Married To Darkness
Chapter 325: The Window With Seventh Princess

Chapter 325: The Window With Seventh Princess

Her expression was calm, almost too calm — like a glass surface hiding unseen depths beneath.

For a heartbeat, Alaric said nothing. His shoulders rose and fell with a slow breath. Then, at last, he bit his lip — hard — and gave a single, curt nod.

But his fury didn’t dissipate. It merely coiled tighter.

As his gaze swept the table, something gnawed at him — not everyone was here.

"Where are Warren and Jaron?" Alaric asked, his voice cutting through the murmurs.

A beat of silence.

Then, Lawrence, the king’s brother and Warren’s father, was the first to answer. "Warren left last night," he said with a small, satisfied smile. "He went to fetch a witch doctor for Rose — she fell ill again."

His smile widened, a little too pleased with his son’s sense of duty. "He left after defeating Jaron in a friendly game."

A few of the nobles struggled — and failed — to hold back laughter. Their poorly muffled chuckles echoed in the hall, making the tension twist into something darker.

Did Lawrence really have to mention Jaron’s failure?

Alaric’s mouth twitched — not in amusement, but in growing suspicion.

His gaze shifted across the table, landing on Irene — Jaron’s wife.

She was stiff. Too still. Her hand clutched the hem of her silk gown, knuckles white, her lips slightly parted as if about to speak but holding back.

"And Jaron?" Alaric asked, his voice low, slicing through the whispers.

Irene’s face paled.

She blinked too many times before answering. "He’s... still in our room," she said, her voice a thin thread. "Sleeping. He... couldn’t leave."

It sounded like a lie.

Princess Abigail, seated across from Irene, tilted her head with a slight frown — not enough to cause a scene, but enough for Alaric to notice.

He narrowed his eyes.

His lips curled into a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. "Do what you will," he said slowly, "but I’ll be waiting outside."

With that, Alaric turned on his heel — his cloak swirling behind him — and strode out of the hall, leaving behind a thick silence and a table full of people suddenly too afraid to meet each other’s gazes.

~~{─────────

Morning.

Unknown Location.

Wyfn-Garde

~~~~~~~~~~~~~}~~~

However,

Salviana had been struggling with the window burglary since she woke up.

As she continued she heard footsteps and paused abruptly, then with heaving chest she sat down, smoothing the folds of her gown and forcing her trembling fingers to still.

Dust clung to her hair and coated the air, making her nose twitch — but she dared not sneeze.

Her heart thundered like a war drum, each beat a reminder that she was teetering on the edge of danger.

She heard his footsteps again.

Calm. Be calm.

The window— damn the window— it was still open!

Her pulse spiked as she rushed back, dragging it shut with a muted creak.

She didn’t have time to clean the dust she’d disturbed — the wall still shivered from her violent struggle with the iron bars — but there was no fixing that now.

The door swung open.

He stepped inside. Cloaked. Hooded. The air around him rippled — like a shadow that didn’t quite belong.

The light of noon slanted through the cracks of the room, illuminating the dust motes floating between them.

He stilled, then frowned.

The sound of his soft inhale made her stomach drop.

"Why is it so dusty in here?" he asked, voice flat, as though this was merely an observation — like it wasn’t her prison, his trap.

Salviana’s nerves gnawed at her insides, but she lifted her chin.

With a bold roll of her eyes, she replied, "It’s your prison. Why is it dusty?"

His head tilted slightly. There was a pause — too long to be normal — before he let out a slow exhale.

"You still have energy, I see," he said, the corners of his mouth barely visible beneath his hood. "I was thinking of bringing you breakfast."

"I want nothing from you," she bit back, her voice sharper now, but not enough to betray the war happening inside her mind.

A silence thick enough to choke on.

Then —

"I see you’re enjoying your stay."

There was a mocking lilt to his words, like he found this entire situation amusing — her rage, her defiance, her fear.

He stepped further into the room, his shadow stretching long across the floor.

Salviana stiffened, but he didn’t come closer. Instead, he reached into the folds of his cloak and pulled out a small, rusted can.

He placed it on the ground — the metallic clink echoing too loudly in the quiet.

"Well," he said, his voice smooth as silk, "if you wish to take a piss... here."

Her lips parted slightly in shock.

What the hell?

The casual cruelty of it stunned her — not because she expected kindness but because of how chill he was.

He was in control. And he knew it.

But then — something else.

As he turned to leave, his hand lingering on the door, he added — almost too softly —

"While you’re at it... maybe you’ll fall seriously ill. Suffer a bit with your husband once you finally crawl back to him."

And with that, he was gone.

The door shut behind him.

Salviana simply stared at the can, her heart still hammering against her ribs.

Why was he so calm? So sure of himself?

He knew she’d leave eventually.

But that’s what terrified her most.

He had magic here. She didn’t know its limits — or his.

She stood up again and headed for the window.

She needed to leave here.

She’d been pulling it since trying to get it to remove so she can reach the barrier easier.

Salviana’s fingers curled tightly around the cold iron bars, her knuckles turning white as she pulled—no, yanked—with all her strength.

The rough metal bit into her palms, but she didn’t care.

The only thing louder than the rattle of the burglary bars was the sound of her own ragged breathing, sharp and fast, like a wild animal cornered.