"Alaric,"
He looked at her, his eyes glistening with unshed tears, his jaw clenched. She was still here. For now, she was still here.
"I need to use the bathroom," Salviana said weakly, trying to sit up.
"What?" he asked, his voice a mix of disbelief and concern. "You should rest. I need to call the royal physician—"
"No, I mean…" She hesitated, her cheeks flushing faintly. "I don't know if it's strange, but I don't feel pain anymore. Just…pressure. I need to ease myself."
Alaric blinked, the absurdity of her request momentarily cutting through his panic. Relief mingled with exasperation as he sighed and nodded. "Alright. Let me help you."
He carefully lifted her once again, cradling her against his chest as he carried her to the bathroom. There, he set her down gently and turned away to give her privacy.
When she was done, she reached out for him, her fingers brushing his sleeve. "I need to wash up," she said softly, her voice steadying slightly.
Without hesitation, he helped her into the tub, his movements deliberate and gentle as he ran warm water over her skin.
The sight of her so vulnerable, yet resilient, stirred something deep within him. She leaned into his touch, the tension slowly leaving her body as the water cleansed away the remnants of the ordeal.
Once she was clean and dressed, he carried her back to the bed, tucking her in carefully. The storm outside still raged, but within their chambers, a fragile peace had settled.
Alaric lay beside her, his arm draped protectively over her waist.
He didn't close his eyes—he couldn't. Instead, he watched her, counting each steady rise and fall of her chest, each soft breath a reminder that she was still alive.
For now, that was enough. But in the back of his mind, the fury simmered. Whoever had done this would not live to see another day.
~~~{────────
~~~~~~~~~~~~~}~~~
The next morning, The news of the attack on the seventh princess and her lady-in-waiting spread through the palace like wildfire, carried by whispers that seemed to travel faster than the wind.
It was as if the very walls had ears, passing secrets from one corner to the next.
Servants spoke in hushed tones as they polished silverware and swept the halls, their eyes darting toward the princess's quarters with a mix of curiosity and concern.
Some expressed genuine sympathy, their voices tinged with fear for what such an attempt on royal blood could mean.
Others, more cynical, watched with bated breath, eager to see the fallout and the punishment that awaited the culprit.
Tension hung thick in the air, the palace abuzz with speculation and unease.
~~~{────────────
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~}~~
Alaric stood in the doorway of their chamber, watching Salviana sleep peacefully. Her fiery hair framed her face like a delicate halo, and her breathing was soft and even.
The color had returned to her cheeks, but the events of the previous night weighed heavily on him. He couldn't stay cooped up here—he needed a release.
Turning to the maids, who stood waiting in the hall, he gave them firm instructions. "Stay with her. Make sure she eats and drinks. Do not leave her side."
"Yes, Your Highness," they replied in unison, bowing.
Satisfied, he strode out of the palace and toward the training grounds, his boots crunching against the gravel path.
The morning air was crisp, and the faint hum of swords clashing and the shouts of soldiers echoed in the distance.
It wasn't long before he reached the field, scanning the area for someone to spar with.
"Where's Richard?" Alaric asked one of the guards, his tone clipped.
"Not here, Your Highness," the guard replied, shaking his head. "Left early this morning on royal business."
Alaric cursed under his breath. Richard was his usual sparring partner—a dependable, skilled fighter who never held back. Now, Alaric's pent-up rage had nowhere to go.
"No one else?" he pressed.
The guard hesitated, looking around the field. Most of the men averted their gazes.
None of them wanted to be the one to face the third prince in his current state.
"I'll fight you," came a calm voice from behind.
Alaric turned to see Heappal approaching, his figure tall and imposing, his dark hair pulled back into a low tie.
He was dressed in a simple white tunic and black trousers, his sleeves rolled up to reveal sinewy forearms.
There was a quiet confidence in his sharp green eyes, a look that said he didn't mind taking on a challenge.
"You?" Alaric raised a brow.
"Unless you're too scared," Heappal said, a faint smirk tugging at his lips.
Alaric's jaw tightened, but he couldn't help the ghost of a smile that flickered across his face. "Fine. Let's see what you've got."
They stepped into the sparring ring, a small crowd gathering around them.
Heappal rolled his shoulders, loosening his muscles, while Alaric flexed his fingers, his fists itching for release.
"You sure about this?" Alaric asked, his voice low. "I'm not in the mood to hold back."
Heappal grinned, his teeth flashing. "Good. I wouldn't want you to."
The bell rang, and they lunged at each other. Heappal was fast—faster than Alaric anticipated.
He ducked under Alaric's initial punch and landed a swift jab to his ribs. The impact was solid, forcing Alaric to stumble back a step.
"Not bad," Alaric muttered, his voice laced with grudging respect.
"You're slow," Heappal teased, circling him.
Alaric's eyes narrowed. He moved in again, his fists flying in a flurry of blows.
Heappal blocked most of them, but one punch caught him square on the jaw, snapping his head to the side.
"That's all you've got?" Heappal said, wiping a trickle of blood from his lip.
"Not even close," Alaric growled.
The fight intensified. Their movements were a blur, the sound of fists meeting flesh echoing across the field.
The crowd watched in awe as the two men matched each other blow for blow, neither willing to back down.
"You're stronger than you look," Alaric admitted, landing a sharp kick to Heappal's side.