Married To Darkness
Chapter 320: The Scrying For Salviana

Chapter 320: The Scrying For Salviana

"Search again," he growled at a cluster of guards. "Now we’re searching every inch of the castle. Every chamber, every cellar — if you have to rip the stone from the walls, then do it."

The guards bowed and scattered, but it wasn’t enough. It wasn’t fast enough.

Alaric’s mind raced, dark thoughts twisting inside him. What if she was hurt? What if whoever took her had already...

No. He wouldn’t allow himself to think it.

He clenched his fists, his claws threatening to break through his skin.

His demon side was stirring — the part of him that didn’t understand patience or strategy, only destruction and blood.

It whispered to him: Burn this place down. Force them to return her.

But Alaric fought it back. He needed to think, not lose control.

"Where is a damn wizard or witch when I need one?" he muttered under his breath.

Lucius, still lingering a few steps behind, stepped forward cautiously. "Your Highness, there’s a witch in the eastern wing — Lady Ferys. She specializes in mirror-scrying. She might be able to..."

"Bring her," Alaric snapped without hesitation. "Now."

Lucius didn’t waste a second, vanishing down the corridor.

Alaric’s hands trembled, not from fear, but from the unbearable weight of helplessness. He was a prince, a warrior, a demon — and yet, in this moment, he felt powerless. The last time he’d felt this way was when his mother died — and he refused to feel that again.

He began pacing the corridor, his thoughts spiraling.

Salviana. His Salviana — the woman who made him forget his fury for a fleeting moment every time she smiled at him, the only person who could stand before him, unflinching, when his rage burned hot. She wasn’t just his wife; she was his anchor.

He needed her.

Minutes felt like hours before Lucius returned, an older woman in a flowing black gown at his side. Her white hair was coiled into a neat braid, and an obsidian mirror hung from her neck like a pendant.

"Your Highness," Lady Ferys said, her voice calm but firm. "I will do what I can, but mirror-scrying requires focus."

Alaric’s eyes were wild. "Then focus."

She bowed her head, and without another word, they moved to the nearest chamber, a darkened room lit only by the cold glow of the moon.

Lady Ferys placed the obsidian mirror on the table, her fingers tracing ancient runes along its edges. The glass rippled like liquid ink.

"Show me the lost one," she whispered.

Alaric’s breath was caught in his throat.

The mirror darkened, then shifted — the image was faint at first, but then he saw it: a small room, dimly lit by a single candle. And there she was.

Salviana.

Curled in darkness, her red hair loose around her pale face, her arms wrapped around herself. She looked... tired. Hurt. But alive.

Alaric’s entire body stilled. Relief hit him like a punch to the gut, but it was swallowed instantly by a new, searing fury.

"Where is that room?" he hissed. "Tell me."

Lady Ferys studied the background carefully — the old stone, the rusted iron bars. "It’s somewhere in the lower levels — the servant’s quarters, perhaps... or the old dungeons beneath the west wing."

Lucius was already halfway out the door. "I’ll gather the men."

Alaric didn’t wait.

He was going to get his wife back. And whoever had taken her... would wish they had never been born.

"She lies!"

The voice cracked like a whip against the tense silence, and the air in the chamber seemed to ripple with the force of it.

Everyone froze.

Alaric’s jaw tightened, his gaze snapping to the figure stepping from the shadowed corridor. Manni. The wizard coachman.

His cloak was a deep shade of green, tattered at the edges, and his silver hair gleamed under the pale moonlight like threads of starlight.

His aged face, lined with the weight of years and secrets, held a calm, unreadable expression as he bowed slightly to Alaric.

"Prince Alaric," Manni greeted, his voice softer now but still carrying a peculiar authority. "I couldn’t stand idle any longer."

Lady Ferys stiffened beside the obsidian mirror, her lips pressed into a thin line. "You dare call me a liar in the presence of the prince?"

"I dare," Manni replied smoothly. His cloudy eyes flickered to the mirror, still showing the image of Salviana curled by the window, her delicate form hunched in exhaustion. "Your sight is... clouded. Perhaps your magic is not as sharp as it once was."

The insult hung in the air like smoke.

Alaric’s patience, already threadbare, snapped. "Speak clearly, Manni. If you have something useful to say, say it."

Manni nodded. "I believe Lady Ferys’s scrying has led you astray."

The room bristled with tension.

"I see the princess," Manni continued, his voice steady but grave. "But not in a dungeon beneath the west wing. She is above. Suspended, somewhere higher. I sense air — thin and cold. There’s height... not the suffocating stone of the lower chambers."

Lucius frowned. "The towers?"

"Perhaps," Manni said, his gaze never leaving the mirror. "But every other thread of magic surrounding her is sealed. Blurred. Whoever took her knows how to mask their tracks."

Alaric’s heart pounded harder. This was worse than he thought. Not just an abduction, but a carefully planned one. Someone with power.

Lady Ferys’s voice quivered with restrained fury. "My magic does not lie. The mirror shows what is real."

"Or what you are meant to see," Manni countered. "I know what it feels like when magic bends the truth." He tapped his temple. "I was a wizard once, remember?"

The old rivalry between the two magic wielders crackled like static in the air.

Alaric ran a hand through his dark hair, his mind a storm of conflicting information.

Was his wife locked away in some forgotten dungeon, or trapped high above, somewhere isolated and unreachable?

Lucius, always the voice of practicality, spoke up. "We cannot waste time fighting over who’s right. If there’s even a chance the princess is in one of the towers, we have to search them."