"Breakfast for my fiery wife," Alaric whispered as he guided her to the dining.
The morning sun bathed the dining room in a gentle glow, casting soft light across the gleaming silverware and the warm wooden table.
Salviana, dressed in a finely embroidered gown of deep emerald green that shimmered when it caught the light, looked enchanting as she entered the room with Alaric at her side. Her gown hugged her figure delicately, with lace accents and tiny pearls around the neckline.
Alaric couldn't help but let his gaze linger as they took their seats.
Breakfast had been lavishly prepared—a spread of pastries, fruits, smoked meats, and an arrangement of cheeses that made the table look like a small feast.
The maids had set everything precisely, hovering at a distance outside the room, trying not to eavesdrop as their laughter spilled into the corridor.
"Come now, Alaric," Salviana teased as she noticed his plate still half-empty. "I won't be the only one enjoying this feast."
Alaric smirked, picking up a delicate pastry to oblige her. "I'd rather watch you eat than eat myself."
"Ridiculous! We're both eating, no exceptions," she replied with mock severity. "Or is the great Alaric of Wyfn-Garde afraid of a few pastries?"
He raised a brow, playing along. "Afraid? I think not. But if I ate everything here, I might end up quite ill." He motioned to the spread with a smirk.
"So I have a better body," Salviana pointed out with a cocky smirk.
"I'm not designed for these type of foods," Alaric confided, when he was younger he'd always have stomach aches and he was never full.
No matter how much Alaric ate, satisfaction remained elusive, an empty ritual devoid of meaning or fulfillment. Food neither nourished nor sated him; it was merely a performance.
After every meal, he would retreat to his chambers, wrestling with the hunger that simmered beneath his skin—a hunger nothing mortal could satisfy.
He would hold back, forcing his instincts into submission, until the world around him grew loud with human irrationality, their petty grievances and careless insults grating against his restraint.
Eventually, he began to judge them, assessing their worth in silence until his patience wore thin. And when they proved thoughtless enough to cross his invisible boundaries, he fed on them.
The first time he used his hypnotic power, it was out of sheer desperation. The man lay pale and gasping beneath him, and a sudden panic gripped Alaric—he hadn't meant to take things that far.
He'd leaned down, compelled by a raw instinct, whispering with a voice he barely recognized, "Forget this. Pretend it never happened." And to his astonishment, the man's terrified gaze softened, his memories dissolved, and he obeyed, carrying on as if nothing had transpired.
After that, Alaric tried to talk to the man cryptically, probing him about that day, hinting in veiled words.
But each time, he was met with blank confusion—the man simply couldn't remember.
That blankness confirmed what Alaric had suspected: his command had reshaped the man's very memory.
From then on, he tested his newfound power, using it carefully, shaping moments and erasing others as he saw fit.
In time, he mastered this ability, realizing he could manipulate not just thoughts but entire memories—a skill that, in a world full of imperfect humans, would prove to be invaluable.
"You're not a strong man," Salviana tsked with feigned disappointment.
Alaric scoffed right before he changed what he said before, "Do you know how much it would take to make me ill, Salviana? Far more than all this."
Salviana chuckled, eyes dancing. "Fine, then. Let's see who can manage more, shall we?"
Alaric narrowed his eyes but reached out and picked a big pastry, "This might taste like shit," he said with a sad smile.
Salviana pouted and reached out to him, "It doesn't," she assured him.
"I don't trust your taste bud,"Alaric teased, as he lifted a cup of water to his mouth. He has mastered the act of humanity.
Salviana after a thoughtful scowl, she said, "Maybe if I cook for you you'll be able to taste them," her hopeful green eyes held his.
"Oh? How so?" He is interested.
She pouted with a thoughtful look, "Because I'm divine? Because I'm your wife?"
Alaric chuckled, "Perhaps, but I would hate for you to stress your self out like that, the kitchen is the second hottest place in the castle,"
"Anything for you, I want to try it out," Salviana declared.
"Yes my fiery lady," he easily agreed because he knew that's never happening.
Salviana blushed she is sat across from Alaric, her eyes fixated on him as he lifted his fork, a delicate piece of fruit balanced perfectly on the tip.
Despite his cold vampire nature, there was a warmth in the way he handled each bite, observing it with an almost reverent touch before placing it into his mouth.
His movements were graceful, deliberate, and he ate as though savoring every texture, even if taste itself was a distant memory for him.
She watched as his jaw moved, every motion captivating, each glance he cast her way paired with a faint, knowing smile. She wished he could taste every sweetness, every bite of softness, every hint of spice—just as she could.
Her thoughts wandered, and she imagined the feel of his lips against hers, sweet with sugar or honey, letting her kiss and taste every trace of the food she could only wish he enjoyed.
Just as she felt her cheeks heat from the fantasy, Alaric leaned in, his hand reaching out casually. She stilled, breath caught in her throat as he wiped a stray drop of honey from her cheek with his thumb, then brought it to his lips, licking it off with an amused smirk.
Salviana's cheeks flushed red, and she ducked her head shyly. His spontaneity made her pulse race. She felt herself turn even redder, wondering if he knew the thoughts that had danced through her mind just moments before.