Lysandra blinked, caught off guard. "What?"
"Just one dance," he said, his voice steady but gentle.
For a moment, she considered refusing outright, but something in his gaze made her hesitate. There was no teasing, no ulterior motive—just an honest invitation. With a resigned sigh, she reached out and placed her hand in his.
"Fine," she said, letting him lead her into the square. "But if you step on my toes, I'm walking away."
"I'll try my best not to," he said, his lips curving into a faint smile.
As the music flowed around them, Alaric placed his other hand lightly on her waist, guiding her into the rhythm of the dance. Lysandra followed, her movements a little stiff at first but gradually relaxing as they moved together. She caught a glimpse of Kellan and Donall watching them from the other side of the square, both grinning like fools, and she shot them a glare that only made them laugh harder.
"You're not bad," she admitted grudgingly as Alaric spun her lightly.
"High praise coming from you," he replied, his smile widening.
She rolled her eyes but couldn't completely hide the faint smirk on her lips. For a moment, the noise of the crowd and the tension of her ever-watchful instincts faded, leaving only the music and the steady presence of Alaric.
Lysandra tilted her head slightly, studying him as they moved in time with the rhythm. "You must have had a lot of practice," she said, her tone dry but laced with curiosity. "Dancing with all the young noblewomen of Volatira court, I assume?"
Alaric chuckled, the sound low and genuine. His gaze met hers, a glint of mischief flickering in his eyes. "A few, perhaps," he admitted lightly.
Before she could reply, he leaned in closer, his voice dropping to a soft whisper by her ear. "But none of them hold a candle to you."
The warmth of his breath against her skin sent an unexpected shiver down her spine. Lysandra froze for the briefest of moments, her sharp tongue suddenly at a loss for words. Her cheeks flushed, though whether it was from the moonshine or something else entirely, she couldn't say.
She could feel the subtle shift in the space between them as Alaric pulled her closer, his hands steady but careful, his lips inching toward hers. For a fleeting moment, part of her wanted to give in, to close the gap and see where this strange, unexpected pull between them might lead.
But fear—raw, unyielding fear—surged through her, drowning out every other thought. Lysandra stiffened, then quickly stepped back, breaking away from him.
"I… I need a drink," she muttered, her voice more abrupt than she intended. Without waiting for a response, she turned and hurried toward the edge of the square, weaving through the crowd. She found an empty table near one of the stalls and flagged down a server, grabbing a cup of ale the moment it was within reach. Her hand trembled slightly as she brought it to her lips, taking a long, desperate gulp.
The sharp bitterness of the drink did little to calm the frantic beating of her heart. What was she thinking? Why had she let him get so close?
Before she could spiral further into her thoughts, she sensed him approaching. Alaric's familiar presence was steady as always, though his expression was unreadable as he stopped beside her.
"Lysandra," he said softly, his tone gentle but tinged with concern. "Are you alright?"
She swallowed another mouthful of ale before answering, barely meeting his gaze. "Fine," she said briskly, waving him off. "Just got really thirsty all of a sudden."
Alaric tilted his head slightly, studying her with that infuriating patience of his. "Thirsty, huh?" he echoed, clearly unconvinced.
"Yes, thirsty," she shot back, lifting her cup pointedly. "You thirsty? Sit and drink."
Alaric's lips quirked into a faint smile, though his eyes never left hers. With a quiet sigh, he pulled out the chair across from her and sat down. "If that's what you want," he said, his voice calm but laced with curiosity. As a server passed by, he grabbed a cup of ale and set it in front of him.
Lysandra, already halfway through her second cup, slammed it down and motioned for another. The ale burned as it went down, but it was a welcome distraction from the whirlwind of emotions that had just blindsided her. When the next cup was placed in front of her, she lifted it with a sharp grin, her eyes narrowing at Alaric.
"Alright, Your Highness," she said, her tone teetering between playful and defiant. "How about a little game?"
Alaric raised an eyebrow, intrigued. "A game?"
She nodded, leaning forward slightly. "Truth or drink. Simple rules: I ask you a question, and you either answer truthfully or take a drink. Then you ask me one. We go back and forth until one of us gives up."
Alaric chuckled, the sound warm and amused. "And what happens if we both just keep drinking?"
"Then we'll see which one of us can hold there drink," she replied with a smirk, downing another sip for emphasis. "Unless you're afraid you'll lose."
His smile widened, and he raised his cup in a mock toast. "Alright, Lysandra. Let's play your game."
"Good." She leaned back in her chair, tapping a finger against the side of her cup. "I'll start. Why did you really invite me to this festival tonight?"
Alaric hesitated, his expression thoughtful. He took a slow sip of his ale, clearly savoring the moment before answering. "Because I wanted to spend more time with you."
Lysandra blinked, momentarily caught off guard by his honesty. She quickly masked it with a smirk. "Your turn."
Alaric tilted his head slightly, his eyes gleaming with mischief. "Alright. Why did you really agree to come with me tonight?"
Lysandra took a long drink of ale instead of answering, the warmth spreading through her chest as she slammed the cup back down. "Next question."
He chuckled softly, shaking his head. "Fair enough. Your turn."
Lysandra tapped her fingers against her cup, her gaze sharpening as she asked, "Why travel all this way for the Shadow Blades' help when there are so many other mercenary troops closer you could go to?"
