Lysandra woke up the next morning in Alaric's bed. The faint golden light of dawn filtered through the cracks in the curtains, illuminating the clutter of their discarded weapons and clothing scattered across the wooden floor of the small inn room where Alaric had been staying.
She blinked groggily, her mind hazy as she tried to piece together the events of the night before. Everything came back in fragmented flashes—laughter over shared drinks, the tension between them snapping .
Lysandra shifted slightly, her body sore in places that reminded her just how much of the evening had been spent in the heat of passion. Alaric murmured something incoherent in his sleep, his breath warm against her neck as he tightened his grip around her waist. She froze for a moment, her heart skipping a beat as she stared at the strong arm draped over her.
Her sharp mind raced as she tried to figure out how to slip out of his grasp without waking him. Slowly, she tested his hold by inching her arm free, her movements deliberate and careful. His grip slackened slightly, and she bit back a triumphant smirk, knowing she was halfway there.
Her eyes darted to the scattered clothes on the floor, her tunic closest to the bed. She needed to reach it— she was naked and vulnerable, something she rarely allowed herself to be.
But as she shifted again, Alaric stirred, his arm pulling her closer with surprising strength even in his sleep. His voice was a low rumble, soft but firm, as he mumbled her name, "Lysandra…"
Her breath hitched, caught between the urge to stay and the instinct to flee. It was dangerous, this closeness, this trust that seemed to build without her consent. Every fiber of her being screamed that she needed to put distance between them.
Lysandra sighed, tension radiating through her body as she whispered sharply, "Alaric, it's morning."
He stirred again, his lashes fluttering briefly before his striking blue eyes opened. Sleep lingered in his gaze as he looked at her, a lazy smirk tugging at his lips. "Morning already?" he murmured, his voice rough and heavy with sleep. He didn't release her, his arm still firmly wrapped around her waist. If anything, he seemed to hold her tighter,never wanting to let go.
Lysandra's heart pounded, frustration and something else—something softer—twisting inside her. "Yes, and I need to get dressed," she said, her voice sharper than she intended. "Let me go."
Alaric chuckled low, the sound sending a shiver down her spine. "You always wake up this cranky?" he teased, though he loosened his hold just enough for her to slip out of his grasp. "I thought we had a good night."
Her face flushed as she scrambled to the edge of the bed, grabbing her tunic and pulling it over her head with practiced speed. "Don't get too comfortable, Alaric," she warned, her tone biting as she bent to grab her leggings. "This changes nothing."
Alaric propped himself up on one elbow, his gaze following her every move. "Changes nothing?" he repeated, amusement flickering across his face. "Forgive me, Lysandra, but I'd say last night changed quite a bit."
Lysandra glared at him, her hands trembling slightly as she laced her boots. "You're delusional if you think one night means anything," she snapped. "Alaric. Don't mistake this for something more."
He swung his legs over the edge of the bed, the sheet pooling around his hips. His eyes softened, but his smirk remained. "Keep telling yourself that," he said, his voice calm, almost teasing. "But I think you're afraid of what this could mean."
Her chest tightened, but she refused to let him see her falter. She straightened, pulling on her belt and fastening her dagger to her side. "What this means," she said coldly, "is that I made a mistake. One I don't intend to repeat."
Alaric's expression hardened, the teasing glint in his eyes replaced with something more serious. "You can lie to me all you want, Lysandra," he said quietly, his voice steady. "But you can't lie to yourself."
She didn't respond, her throat tightening as she turned away from him. Without another glance, she grabbed her cloak from the back of the chair and threw it over her shoulders. She needed to get out of that room—away from him.
"I'll see you later," she said over her shoulder, her voice colder than the steel of her blade.
Alaric watched her go, his jaw tightening as the door clicked shut behind her.
She moved down the hallway past a couple of royal knights and out of the inn. The cool morning air hit her face, but it did little to calm the storm raging inside her. She made her way back to the inn where the other Shadow Blades were staying—The Resting Hound—her hands clenched into fists at her sides as if to keep herself from unraveling.
Tears started to fall despite her efforts to hold them back. She furiously wiped at her face, willing the ache in her chest to subside. But the more she tried to suppress it, the harder the emotions clawed their way to the surface.
As she stepped into the common area of The Resting Hound, Kendall and Donall, seated at a table near the hearth, noticed her immediately. Kendall's brow furrowed as he tilted his head. "Lys, you alright?!"
Donall leaned forward, his sharp eyes scanning her face. "You've been crying?!"
Lysandra shot him a glare but didn't respond. Instead, she headed toward the stairs, her footsteps heavy and hurried. Reaching her room, she slammed the door shut behind her, the sound echoing through the quiet hall.
Her chest rose and fell as she leaned against the door for a moment, her fingers trembling as they gripped the wood. Pushing herself forward, she crossed the room to the water basin, her steps unsteady. She cupped the cool water in her hands and splashed it onto her face, letting it drip down her cheeks and neck.
She gripped the edges of the basin, staring at her reflection in the rippling water. Her red-rimmed eyes betrayed her, the weight of the previous night etched into every line of her face.
"Last night was just fun," she whispered, her voice hollow as she tried to convince herself. "Nothing else, nothing more."
