Married To Darkness
Chapter 330: The Resounding Slap and Whisper

Chapter 330: The Resounding Slap and Whisper

"Speak," Alaric growled. "Or the next time you blink, we’ll be in the dungeons."

Jaron’s voice cracked as he tried to steady himself. "I—I felt like a loser after losing to Warren during the king’s grand birthday," he muttered, shifting his weight from foot to foot. "So I found a place to hide for a while—"

"Liar," Alaric scoffed, his fury barely contained wildfire. His jaw clenched so tightly his teeth ached. "So you mean to tell me Salviana followed you to your sulking hole?"

Jaron’s lips parted, but his gaze flickered—once, twice—before he answered. "No! I... I passed through your chambers," he rushed out, too quick, too defensive. "Her smell must’ve... lingered on me. That’s all. You’re the only one who can perceive it, Alaric—it’s a baseless argument."

Alaric’s laugh was short, dark. "A baseless argument?" His voice was smooth as steel—calm, collected—but his black eyes burned. "You reek of my wife’s scent, Jaron. And you want me to believe it simply clung to you like a passing breeze?"

Jaron’s throat bobbed again.

"Alright then," Alaric said, taking a step closer. "If you have nothing to hide... follow me."

Jaron blinked. "W-Where—"

Alaric’s smile was a cruel slash. "I’ll force the words out of you."

The corridor seemed to shrink around them as tension clawed at the air—thick, unrelenting.

Jaron’s silence wasn’t just suspicious—it was damning.

As Alaric grabbed Jaron and started to drag him when suddenly footsteps rushed towards them and suddenly the sound of a slap rang in the hall.

The kings first concubine; Audrey had just slapped Alaric.

The slap echoed through the corridor like a crack of thunder.

Alaric’s head barely moved, but the sting of Audrey’s palm bit into his cheek—hot, sharp. Time itself seemed to pause, the air heavy with disbelief.

"How dare you?" Audrey hissed, standing between her son and Alaric, her chest rising and falling with fury. "You abuse your power, Alaric! Dragging my son like some criminal—have you lost all sense of reason?"

Jaron swallowed hard, his hand going to his arm where Alaric’s grip had been. His mother’s presence was a shield, a temporary one, but a shield nonetheless.

Alaric said nothing.

He didn’t move.

Didn’t blink.

His silence wasn’t one of restraint—it was a suffocating, perilous quiet.

The kind that signaled a storm.

His jaw clenched once. Twice. His knuckles whitened at his sides.

Then—

His heart thudded.

Loud.

Too loud.

His breath caught in his throat as something cold and desperate rushed through him.

A whisper.

Her whisper.

Salviana.

The sound was faint, a ghost of a voice, undecipherable—but his blood knew it. His bones knew it. His very soul recognized the call.

Alaric’s head jerked slightly, his black eyes scanning the empty hall. His heart pounded again, as if trying to guide him—to pull him toward her.

But the whisper was gone.

No... no...

"Salviana," he murmured, his voice hoarse, barely a sound at all.

Jaron and Audrey exchanged a glance—confusion mixed with fear—but Alaric ignored them.

His wife had spoken.

Somewhere.

She was alive.

She was close.

"Call me again," he whispered into the silence, his jaw tight with longing.

Then came the steady thud of boots—an approach that held authority and displeasure alike.

The king.

Alaric’s gaze sharpened, but his mind remained half-elsewhere—half with her.

Where was she?

And why did her voice sound like it came from behind a wall of magic?

Alaric’s mind spun like a raging storm.

He knew of magic walls—had heard the old legends of Egasrae, the kingdom of witchcraft and spells. They spoke of barriers woven with ancient magic, of voices trapped behind unseen veils, bound and distant like faint echoes in the wind.

His travels through the kingdoms had taught him more than just politics and battle strategies—they had shown him the strange, the mystical, the unexplainable.

So why did his wife’s voice—his Salviana—sound like it was coming from behind one of those very walls?

Bound.

Trapped.

Where are you? his heart screamed.

He clenched his jaw, every muscle in his body straining as if ready to break through stone itself—

But before he could march ahead—

"Enough."

The king’s voice was a low rumble, a command that filled the corridor.

Alaric stopped, his fists still clenched at his sides.

King Gideon, tall and imposing, stood there—a man of both regal authority and simmering displeasure. His golden robes rippled with every step he took, the crown atop his head catching the faint torchlight like a burning sun. His presence was a reminder—he wasn’t just a father, a husband, a man.

He was king.

"You forget yourself," Gideon’s voice was steady, but there was an edge to it—a blade hidden beneath the velvet of his words. "Dragging a prince like a common criminal? Defying me in my own castle? Are you a ruler in your own right or merely a rabid dog set loose?"

A murmur ran through the gathered crowd—maids, knights, nobles—whispered words they thought too quiet to be heard.

Alaric didn’t flinch. He didn’t blink.

He didn’t even breathe.

The king stepped closer. "Your wife is missing. We are all aware of it. But this—this—is not how you find her."

Jaron’s mother, Audrey, still stood stiffly beside her son, her chin high, her palm probably still tingling from the slap she’d delivered. Jaron himself looked down, his jaw tight—not in guilt, but in the discomfort of being caught in the middle.

King Gideon’s voice lowered, dangerous now. "You will stand down, Alaric. Or I will remind you whose kingdom this is."

A threat.

The weight of it settled like cold iron between them.

Silence.

But inside Alaric—there was no silence.

There was chaos.

His wife’s whisper still echoed in his mind, and every word from the king felt like a barrier keeping him from her.

He wanted to rip through every wall, every person standing between him and her.

But for now—

He swallowed the storm in his chest and lifted his chin.

"As you wish, Your Majesty," he said softly.

But his black eyes blazed with a warning of their own.

He wasn’t done.

Not even close.