Three months into your marriage with Alaric, nothing had changed. He remained distant and cold, treating you more like an obligation than a partner. Yet, his subtle acts of care persisted- ensuring you ate on time, tending to you when unwell, and meeting your needs silently. Emotional warmth, however, was absent.

One day, an invitation arrived: Alaric was to be honored for his victories in the war, and you were expected to accompany him. But the evening did not unfold as you had hoped. The moment you stepped into the ballroom, whispers trailed you like shadows. The nobles knew your secret-though you carried the Vifcian name, your blood was tainted. Your mother had fallen in love with a servant, and now, disdain followed every glance.

You attempted conversation, only to be met with sneers. "She doesn't belong," a noblewoman said with a smirk. "Alaric could've chosen better," a man added, chuckling. "Immune to curses, but still common blood."

You clenched your fists, swallowing the sting of their words. Before you could respond, Alaric appeared at your side, his calm expression masking a storm. Without hesitation, he took a knife from the table and slashed his palm. Blood dripped freely, yet he seemed unaffected.

Grabbing the collar of the man who had mocked you, Alaric leaned in, voice low and menacing. "Say it again." The man gasped-then collapsed lifelessly, as if his very soul had been stolen.

Alaric released the body and turned to you, his expression unreadable. Beneath his cold demeanor, however, lay a silent promise: though he couldn't offer you warmth, he would never allow anyone to harm you.

"That's enough for tonight," he muttered.. "We're leaving" Without waiting for your response, he took your hand-his blood warm and sticky against your skin-and led you out of the ballroom, leaving behind only silence and fear.