He exhaled a trembling breath against her hair.
"Thank you," he whispered to no one in particular.
He moved fast.
Past the Nerium castle guards who opened the ancient archways without a word. Past the violet glass doors veined with gold that told the old stories of gods and mortal kings. His boots echoed on marble in the silence of his haste, the weight of her body reminding him with every breath that the line had been crossed and that there was no going back.
She was here now and all of Achyron would feel the ripple of that choice.
At the entrance hall, a figure stepped forward, a young female warrior clad in deep blue leathers, golden braids twisted into a crown around her head. A sword hung at her hip, a golden pin gleaming at her collar, a mark of her noble birth.
“Your highness,” she said, with a bow — voice calm, though her blue eyes flicked to the unconscious girl in his arms. “The Veil Breaker.”
Alarik gave a single nod. “Keep her safe.”
The woman bowed. “Of course. I’ve prepared the coastal chambers.”
He inclined his head. “Thank you, Serenya.”
Serenya, daughter of House Kareth, noble-born, blade-trained, loyal to a fault. She would guard Maris with her life. He’d made sure, forcing the warrior to pledge a blood oath to the mortal woman.
“See that she wakes surrounded by warmth,” he said.
Serenya stepped closer, her expression softening as she reached to take Maris from him. “I’ll stay with her until she wakes.”
“No,” he said quickly, tightening his grip.
“I’ll carry her myself.”
And he did.
Through the maze of polished stone and flickering crystal sconces, past towering archways and stained-glass windows that bathed the halls in amethyst light. To the guest wing carved from the southern cliff-face, where sea air drifted in through enchanted glass and the wind sang lullabies in tongues forgotten by men.
He laid Maris on the silk-sheeted bed and brushed a strand of hair from her cheek. For a moment, he just —looked. Even in unconsciousness, she was radiant.
Not just beautiful, but shining. Like the gods had stitched her together from threads of starlight and storm and handed her over to be the final turning key in the lock of fate.
“I hope you understand,” he whispered.
Then he stepped away as Serenya entered quietly with salves and linens.
“Will she wake soon?” the warrior asked, kneeling at the bedside.
“She will before sunrise, I only gave her a small dose of sleeping elixir,” Alarik said. “But keep her calm when she does.”
“And her king?” Serenya questioned.
Alarik turned, eyes hard. “Will burn if he tries to take her back.”
Zairon was waiting for him in the war chamber.
The golden-eyed warrior stood by the massive map table, the edges lined with carved citadels, moving markers of light and shadow flickering over the coasts. He turned as Alarik entered, blood-splattered and ragged.
“You did it,” Zairon said, voice low. “Gods bless… you actually stole her.”
Alarik nodded grimly.
Zairon crossed his arms. “How bad?”
