Leif was quiet for a long moment. “If I were to guess,” he said finally, “the file proved Bjorn’s marriage to Vidar’s mother.” He paused. “And it also proved Vidar’s disinheritance. Bjorn must have known Vidar wasn’t his son.”
Alaric nodded once. “And yet Vidar didn’t. He killed our fatherfor nothing.”
He rose more slowly this time, the scrape of the chair against the floor the only sound in the room. “I’m returning to Sera,” he said, voice even, final. “There will be no interruptions.”
Magnus swore under his breath. “Alaric—” He broke off, pacing half a step before forcing the words out anyway. “You know there’s still a question hanging there. The file. Sera might have—”
Alaric turned then, just enough. His expression didn’t change. His voice didn’t rise. “She said she didn’t do it. That’s all the proof I need.”
Leif acknowledged him with a single word, quiet and final. “Understood.”
Alaric didn’t look back as he left. The door closed behind him with a quiet finality.
For a moment, neither brother spoke.
Magnus let out a long breath and scrubbed a hand over his face. “He’s in fucking deep,” he said at last, the resignation in his voice unmistakable. “Thank the good Lord above I’m not Branded.”
SERA STOOD IN THE BEDROOMdoorway with her suitcase upright at her side, the zipper pulled tight enough tobite.
The room still held echoes of them, no matter how normal it looked at first glance. The faint memory of Alaric’s weight on the bed, his arms holding her when she’d whispered that she loved him, the night they hadn’t just had sex but made love, slow and devastating. It should’ve felt emptied, but instead it was full of ghosts, and the ache of them pressed low and sharp behind herribs.
She’d already decided how this would end and she doubted he’d say anything to change that ending.
Her coat was on. Her boots were laced. Her pulse sat low and steady, the way it did when she braced for impact. She wasn’t crying. She wasn’t shaking. She’d learned the hard way that hope made a mess of things. Better to be ready.
Alaric been given no proof. That was the truth that mattered. He was a man who trusted systems. He trusted outcomes. He trusted what could be verified. And she loved him anyway.
That love had been her mistake.
She rested her hand on the suitcase handle and let the significance of the moment settle. Leaving without a final conversation would’ve been easier. Cleaner. But it would’ve been cowardly. She owed herself the truth, even if ithurt.
Footsteps sounded in thehall.
Unhurried. Certain.
Her spine straightened. She didn’tturn.
The steps stopped just inside the doorway. She sensed him there like a shift inpressure, the air changing density around her. He didn’t speak right away. He never rushed moments that mattered.
“Sera.”
Her name landed low and steady, not sharp, not gentle. She turned then and met hisgaze.
He took her in in a single sweep—coat on, suitcase packed, posture composed. Something dark flickered through his eyes, gone almost before she could name it. Not surprise. Understanding. The kind that cut. As if the sight of her packed and braced told him exactly how close he’d come to losing her. Not losing her to doubt or distance, but to his own hesitation. To the fact that she’d been ready to walk away rather than stand still and be judged again.
“I didn’t know if you’d stay,” hesaid.
“I didn’t know if I should,” she replied.
Silence stretched. Thick. Waiting.
She drew a breath. “You weren’t given any proof.”
“No, Iwasn’t.”The calmness of the answer startled her. She’d been braced for logic. For explanation. For conditions.
Her grip tightened on the suitcase handle anyway.”So,” she said quietly. “This is the part where you tell me what you can live with.”
He took one step forward.She’d expected words.Instead, he reached past her, took the suitcase by the handle, and tossed it aside.Just like that.The case skidded across the floor, tipped on its side, dismissedwithout ceremony.
