A dark shape emerged from the shadows of the storm, blacker than the night itself, its form cutting through the rain like an omen.
Large and broad, it moved slowly, deliberately, almost staggering under an unseen weight.
Her heart stuttered, then began to pound erratically.
Alaric.
The name echoed through her mind, her soul, as though it had been waiting for this moment. Her breath caught, her chest tight with a mix of hope and dread.
She blinked again, wiping at her eyes, her gaze never leaving the figure. It was him. She knew it was him. Her heart recognized the man even if her eyes struggled to believe it.
Her feet wanted to move, to carry her to him, but they felt like lead. Her body, frozen for so long in grief and cold, refused to obey.
Yet, as he stepped closer, she saw him more clearly—and something was wrong.
Alaric looked different. His walk was slower, his shoulders heavier, his face shadowed by the rain and his lowered head.
He almost reached her and stopped probably because she was on the road or because he felt her too.
His gaze, when it finally met hers, was dark—an abyss that she couldn't read, couldn't penetrate.
But she knew.
It was her husband. No matter the shadow over him, no matter the change in his stride or his expression, it was him.
The numbness in her feet was forgotten, her exhaustion ignored. Salviana's heart drove her forward, her body following its command.
She began to run, her steps awkward and uneven at first, her soaked dress tangling around her legs. The cold rain lashed at her skin, but she didn't care. She ran to him.
"Alaric!" she called, her voice trembling but desperate, hope threading through the sound.
When she reached him, her arms instinctively extended toward him. But he didn't react. He stood still, his body rigid, his face unreadable as though he didn't recognize her.
"Alaric," she whispered again, her voice breaking.
Her hands hovered near his chest, afraid to touch, afraid to confirm her fears. She wasn't even sure what her fear was but she was shaking. His darkened gaze remained fixed on her, unblinking, his lips pressed into a thin line.
Her breathing was ragged now, tears mixing freely with the rain streaming down her face. She didn't know whether to throw herself into his arms or collapse where she stood.
But she did know one thing—this was her husband. And no shadow, no storm, no silence could change that.
"Alaric," she said softly, her voice steady despite the tremor in her hands. "It's me. It's Salviana. You're home now. You're safe."
Still, he didn't move, didn't speak. And yet, there was something in his eyes—hidden beneath the darkness—a flicker, a spark.
It was enough. It had to be.
With trembling hands, she touched his chest lightly, her fingers brushing against the soaked fabric of his tunic. "You're here," she whispered, more to herself than to him. "You came back to me."
Her words hung in the rain-soaked air, fragile but defiant, as she stood before the man she now know that she loved, willing him to return to her in more ways than one.
She touched his face, her palm and fingers was cold that she was sure but he was colder. Yet he didn't move, he gazed at her as though he couldn't see her and that scared her. His emptinesses did.
She had to bring him back. She wanted her husband, the one who'd ask what she was doing here or get angry at nature for bringing rain to drench her.
Her breathing changed making him frown, she gulped.
Salviana hesitated, her breath trembling as she tilted her face up to his. Her heart hammered in her chest, every beat echoing louder than the rain.
Alaric stood motionless before her, his broad figure towering, his gaze heavy and unreadable. The weight of his silence crushed her, but she refused to be deterred.
Gathering her courage, she lifted her trembling hand and placed it against his chest, feeling the damp fabric beneath her palm.
Slowly, she rose on her toes, her face inching closer to his. The rain fell harder around them, but she barely noticed.
With a deep breath, she closed her eyes and pressed her cold lips to his.
It was tentative at first, their cold lips meeting with a fragile uncertainty. The kiss was soft, fleeting—almost void of emotion, as though she had kissed a statue.
For a heartbeat, he didn't move, his stillness as daunting as the thunder rumbling above them.
Doubt clawed at her chest.
What have I done?
Would he never respond to me?
Did he not like it? Did this help?
Maybe I should just get him inside, perhaps he's too cold that's why he's like this.
She started to pull away, her heart sinking, fear coiling tightly around her ribs. But before she could retreat, his hand shot up, capturing the back of her neck with an iron grip while his other hand circled her waist.
Her eyes flew open in shock, but before she could speak, his lips crashed onto hers with a force that stole her breath.
It was no longer cold, no longer emotionless.
This kiss was fire. The kiss was darkness pulling her and she never knew it tasted so good, warm and complete.
Alaric kissed her with abandon, his other hand gripping her waist and pulling her flush against him. Salviana gasped against his mouth, her arms instinctively wrapping around his neck, clutching him as though he might disappear.
The rain soaked them both, but neither seemed to care.
His lips moved against hers with an urgency that left her dizzy, his grip firm yet careful, as though she were the only thing grounding him to this world.
She reciprocated eagerly, matching his fervor, her hands tangling in his wet hair.
Her body pressed against his, and for the first time since he had stepped through the storm, she felt warmth.