Prince Spencer was a whirlwind of fury, his one good eye burning with determination. "You want Wyfn-Garde?" he shouted as he cleaved through two Foolerian soldiers in one swing.
"Then fight for it, you cowards! Or are you only brave when facing children and farmers?"
Warren, his cousin who was also at war with them looked at him with a toothy grin, blood smeared all over his face.
The Wyfn-Garde soldiers rallied around their leaders, pushing the Foolerian forces back step by step. Though they were battered and weary, they refused to break.
Among the Foolerian ranks, whispers spread like wildfire: We can't win. Not against him. Not against the demon.
By the time night began to fall, Fooleria's once-mighty army was in disarray. Soldiers fled in droves, their morale shattered by the sheer will and might of Wyfn-Garde.
Alaric stood at the heart of it all, his armor drenched in rain and blood, his sword hanging loosely in his grip.
His glowing eyes scanned the retreating army, the corner of his mouth curling into a dangerous smile.
"They wanted a kingdom," he said to the men nearest him, his voice quiet yet cutting.
"Let them go back to Fooleria with the knowledge of what it costs to challenge Wyfn-Garde."
And though the battle wasn't over, the outcome was clear. Fooleria had wanted to conquer.
Instead, they had learned fear—fear of a kingdom that never failed, and of the demon who defended it.
Amidst all this chaos Alaric's mind didn't once go for Salviana. His mind was numb and his goal set. He didn't bother in the line of distraction and whatever rest he could have he hunted.
Whenever his mind would try to conjure her, through the redness of blood or the sharp intake of breath of his enemies, the cocky smile of his fellows, and how his arms didn't have her to hold, he'd drag back his sanity and fight with all his might.
If he wanted to go back to her, he needed to focus and that meant not letting her in. It was easy with so much blood and chaos in sight.
It was simply where he thrived in.
~~~{────────
Afternoon
Wyfkeep Castle.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~}~~~
Salviana entered her chambers and shut the door behind her with a heavy sigh.
The weight of the tea meeting still clung to her like an ill-fitted cloak, and without a second thought, she stepped out of her dress, letting the fabric pool on the floor.
The ornate outfit, so perfect for courtly gatherings, felt suffocating now. She couldn't believe she had survived that ordeal. The jabs, the sly smiles, and the endless scrutiny—it was exhausting.
She tossed the dress to the side, too tired to care about propriety, and wrapped herself in a soft, loose robe.
Collapsing onto the edge of her bed, she ran her fingers through her hair, undoing the elaborate pins and letting her dark locks fall free. The relief of it was immediate, but her mind remained restless.
At least Agatha seemed genuine. Salviana had been wary at first, but the older woman's quiet kindness throughout the gathering had felt like a lifeline.
She needed to tread carefully with everyone else, though, especially Genevieve.
Genevieve. What was her problem?
Salviana's brow furrowed as she thought about the haughty princess. Genevieve acted like a scorned lover, her sharp comments and glares dripping with something deeper than disdain. But she was Alaric's cousin.
Was it jealousy?
Resentment?
Some twisted family rivalry?
Salviana's chest tightened at the thought. She couldn't keep tiptoeing around this; she needed answers.
"I have to ask him," she murmured to herself. "We have so much to talk about."
But Alaric wasn't here. He had left three days ago, and his absence only amplified her frustration.
Salviana flopped onto the bed, sprawling out with a groan. The tension in her muscles begged for release, but the thought of eating—or doing anything, really—felt like a chore.
She was hungry, yes, but the nausea lingering from her stress robbed her of any appetite.
To make matters worse, she was still on her period. It had started the morning he left, as if the universe itself wanted to play a cruel joke on her.
Her strawberry week, as she called it, always drained her energy, but the timing of this one felt particularly annoying.
She rolled onto her back and sighed. Alaric had admitted, with a rare mix of candor and discomfort, that the idea of being around her during her period unnerved him.
"Your scent," he had said, his voice low and almost sheepish, "it stirs something primal in me. I'm not sure I could… resist." he feared for her.
She had smiled at the time, brushing it off as one of his overly dramatic tendencies, but now, lying on her bed with the aches of her strawberry week tugging at her body, Salviana felt a pang of curiosity.
This was her first time going through this in the castle—her first time as his wife—and a small part of her had wondered how he would handle it.
Would he really have been so affected?
Would he have kept his distance, pacing like a restless predator?
Or would he have stayed by her side, determined to prove himself stronger than his instincts?
But he wasn't here, and that was a relief. She exhaled deeply, grateful that the temptation was out of sight. It was better this way.
She didn't want to test his self-control in such a dangerous and personal way. Still, a tiny, curious voice lingered in the back of her mind.
It would've been nice to know.
She stretched her legs out, staring at the ceiling. He'd left three days ago, right when her cycle began, almost as if fate had decided to spare them both the ordeal.
Four days of bleeding—four days of temptation for him. She could still hear the slight edge in his voice when he'd confessed his fear of being around her during such a time.
"Convenient," she murmured, her voice was more resigned than bitter.