Paser’s grin widened as he poured another glass of wine. “Ah, Your Majesty, you should know—this town isn’t just quiet streets and tidy gardens. Blackmoor has the most… reputable crowd of companions you’ll find anywhere.”

  Alaric raised an eyebrow. “Reputable?”

  Paser laughed, leaning back in his chair. “Indeed. Skilled, clever, and not shy about their talents. Some say they outshine even the proper courtly ladies of the capital. Of course, one must have the wit to handle them. Not everyone can.”

  Alaric remained silent, letting the words hang. Paser’s tone wasn’t vulgar, exactly—more teasing, provocative. And as always, impossible to tell where he might lead next.

  He stood up, dusting his sleeve. “Come on, Your Majesty! Your riders can stay at my place tonight, and for you… I’ll throw a proper party!”

  Alaric didn’t even get a chance to respond. Paser whispered something to a servant, then practically dragged him back to his seat, pouring him wine again. “Trust me,” Paser said with a grin, “this will be the craziest night you’ve had in years.”

  Before long, Alaric felt a warmth spreading through him—a slight dizziness from the wine. He tried to pause, tried to refuse another glass, but each time, Paser found some excuse to pour again.

  If his mother hadn’t died… if he had stayed in the capital… would he have ended up like Paser? A spoiled prince with nothing to care about but pleasure?

  Was this the life he had missed?

  It was awkward for Alaric to see—and live—a life like this. He looked out the window. Darkness had fully fallen, and all his riders had settled in the side rooms around the castle. It felt too late to leave, and he couldn’t even think of a plausible excuse to escape.

  “Thank you for organizing the party for me,” Alaric said carefully, “but I guess I’m still not very used to this lifestyle. Since not many people have been bothered, I think I’ll return to my room… if you can guide me there.”

  A party? In his memory, a party meant a crowd—laughter, music, people everywhere. Yet here, it was just him and Paser, with perhaps a few companions scattered around. Could this really count as a party? Paser was kind, even generous, but everything still felt… strange.

  Paser didn’t insist. Instead, he passed Alaric another glass. “Your Majesty, after this one, I’ll lead you to your room.”

  Alaric finished the wine, and Paser smirked. Together, they walked to a room with a very special door.

  “Please, Your Majesty,” Paser said, “your party is for you.”

  He opened the door.

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  A pair of hands suddenly touched his own—from inside the room.

  Alaric felt himself pulled forward, guided by those hands into the room before he could properly react.

  And when he finally saw who it was, he froze.

  It was the woman in the red dress he had seen earlier.

  The door closed behind him. A moment later, he heard Paser’s footsteps retreating down the corridor

  The room was dim, lit only by low candles that cast warm shadows across the walls. The woman stood close, closer than propriety allowed, her fingers still resting lightly on his sleeve. Her gaze never left his face.

  Her lips moved nearer.

  Not hurried. Not forceful.

  Slow enough that Alaric noticed everything—the faint scent of wine and something floral, the quiet rise and fall of her breath, the way her expression searched his, as if waiting for him to pull away.

  He didn’t.

  His mind told him he should step back. That he should speak. That this was foolish, dangerous, unfamiliar.

  Yet his body remained still.

  So close now that he could feel her warmth, her breath brushing against his cheek, her lips hovering just short of his own. The space between them felt charged, fragile, as if a single word—or touch—would shatter it.

  Her fingers slipped from his hand and traced a slow, deliberate path to his throat, lingering there for a heartbeat before gliding down the center of his chest. Each touch felt impossibly warm, as though her skin carried heat of its own. She began to unbutton his clothes, one by one, her movements unhurried yet confident, drawing him backward until the edge of the bed met his knees.

  Alaric barely had time to breathe, let alone react. His thoughts scattered, his body burning as if he were seated too close to an open flame—too warm, too aware, too alive.

  And then, suddenly, another face surfaced in his mind.

  Lyanna.

  He wondered if her hands were this soft. If her touch would feel gentler—or more dangerous still. He imagined her breath, her lips, and the thought struck him with a sharp, aching clarity that made his chest tighten.

  He let himself fall back onto the bed.

  The woman followed, resting her head lightly against his chest. He could feel the rise and fall of her breathing, slow and steady, as if she were listening to his heart. She lifted her gaze to meet his, her expression searching, patient, waiting.

  Alaric stared back, caught between heat and memory, desire and something far more fragile.

  Then, suddenly, she pulled away.

  “I’m sorry, Your Majesty,” she cried out, her voice breaking. “I can’t… I can’t do this.”

  Tears spilled freely now. She didn’t wait for his response. In a rush of movement and rustling fabric, she fled the room, the door opening and closing in hurried succession before Alaric could even gather himself enough to speak.

  He lay there, staring at the canopy above the bed.

  An overwhelming exhaustion washed over him—far deeper than wine or travel could explain. His limbs felt heavy, his thoughts slow and distant. He did not rise to follow her. He did not call her name or ask why.

  He simply closed his eyes.

  Sleep claimed him almost at once.

  ?

  Elsewhere in the castle, Paser stood alone in his private chamber.

  He let out a quiet scoff, a cold sound of contempt. “Stupid woman.”

  Between his fingers, a small piece of paper curled as flame crept across its surface. He watched without emotion as most of it turned to ash, drifting down into a waiting tray.

  Only one corner remained, burning slowly.

  On it was a single name.

  Marielle.

  He waited until even that was gone.

  ?

  That same night, long after the candles had dimmed and the corridors had fallen silent, a body was dragged out of Paser’s castle through a servant’s passage.

  Some knowledge was not meant to linger.

  ?

  Alaric knew nothing of this.

  Lost in sleep, his mind had already wandered far from Blackmoor.

  And so the night passed. Quietly.