back, arrows slicing through the air in a deadly arc. They struck the targets with precision, the thuds echoing across the field.
"Good! Again!" Wall pushed, his voice relentless. "Precision is your lifeline! We must be prepared for anything!"
As the training continued, the sun began its slow descent, painting the sky in hues of orange and purple.
The sounds of metal clashing and shouts of encouragement filled the air, a testament to the resolve of the Wyfn-Garde warriors.
Breathless but determined, the guards and knights knew that each day of training brought them closer to being ready for whatever threats lay ahead.
In the heart of the kingdom, they stood united, the spirit of Wyfn-Garde shining brightly even in the face of uncertainty
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Evening.
Garden, Alaric's Chambers.
Wyfkeep Castle. Wyfellon.
Wyfn-Garde.
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As evening settled softly over the land, Alaric stood in the neglected garden outside his chambers, a faint resolve etched into his sharp features.
The garden had long been abandoned, an expanse of barren earth and tangled weeds, left untouched for years by his family.
This had been his mother's chambers before he was born and so it had been neglected since she died and the plants died along with her except the lily that preservered.
But tonight, Alaric was ready to change that. After the ways they'd treated Salviana, he wanted this garden to be a place of comfort and beauty—a gesture of his care for her.
Also he didn't know how to go back inside after storming out.
He'd spent the day gathering every gardening tool he could find, determined to turn this forgotten ground into a sanctuary of blooms.
He walked to the plot he'd chosen carefully, taking in its position in relation to the fading light of the day.
This spot would bathe in sunlight come morning, offering the six to eight hours a garden needed.
With his spade in hand, he began by digging deep into the soil, the rhythmic sound of metal against earth filling the quiet air.
Each lift and turn was deliberate, loosening the hard, compacted ground to let it breathe again.
As he dug, he cleared away the stubborn weeds and scattered stones, pulling out old roots and sweeping away dried leaves and debris.
It was tedious work, but he felt a steady calm settling over him as he worked—each clump of earth he turned a small step toward creating something lasting.
He had an idea of this workings because of the head of council that always dragged him to his plots whenever Alaric had been mistreated or on the verge of snapping.
With the soil finally loosened, Alaric knelt and reached for the small burlap sack of compost he'd brought. He spread it across the soil, raking it in to improve the drainage and infuse the earth with nutrients that would someday nourish Salviana's flowers.
He pressed his hand into the soil, testing its softness, feeling the life he was coaxing back into it. The ground had been hostile once, barren and brittle, but he was determined to make it a place that would thrive.
After he'd prepared the soil, he took a moment to imagine the kind of garden it could become. He'd read about different styles—wildflower meadows filled with bursts of color, romantic cottage gardens with winding paths, and structured beds of neatly ordered rows.
Perhaps Salviana would prefer a more whimsical mix, where blossoms sprang up unpredictably among wild grasses. He made a mental note to ask her about her vision, determined to let her spirit guide his choices.
As he rose to his feet, his gaze lingered on the freshly turned soil. He hadn't chosen the flowers yet, but he'd do his research—he wanted flowers that would bloom again and again, season after season, without needing constant care.
He imagined Salviana here in the mornings, wandering among bright marigolds, sturdy sunflowers, or delicate zinnias, and his heart tightened with a fierce kind of tenderness.
It brought a smile to his face.
In the fading light, Alaric stood surrounded by the quiet earth, his hands and coat dusted with soil, his resolve only growing.
He would talk to Salviana, learn what flowers she loved, and make this garden bloom for her—his gift to her, a promise nurtured in the soil.
Tonight, he had only begun. But soon, this barren ground would be something beautiful.
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Salviana spent her day grappling with her thoughts, trying to make sense of what had transpired between her and her husband.
Did he hate her now? Would he act differently when he returned? Would he even come back? Should she apologize, or would he be the one to apologize?
Was she wrong in all of this? And what about her darker thoughts—was it ever justified to kill?
She knew he was a warrior prince, but what about revenge against ordinary people?
His family had hurt her, after all. Did she owe him forgiveness? Did he even need it?
Perhaps she was being too harsh in her judgment. From Alaric's perspective, he was fighting for her—for their future. He wanted what was best for her, striving for respect in a world that often misunderstood him.
She longed for him to be accepted, to be liked, but her attempts had only brought her pain.
Alaric was her husband, and he cared for her. Shouldn't that be enough?
As she paced the chambers, her shoulders hunched in despair, even her maids noticed her unease.
Emma tried to engage her in conversation, but Salviana had no desire to talk. Priscilla, on the other hand, seemed indifferent to her discomfort.
Amid her turmoil, she caught sight of her own reflection and noted the freckles dotting her cheeks. Her mood was further soured by the impending arrival of her menstrual cycle, leaving her feeling more fragile than usual.
She attributed her stress to the upheaval since arriving in this place, a burden that had weighed heavily on her.
Salviana sat on the edge of her bed, staring blankly at the wall, lost in thought when the door creaked open, and Emma peeked inside, her expression a mix of concern and determination.
"My lady," she called gently, stepping into the room. "We've set the table for dinner. You should have dinner. It'll do you good."
Salviana turned her head slightly, her eyes dull. "I'm not hungry, Emma. I just want to be alone."
Emma exchanged a glance with Priscilla, who stood just outside the door. "But the third prince would like you to have eaten or do you intend to wait for him?"
"I said I'm not hungry," Salviana replied, her voice sharper than she intended. She rubbed her temples, feeling the tension build.
Salviana laughed bitterly when Emma turned to leave. "Everything feels… wrong," she whispered.
Emma took a cautious step forward. "You're not alone in this. We all care about you. Please, just come to dinner. It might help."
Salviana sighed, her frustration simmering. "I appreciate your concern, but I really just want to go to bed. I'm tired of pretending everything is fine when it's not."
"Your grace eat for me?" Sarah said bubbly.
"I can't," Salviana said, her voice barely above a whisper. "I just need to be alone right now."
Emma nodded slowly, disappointment etched on her face. "Alright, but please remember we're here for you. Whenever you're ready."
With that, they stepped back, leaving her to her thoughts. Salviana watched as the door closed, the silence enveloping her once more. She lay back on the bed, feeling the weight of her emotions crash over her like a tide, wishing for the escape of sleep.
All she wanted was to sleep and escape the overwhelming anxiety that consumed her.