She clenched her jaw, trying to bury the ache in her chest. "It doesn't matter. He doesn't matter."
But no matter how many times she repeated the words, they rang hollow, the truth refusing to stay buried. She could still feel the warmth of Alaric's arms, the way his voice softened when he murmured her name, and the dangerous comfort she'd allowed herself to feel with him.
Her grip on the basin tightened, her knuckles whitening as a surge of frustration bubbled to the surface. "Damn him," she muttered through clenched teeth, the tears threatening to return.
A loud knock at her door startled her. She wiped her face quickly, steeling herself as she moved cautiously to open it. Peering through the crack, she saw Roderic standing there, his expression stern, as always.
"Roderic," she said, opening the door a little wider but not stepping back completely.
He crossed his arms, his eyes narrowing slightly as he studied her. "Just checking to see if you've gotten anything useful from the prince," he said, his tone clipped. "Anything worth sharing?"
Lysandra straightened, her expression hardening. "Prince Alaric told me the king wanted him to seek out the Shadow Blades specifically," she said, her voice steady.
Roderic frowned, his gaze darkening. "Did he say why?"
Lysandra shook her head. "No, he doesn't know himself. He's just following his father's command."
Roderic's expression grew pensive as he rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "Hmm... maybe the warning you got about the King was meant to throw us off balance. Distract us, make us cautious. If we align our strength, abilities, and strategies with Volatira's forces, we could really give Eldren army hell at the northern border."
Lysandra straightened, her voice calm despite the unease simmering in her chest. "Do you still need me to stay close to him to find out more information?"
Roderic's gaze lingered on her for a moment, his sharp eyes searching for something beneath her composed exterior. Finally, he nodded. "Yes, to be on the safe side. There could be another angle at play—something we've yet to see. But it's nothing I wish to trouble you with at the moment, Lys."
Lysandra bit back the questions swirling in her mind and nodded. "Understood," she said, her tone even.
Roderic's lips twitched into a faint, approving smile. "Good. Now finish getting ready and hurry down to get some food in your belly before we leave. We've got a long road ahead, and I need you sharp."
She nodded again and watched as Roderic turned and strode away, his steps brisk and purposeful. Once the door closed behind him, Lysandra let out a breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding.
Her mind raced as she gathered her things, the weight of Roderic's words heavy on her shoulders. Staying close to Alaric wasn't just about gathering information anymore—it was about maintaining the delicate balance between loyalty and the dangerous pull she felt toward the prince.
Shaking her head, she splashed water on her face,she grabbed her cloak and headed downstairs.
The common area of the inn was bustling with activity, filled with few royal knights and Shadow Blades going over maps and planning the next leg of the trip. The low hum of their conversations filled the room, though it abruptly quieted as Lysandra entered. Conversations stopped mid-sentence, and eyes flickered her way, as if they had been discussing something they didn't want her to hear. A few of the knights exchanged uneasy glances, while the Shadow Blades remained expressionless, their silence practiced and deliberate.
Lysandra ignored the pause, her shoulders straight as she made her way to the food table. She grabbed a plate of bread, cheese, and dried meats, along with a cup of water, and then scanned the room for a place to sit. Most tables were occupied by clusters of knights and Shadow Blades, their conversations resuming in hushed tones as soon as she passed.
Spotting an empty table near the corner, she sat down, her back to the wall out of habit. She began eating, her movements methodical, though she couldn't help but notice the occasional glances being thrown her way.
As Lysandra took a sip of water, she noticed Kendall and Donall approaching her table, their expressions laced with concern and something else she couldn't quite place.
Kendall sat on the edge of the table, crossing his arms. "Is it true what the royal knights are saying?" he asked, his voice low but direct. "That you spent the night alone in his room—Prince Alaric's?"
Lysandra's grip tightened on her cup, but she forced her expression to remain neutral. "It's none of your business," she said flatly, avoiding their eyes as she tore off a piece of bread.
Donall sat across from her, leaning in with a frown. "Is that why you were so upset when you came back this morning?" he asked, his tone softer but no less concerned. "Did he make you do something you didn't want to?"
Her head snapped up, her eyes blazing. "No," she hissed, her voice sharp enough to cut through the low hum of the room. A few nearby conversations faltered, but she didn't care. "Alaric didn't make me do anything."
Donall leaned back slightly, his hands raised in a placating gesture. "Alright, alright," he said, his tone calming. "I just needed to know."
Kendall's gaze didn't waver, his concern evident. "You don't have to tell us everything, Lys," he said carefully. "But if something happened, if he tried anything—"
"Enough," Lysandra interrupted, her voice cold as ice. She glanced around, noticing the curious glances from some of the knights and Shadow Blades. Lowering her voice, she continued, "I can handle myself. I don't need either of you playing protectors."
Kendall and Donall exchanged a look before Kendall nodded, sliding off the table. "Fair enough," he said, though his voice carried a hint of doubt. "But you know we've got your back if you need it."
"I don't," she said firmly, her gaze steady.
Donall lingered for a moment longer before finally standing. "We just worry about you, Lys. That's all."
She watched as the two of them walked away, the tension in her shoulders easing only slightly. She could still feel the weight of the stares around the room, the whispers that would inevitably follow.