Married To Darkness
Chapter 265: The Fainting Goat King

Chapter 265: The Fainting Goat King

After sealing the letter with his personal crest, Alaric took a deep breath, standing from his desk. He closed his eyes, focusing his energy, and in a flash of light, he disappeared from the room.

The air was warm and heavy in the king’s private chambers. The soft hum of a lute being played by one of the court entertainers was abruptly cut off as Alaric materialized in the center of the room.

"Your Majesty—" Alaric began.

The king, seated on a cushioned divan, took one look at the sudden appearance of the prince and gasped dramatically, clutching his chest. His golden goblet clattered to the floor, spilling wine across the polished stone.

"Oh! What sorcery is this?" the king cried before his eyes rolled back, and with a theatrical groan, he fainted, sliding sideways into the pillows.

Alaric stood there, utterly unimpressed. He crossed his arms, looking down at the king with a mixture of irritation and resignation. "For heaven’s sake," he muttered. "Theatrics again."

"I merely teleported in. It’s not my fault the man has the constitution of a fainting goat." Alaric sighed

The king stirred, his eyes fluttering open as he blinked at Alaric. "Why... why must you appear like that, Alaric?" he moaned, sitting up with great effort. "You could send a messenger. You know I dislike surprises."

Alaric didn’t bother hiding his smirk. "I thought kings were supposed to be fearless. My apologies for startling you, Your Majesty."

The king huffed, waving a dismissive hand. "What is it you want this time? I’m assuming it’s urgent if you’ve come barging in like this."

"It is," Alaric replied, producing the folded letter and extending it to the king. "A proposal for your consideration. Regarding the princesses and Margaretha."

The king took the letter hesitantly, glancing at Alaric with suspicion. "This wouldn’t involve more headaches for me, would it?"

"On the contrary," Alaric said smoothly. "If approved, it might actually solve a few."

The king began reading, his brows furrowing as he scanned the contents. Alaric watched him closely, the smirk still lingering on his face. He wasn’t sure if the king would approve, but he relished the look of intrigue mixed with irritation that danced across the man’s face.

"Hmm," the king said after a moment. "Interesting... but also reckless."

Alaric shrugged. "Reckless plans often yield the best results, don’t they?"

The king sighed deeply, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Fine. I’ll think about it. But if this causes chaos, I’ll be holding you responsible, Alaric."

Alaric inclined his head, the ghost of a grin still playing on his lips. "As always, Your Majesty."

With that, he turned and exited the chamber in a teleportation like he came, leaving the king to mutter about troublesome princes and their wild ideas.

No one knew he came here and no one would believe the king.

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Salviana’s brush glided effortlessly over the canvas, her strokes quick yet deliberate, capturing the hauntingly ethereal face of a woman. She didn’t know who this woman was, yet she felt compelled to bring her to life.

The urge to paint had been overwhelming that morning, and she had surrendered to it completely. Her heart thrummed with each brushstroke, as if the painting itself carried a pulse, a life of its own.

The woman’s face was striking—delicate but powerful, with sharp cheekbones and eyes that seemed to hold a thousand secrets. Salviana furrowed her brows. Who are you? she wondered silently. She was certain she didn’t know this face, yet it felt familiar, almost divine.

The soft tickle of her hair brushing against her neck as a gentle breeze swept through the room broke her concentration. She sighed, setting her brush down and reaching up to gather her loose strands into a quick twist. Her fingers worked deftly, pinning her hair up before returning to her easel.

Just as she dipped the brush back into the vibrant blue, a knock came at the door.

Salviana frowned. She didn’t want to be disturbed, not now, not when she was in the middle of a divine moment. She ignored it, hoping whoever it was would go away.

The knock came again, more insistent this time, followed by Thalia’s soft, apologetic voice. "My lady, it’s the dressmaker Spur Stanley and his apprentice, Monica. They’ve come for your fitting."

Salviana sighed, reluctant to pull herself away from the canvas. The painting seemed to call to her, begging to be finished. But duty, as always, prevailed. She pushed herself up, wiping her hands on a cloth before walking to the door.

Opening it, she was greeted by the ever-exuberant Spur Stanley, a stout man with a flamboyant air. His coat was an explosion of colors, the buttons glinting like tiny jewels in the morning light. Monica, his young apprentice, stood beside him, holding a bundle of fabrics in her arms. She looked nervous but excited, her eyes darting around the room in fascination.

"My lady!" Spur exclaimed, his voice rich with theatrical flair. "You look positively radiant this morning. The rain must have done wonders for the air—it’s as though it’s blessed your very being!"

Salviana blinked, stifling a chuckle at his dramatic tone. "Good afternoon, Spur. Let’s see what you have for me."

"Ah, always to the point," Spur said with a grin, motioning for Monica to follow him inside. "Come, come! We’ve brought the most exquisite designs for your royal wardrobe. Monica, lay them out!"

Monica hurried forward, carefully spreading the fabrics across a nearby table. The colors were bold and rich—deep crimson, royal blue, shimmering gold. Spur began unfurling sketches of dresses, each one intricate and dazzling, describing them with sweeping gestures and an endless stream of compliments.

"This, my lady," he said, pointing to a dress with cascading layers of midnight-blue silk, "is inspired by the stars themselves! Imagine you, walking into court, the very embodiment of the night sky."

"And this one," Monica chimed in softly, her voice trembling with nerves, "is... um... inspired by the dawn. It’s light and airy, with soft hues..."

Spur glanced at her, clearly proud of her contribution. "Yes! The dawn! A perfect contrast to the night sky. You’ll have the court in awe, my lady."

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