Alaric paused for a moment, his expression shifting slightly. He took a sip of ale, more out of habit than necessity, and answered, "Not my decision. It was the King's—my father's—command."
Lysandra tilted her head, narrowing her eyes at him. "But did he say why?"
Alaric arched an eyebrow and leaned back in his chair, a faint smirk playing on his lips. "Hey, you're breaking the rules of the game. It's my turn to ask the question."
She rolled her eyes but leaned back, conceding with a small shrug. "Fine. Ask away, Your Highness."
He took a moment, pretending to ponder his next question as he watched her with faint amusement. Finally, he leaned forward, resting his forearms on the table, his piercing gaze fixed on hers.
Alaric's tone softened, though there was an edge of curiosity that couldn't be ignored. "Why did you really save me, Lysandra? And don't give me the excuse that it's because I'm a prince."
Lysandra froze, her hand tightening slightly around her cup. The question caught her off guard.For a moment, she considered brushing it off with sarcasm or deflection, but the sincerity in his gaze made her hesitate.
She exhaled sharply, her lips curling into a faint smirk as she raised her cup to her lips. "That's a bold question," she muttered, taking a sip. When she lowered the cup, her sharp eyes met his. "Maybe I just didn't want to see you bleed out in the middle of nowhere. I've got standards, you know."
Alaric didn't laugh at her attempt to deflect. Instead, he tilted his head, his expression calm but unyielding. "You're avoiding the question."
Her smirk faltered, and she looked away, swirling the last of her ale in her cup. "Maybe I saved you because it was the right thing to do. Maybe I saved you because I couldn't stand the thought of someone else dying on my watch. Take your pick, your highness."
Alaric leaned a little closer, his voice low but steady. "Or maybe it's because you care more than you let on."
Her eyes snapped back to his, narrowing slightly. "Don't push your—"
Before she could finish her sentence, Alaric leaned forward, closing the gap between them. The words died on her lips as he captured them with his own in a kiss—firm, yet unhurried, carrying a gentleness that surprised her.
For a heartbeat, Lysandra froze, her mind racing as she tried to process what was happening. Part of her wanted to shove him away, to reassert the walls she'd built around herself, but another part—the part she kept buried—found herself leaning in ever so slightly.
The kiss was brief, ending before she could decide whether to pull him closer or push him away. When Alaric pulled back, his face was close enough for her to see the faint flush on his cheeks, though his expression remained steady.
"The real you is worth getting to know." he said softly, his voice barely above a whisper.
Lysandra blinked, her heart pounding as she searched his eyes for any hint of mockery or insincerity, but all she found was quiet passion. The realization unsettled her more than she wanted to admit.
"You've got some nerve," she muttered, her voice lower than usual. She reached for her cup, taking a long drink to mask the heat rising to her cheeks.
Alaric leaned back slightly, giving her space but keeping his gaze steady.
Lysandra slammed the cup down harder than necessary, glaring at him as she tried to regain her composure. "If you ever do that again without warning, I'll—"
"You'll what?" Alaric interrupted, his lips twitching into a faint smirk. "Pounch on me and put your blade to my throat again?"
Her glare deepened, but the corner of her lips twitched into a smile. "You're impossible."
"And yet, here we are," he said, raising his cup in a mock toast.
Lysandra huffed, crossing her arms as she leaned back in her chair, but the faintest smile betrayed her irritation. Alaric, ever observant, didn't miss the telltale curve of her lips. He leaned forward, resting his forearms on the table, his gaze steady and intent.
"You can keep pretending all you like," he said, his voice teasing but quiet enough to feel almost intimate amidst the festival's hum around them. "But that smile says more than you want it to."
She shot him a sharp look, though there was no real malice in it. "You're imagining things."
"Am I?" he countered, leaning just a fraction closer, his grin softening into something more genuine. "Because from where I'm sitting, you look like someone who's enjoying herself."
Lysandra scoffed, though the faint flush in her cheeks betrayed her. "Don't flatter yourself. I'm enjoying the ale, not your company."
Alaric chuckled, the sound warm and easy. "Ah, so it's the ale's doing? Then I suppose I'll owe the server a thank-you for getting me this far."
Her smirk widened, and she picked up her cup, swirling the remaining liquid before taking a long sip. She set it down with deliberate care, meeting his gaze head-on. "I'll admit, you're persistent. But don't mistake that for progress."
"Noted," he replied, his grin unfaltering. "But progress isn't always obvious, is it?"
She arched an eyebrow at him. "Is that supposed to be deep?"
"Maybe," he said, shrugging lightly. "Or maybe I'm just trying to figure you out."
Lysandra leaned forward slightly, her eyes narrowing as her tone turned sharper. "You think I'm some kind of puzzle for you to solve?"
"No," he said quickly, his tone serious now. "I think you're someone worth understanding. And I'd like the chance to try."
The sincerity in his voice gave her pause, and for a moment, she wasn't sure how to respond. She hated how easily he could throw her off balance, how he seemed to look past every wall she'd carefully built.
"Don't waste your time," she said finally, her voice quieter now. "You might not like what you find."
Alaric's expression softened, and he reached out, his hand brushing hers where it rested on the table. It wasn't a forceful gesture, just a quiet, steadying touch. "I'll take my chances," he said simply.