The castle was silent, drowned in shadows, its torchlight burning low as the night stretched deep into its belly. King Alaric moved quickly through the halls, each step echoing sharper than he intended. He should not be here. He knew it, felt it in the tightening of his chest and the way his palm brushed over the cold stones of the wall as if to remind himself of his station. Yet his feet carried him forward, faster, betraying his resolve.

For years, he had walked these same halls with measured dignity, his pace calm, his presence steady, a king of composure. But tonight—tonight his stride was restless, hungry, almost reckless. He did not care if a guard or servant might glimpse him slipping through these corridors at such an hour. Desire drowned caution.

By the time he reached her chamber door, his breath was uneven. His hand lingered only for a heartbeat before he pushed it open, the heavy wood groaning. The door swung wide, and he all but burst into the room.

She stood at the window, her figure bathed in the pale light of the moon that streamed through the parted drapes. Her hair—silver as winter frost—spilled over her shoulders in soft waves, catching the glow so that it shimmered like a veil spun of moonlight itself. She wore crimson silk draped around her waist, clinging as though it envied her skin, and a black bodice that revealed the curve of her waist, the rise and fall of her breath. A jeweled necklace rested at her throat, glittering faintly, though its radiance was nothing compared to the warmth in her eyes.

When she turned to him, her lips curved into a smile. Not coy, not calculating—warm, genuine, as though she had been waiting for him, as though she had known he would come.

“Alaric,” she breathed, his name spilling from her lips like a secret too sweet to contain.

He stopped only a few steps inside the chamber, his hand gripping the doorframe behind him as though he needed the steadiness. His chest rose and fell with the effort of holding himself still. He had sworn to himself he would not come again, not so soon, not so openly. And yet here he was, undone by a smile.

“You… you shouldn’t look at me like that,” he said hoarsely. His voice, so often controlled, faltered now in the silence of the room.

Her head tilted, her silver hair tumbling across her shoulder as she studied him. “And yet you came. Faster than last time.” Her words were light, playful, but her gaze burned.

He took a step toward her, then another, as though each pace stripped him of another layer of resolve. “Do you know what I risk by being here?”

Her smile softened. She turned fully toward him, leaving the moonlight behind to face him in the dim glow of the fire still smoldering in the hearth. “Yes. But still, you came.”

Alaric let out a ragged breath. He closed the distance at last, his hand finding her cheek, his thumb brushing against her skin as though he needed to feel her warmth to believe she was real. She leaned into his touch, eyes closing briefly, lashes fanning against her skin.

“You haunt me,” he whispered. “When I sit in council, when I lie beside her—” He stopped himself, shame tightening his throat.