Jean inclined her head in respect. "Your Grace," she greeted, "I was brought into the castle by the Third Prince, Alaric."
At the mention of Alaric, Lilian's gaze hardened, though she said nothing. She didn't control Alaric's choices, after all.
Lady Margaretha, however, wasn't done venting. She leaned in, her voice harsh and biting. "Listen, Jean," she said with a forced smile.
"Salviana may appear sweet and charming now, but don't be fooled. One day, she'll cast you aside, just like she did to me, without a second thought. Don't expect her affections to last."
Jean met Margaretha's glare calmly, her smile unwavering. "I hope I last in her service, Lady Margaretha. I truly do," she said, her tone genuine, almost sincere.
But there was a quiet confidence in her words that seemed to unsettle Margaretha, who turned away with a scowl.
Lilian watched the exchange, mildly amused, before giving a small nod. "Well, then, Jean Goliath, I hope you manage to serve the seventh princess with as much grace as you show now. Not everyone here is as welcoming as they seem." Her eyes darted to Margaretha, a subtle dig that was not lost on Jean.
"Thank you, Your Grace," Jean replied, bowing once more. She could sense the tension and jealousy simmering just below the surface, but she remained collected.
Margaretha's face contorted as she resumed walking alongside Lilian, casting one last disdainful glance over her shoulder.
In contrast, Lilian's refined posture and graceful steps highlighted the difference between them, while Margaretha's exaggerated attire made her look almost ridiculous.
As they walked away, Jean exhaled quietly, realizing that her path in the castle would not be without obstacles. But a slight smile lingered on her lips; she had no intention of being so easily dismissed.
~~~{────────────
Morning.
Office. Salviana's Chambers,
Wyfkeep Castle. Wyfellon.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~}~~~
The morning sun filtered gently through the arched windows of Alaric's office, casting soft, golden hues over the dark wood furniture and the numerous scrolls strewn across his desk.
Salviana stood at the door, smoothing the fabric of her gown nervously before knocking lightly.
"Come in," came Alaric's deep voice, steady but distracted.
She stepped inside, her delicate shoes making soft taps on the polished floor. Alaric was bent over a stack of parchment, his brow furrowed in concentration. He glanced at her briefly, his icy gaze warming for a split second before returning to his work.
Salviana cleared her throat, summoning her courage. "You've started working on the garden already," she said, her tone light.
He lifted his head again, this time with a slightly hurried look, his quill poised mid-air. "Yes, I have," he replied, his voice brusque. "And now I'm so busy I can hardly think about it."
His dismissal stung, even if unintentional, and she blinked, trying to mask her disappointment. "It's okay," she murmured, her fingers brushing the fabric of her dress. "That was a kind gesture."
For a few moments, there was only the sound of the quill scratching against the parchment. Alaric didn't reply immediately, but then he sighed deeply and set his quill aside. His gaze softened as he looked at her, and a small, teasing smirk lifted the corners of his mouth.
"Do you want to sit on my lap?" he asked, one brow arched mischievously.
Salviana froze, her lips parting in surprise. The sudden shift in his tone caught her off guard. "What? Why would you ask that?" she stammered.
He leaned back in his chair, glancing pointedly behind her. "Because you're not sitting on the chair," he said matter-of-factly, the corner of his mouth twitching as though he were suppressing a laugh.
Salviana rolled her eyes, a faint blush creeping up her neck. "You could've just invited me to sit," she replied, crossing her arms.
His grin widened. "Alright then, my dearest wife, please, come sit," he said, sweeping his arm theatrically as if offering her a throne.
"The chair is right here," she pointed out, her brows furrowing in confusion.
"Well," he drawled, his voice dropping to a velvety tone, "you've lost your chance to sit there. Come here."
Her blush deepened, and she averted her gaze, biting her lip to suppress a smile. She hesitated for a moment before finally stepping closer, her head bowed slightly.
Alaric turned his chair to face her fully, his movements slow and deliberate. When she stood before him, he gently took both her hands in his, his thumbs brushing over her wrists. Her breath hitched as he lifted one of her hands and pressed a kiss to it.
"How did you find your way here, my lady?" he asked softly, his lips still grazing her skin.
"I know where your office is," she replied, her voice a little shaky.
"You've never come before," he countered, his tone laced with playful curiosity.
"Maybe," Salviana said, avoiding his gaze.
His lips curved into a smile. "Welcome, then. Now, sit," he said, pulling her gently toward him.
"Alaric—" she started to protest, but he cut her off with a firm yet gentle tug, guiding her to perch on his lap.
"You're busy," she said softly, her eyes darting to the parchment-laden desk.
"Work can wait," he replied smoothly, his hands resting on her waist.
"I could leave," she offered, though her tone lacked conviction.
"No, you couldn't," he said with a smirk.
Salviana made a half-hearted attempt to stand, but Alaric tightened his grip, pulling her closer. He leaned forward and rested his chin on her shoulder, his breath warm against her neck. The unexpected closeness sent a shiver down her spine, and she let out an involuntary laugh when his stubble tickled her skin.
"Stay with me," he whispered, his voice low and intimate. His lips brushed her jawline, leaving a featherlight kiss that made her heart race.
She relaxed slightly, though her blush persisted. "You're insufferable," she muttered, though the corners of her mouth betrayed a smile.
"Mm, I know," he replied smugly, his fingers tracing idle patterns along her arm. "How are you finding the new lady-in-waiting?"