"Princess Alaric's former lady-in-waiting," he growled.
Jean's face twisted in shock and betrayal as recognition dawned. "Margaretha?! Why would you try to kill me?"
The woman paused, her expression cold and unrepentant. "It was the devil," she spat, her voice devoid of remorse.
Jean stepped forward, rain streaming down her face, her voice rising in disbelief. "The devil?! You locked me in and tried to burn me alive! Don't you dare blame anyone but yourself!"
Before Margaretha could reply, a voice called out from the distance. "What's all this commotion?"
A guard appeared, rushing toward the scene, his boots splashing in the growing puddles.
Lucius's instincts flared, and in an instant, he vanished into the shadows with vampiric speed, leaving Jean to handle the situation.
His sharp gaze followed every movement as she stood her ground, pointing an accusatory finger at Margaretha.
"She tried to kill me," Jean said firmly, her voice shaking but resolute. "She poured fuel around my quarters, locked me in, and was about to set it all on fire."
Margaretha, now drenched and desperate, scoffed. "I would never! She's lying!" The rain had begun to wash away the evidence, and Lucius's fists clenched at his sides.
His fury simmered beneath the surface as he watched the woman deny everything with a smug defiance.
He itched to intervene, to snap the guard's neck and drag Margaretha away himself. It would take mere seconds to exact the vengeance she deserved.
But Jean's presence held him back. She needed to handle this her way.
The guard frowned, his eyes darting between the two women before sighing. "We'll take her in for trespassing. Tomorrow, the matter will be investigated further."
Margaretha wailed as the guard seized her, her voice rising in protest. "This is a mistake! I didn't do anything!"
Jean crossed her arms, her face set in grim determination as she watched the guards haul Margaretha away.
The sight of the woman's retreating figure brought a flicker of relief, but Jean's shoulders sagged as the adrenaline began to fade.
When the guards disappeared into the rain, Lucius stepped out of the shadows, his presence steady and grounding.
Without a word, he walked to her side, his dark eyes scanning her for injuries.
"How did you get out if you were locked in?" he asked softly, his voice laced with both curiosity and admiration.
Jean blinked, her cheeks flushing slightly under his intense gaze. "I broke the door," she said simply, a hint of pride slipping into her voice despite her exhaustion.
A slow, rare smile spread across Lucius's face. "Impressive," he murmured, his tone warm with approval.
Jean's blush deepened, and she glanced away, shivering as the cold rain seeped into her skin. Lucius noticed immediately, his expression shifting to one of concern.
Without hesitation, he shrugged off his coat and draped it over her shoulders, his hands lingering for a moment to ensure she was warm.
"Let's get you inside," he said gently, his voice softer than she'd ever heard it.
Jean nodded, clutching the coat tightly around her as they made their way back to the quarters.
The rain continued to pour, but the warmth of Lucius's care stayed with her, shielding her from the storm in more ways than one.
~~~{────────
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Alaric's heart thundered in his chest as his eyes fell on Salviana, splayed motionless across the floor.
Her fiery red hair cascaded around her like a bloody halo, her cheeks stained with crimson streaks trailing from her mouth. For a moment, his world stopped.
"Fiery," he choked, his voice breaking as he rushed to the ground and gathered her limp body into his arms.
She was cold against his warmth, her pale skin almost translucent, but her chest rose faintly, her breaths shallow yet present.
She was alive.
She was still here, and yet his mind betrayed him with the images of what could have been—her lifeless form, her light extinguished.
He clung to her desperately, as if holding her tightly enough could anchor her to this world. For a moment, he thought he had lost her.
But no. She was here. Waiting for him, needing him.
"Fiery," he murmured again, this time more tenderly, brushing a stray lock of hair from her face.
His hands trembled as they hovered over her, unsure where to touch, afraid of causing more harm. The scent of blood filled his nostrils, and panic clawed at his chest.
Her eyelids fluttered weakly. "My stomach," she gasped, her voice barely audible.
Alaric's eyes widened, scanning her body for injuries. "Where? Where does it hurt?"
"The lower part," she whispered, her hand trembling as she gestured toward her abdomen.
He wasted no time, scooping her up as if she weighed nothing and laying her gently on the bed.
The mattress sank beneath her frail form, and he felt an unbearable ache at the sight of her fragile state.
"I'll be right back," he said, his voice thick with urgency. He sprinted to the bathroom, grabbing a bowl of water and a clean towel, then returned to her side.
Carefully, he dabbed at her face, wiping away the blood and sweat. Each stroke was deliberate, almost reverent, as if she were made of glass.
She stared at him weakly, her golden eyes dimmed but still alive, still his.
For a fleeting moment, hope flickered in his chest, but then his gaze fell to her lips, the faint sheen of blood still staining them. Something was wrong.
His brow furrowed as he dipped his index finger against her lips, collecting the blood before bringing it to his mouth.
The taste hit him immediately—bitter and acrid. His stomach turned.
"Poison," he hissed, his voice low and trembling with rage.
His wife had been poisoned. Someone had tried to kill her, and they had almost succeeded.
The realization was like a blade to his chest, carving out a dark, seething fury that threatened to consume him.
His mind spiraled into chaos, imagining the punishment he would exact on whoever had done this.
They would pay. Their bloodlines would pay. He would burn their entire existence to the ground.
"Alaric," her soft voice broke through his storm of thoughts.