The morning in the garden was crisp, and the faint hum of birdsong filled the air as Salviana sat in the garden, her delicate hands fidgeting with the embroidered edges of her gown. She hadn't touched her breakfast, her heart heavy with the possibility that Alaric had already left for war without a proper farewell.
Miss Goliath, her obviously soon to be ever-efficient lady-in-waiting had come and she sat nearby, her posture straight and composed as always, but her sharp eyes held a touch of understanding.
"Your Grace," Jean began softly, breaking the silence. "The ladies of the castle are gathering for tea tomorrow. It's also a kind of… bonding period for wives in the absence of their husbands. If you could attend, I think it'd be nice."
Salviana blinked, trying to focus on the words rather than her lingering anxiety. "Of course, I'll attend. Thank you, Jean."
Jean gave a polite nod, her tone professional. "I'm merely doing my job."
"And you do it well," Salviana replied with a faint smile, her fingers relaxing just a little.
Jean hesitated for a moment, then added, "If I may, my lady…"
"Go on," Salviana encouraged, her voice soft but curious.
"I've taken the liberty of inviting a tailor—a dressmaker—to the castle," Jean said with a measured tone. "He might be here any minute."
Salviana's brows lifted. "He? I don't think Alaric would like that very much… I mean, not at all."
Jean tilted her head, puzzled. "What do you mean, Your Grace?"
"The idea of a male tailor," Salviana elaborated, her cheeks warming slightly. "You know, with all the touching and fittings. Alaric might not take it well."
Jean's lips curved into a reassuring smile, though her brow furrowed slightly. "Oh no, my lady. He has a female apprentice. A capable one. He'd never dream of working alone in such matters of propriety."
Salviana relaxed a little but remained cautious. "And it's not a problem that we're bringing in an outsider instead of working with the royal tailor?"
Jean pursed her lips, choosing her words carefully. "If I may be candid, Your Grace… I haven't seen anything from the royal tailor that quite suits you."
Salviana groaned, leaning back in her seat with dramatic flair. "I knew it, Miss Goliath! Whenever I dress, it feels so uninspired, like I'm wearing something meant to appease tradition rather than something that sparks joy—or makes my husband's jaw drop," she added with a playful sigh.
Jean gave a small nod, her eyes sparkling with amusement. "Your dresses, my lady, are not entirely unbecoming. But they do lack the charm one might hope for in a queen's wardrobe."
"Horrendous," Salviana wailed, throwing her hands up. "Slightly wearable only because they're on me."
Jean chuckled softly, waiting for her lady to finish before adding, "That's why I rushed to the tailor yesterday, my lady. He was on the verge of relocating. I had to persuade him to stay."
Salviana's eyes softened with gratitude. "Thank you, Jean. Truly."
Jean waved a hand dismissively, her tone light. "Please, my lady, don't thank me. I enjoy my work… except for the occasional interruptions."
"Interruptions?" Salviana asked, raising a brow.
Jean hesitated, but before she could respond, a distant look crossed her face. Her composure faltered ever so slightly, and she quickly stood, smoothing her skirts. "Excuse me, Your Grace. I'll ensure everything is in order for the tailor's visit."
Salviana nodded, but her curiosity lingered as Jean walked away.
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As Jean made her way back toward the servants' quarters, the air around her seemed to shift. A familiar voice, laced with irritation and mirth, filtered through her mind.
"You're doing quite a decent job, Jean, though I notice you're yet to thank me for arranging such a grand position for you."
Jean's lips tightened, but she kept her stride steady. "Shouldn't you be at war with everyone else, Lucius?" she retorted silently, her tone sharp and dismissive.
"Oh, so you really do wish me dead, dead," Lucius groaned, his voice dripping with mock hurt.
Jean rolled her eyes, her steps quickening. "Stop invading my working hours, you menace."
"But I'm bored," Lucius whined, his presence in her mind as persistent as ever.
Jean didn't bother responding, her frustration evident in the briskness of her movements. She reached the servant's corridor, her fingers clenched into fists. But even as she tried to ignore him, Lucius's laughter echoed faintly in her thoughts, a maddening reminder that some ghosts, even those of the living, refused to be banished entirely.
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The Battle of Wyfn-Garde
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The sky hung heavy with the weight of approaching thunder as the armies of Wyfn-Garde assembled on the fields near the border.
Clad in gleaming armor, the warriors stood ready for the fight ahead. The clink of steel against metal rang out as horses were readied and swords sharpened.
The air was thick with the scent of iron and the foreboding whispers of the coming clash. The kingdom they faced was no stranger to war, but Wyfn-Garde's warriors were different — ruthless, disciplined, and fierce.
Among the ranks of soldiers, knights, and princes, one figure stood apart from the rest: Alaric. His presence was like a storm ready to break, A vamp who commanded not just the battlefield but the very hearts of those who followed him.
His armor, dark and almost otherworldly in its design, gleamed under the fading sunlight, catching flashes of red and gold as the light flickered across the shields of his men. He wore his battle scars as badges of honor, and every movement, every step he took, exuded the power of a creature far older and more deadly than any mere man.
Behind him, his army prepared with cold precision, knowing that their prince led them not just with strength, but with an understanding of the land, the terrain, and the nature of their enemies. Richard, his trusted general, stepped forward, pulling Alaric from his thoughts. The battle strategy was set.
"If we intercept them on the hills by the border, we can trap them in narrow passes," Richard spoke, his voice calm but firm, an unshakeable confidence in his tone.