Married To Darkness
Chapter 436: I love you before they Split

Chapter 436: I love you before they Split

"You’re making a mistake," Sebastian warned, the cockiness slipping just slightly.

"No, you are," Alaric shot back. "You’re strong. Witch-strong. But don’t forget—I am strong too and you don’t know which strong I am. You don’t know my strength level, Sebastian"

The tension snapped taut. But Sebastian only laughed.

"I’m only agreeing to this because I know I’ll see Thalia again," he said smoothly. "That’s the only reason I haven’t turned you all to ash."

"Tell yourself whatever makes you sleep at night," Alaric sassed, his smile cold.

The knights bowed and turned to leave. Sebastian lingered for a beat, then glanced over his shoulder.

"So we’re good?" he asked.

Alaric didn’t answer. His silence was answer enough.

Sebastian rolled his eyes. "Right. I’ll go find my damsel then."

He exited, his cloak trailing behind him like a whisper of smoke.

Once he was gone, Alaric finally exhaled, alone now with the weight of too many lies. He rubbed his temple, pacing slowly.

He never thought the king would react so violently to Jaron’s death. A "stupid son," Alaric had once called him. Reckless, cruel... but still royal blood. Still a son.

And now Alaric had lied to his own wife about it all.

He told Salviana he found Jaron dying. But the truth...

He’d watched the light leave Jaron’s eyes as he poured the last of the wine down the prince’s throat. Poisoned. Intentional.

Jaron had laughed at first. Alaric hadn’t.

Now, guilt gnawed at him beneath his armor, deep and festering.

Everything was spiraling faster than he could control.

The king wanted blood.

And Alaric didn’t know how long he could keep everyone alive—especially with the truth ready to catch up to him.

He stood in the room, quiet and still, the weight of his choices pressing down like a second set of armor. His thoughts spiraled—Jaron’s death, the king’s fury, the lies he’d fed Salviana to keep her safe. It all wrapped around him like smoke, suffocating, bitter.

Then came the warmth of familiar fingers brushing his shoulder.

"Alaric... are you okay?" Salviana asked softly, her voice delicate but laced with concern.

He turned to her slowly, eyes heavy but softening the moment they met hers. The storm behind his gaze flickered, tamed only by her presence.

"My fiery wife," he murmured with a faint smile, the endearment falling from his lips like a prayer. He leaned down and pressed a kiss to her temple, then her lips—deep and grounding.

"I’m okay," he whispered against her skin. "But if I weren’t... I think you’d be the reason I keep pretending to be."

She pulled back slightly, studying his face with narrowed eyes. "Alaric, don’t lie to me. I know when you’re spinning thoughts like thread."

"I’m not lying," he said, holding her hands between his. "Just... shielding."

"From me?" she asked.

"From everything," he admitted. "But I need you to know something."

"What?"

He cupped her cheeks gently, brushing a thumb along her jaw. "I love you. Fiercely. Stupidly. Endlessly. No matter what happens when we return to that cursed castle... know that I loved you first."

Salviana blinked, then laughed through a crack of emotion. "Yes, yes, and I love you too, my fire prince," she replied, pulling him into a tight embrace. "You’re not getting rid of me even if you try."

"You’re the one thing I’d never push away," he murmured, wrapping his arms around her. "Even if the world demanded it."

They stood like that for a moment—warrior and wife, fire and stone, two souls anchoring each other against the winds of war.

Then Salviana leaned up and kissed him again, slower this time, more sure of her footing. "Now come on. If we’re going to survive this, we need to look good doing it."

Alaric chuckled, brushing a strand of her hair behind her ear. "You always do."

They helped each other fasten their traveling clothes—he in his dark embroidered jacket with phoenix-thread trim, she in her ember-red cloak lined with gold. Around them, the sounds of the others echoed distantly: horses being saddled, swords being strapped, maps being rolled.

As they stepped out of their chamber, hand in hand, Salviana looked over her shoulder.

"Did you say goodbye to your demons?" she teased.

Alaric smirked. "Not yet. They tend to follow."

She laughed, and they descended into the fray below—into what could be the beginning of a war... or the end of everything.

The separate journeys had begun.

Two roads forked from the same fire-lit night—one veiled in shadows and urgency, the other laced with laughter, silk, and the reckless freedom of those who weren’t on the run.

Prince Embrez’s group took the path of ease, trailing no urgency behind them, only curiosity and mild chaos. With enough guards to intimidate a small army and none of the paranoia haunting the others, they made stops wherever whimsy demanded. Markets. Inns. Open fields. Forest groves. If there was food, they tasted it. If there was music, they danced. And if there was mischief... Embrez leapt headfirst into it.

At one particular clearing—somewhere between the yellow fields of Mordane and the forgotten ruins of Vestyr—a dare was made.

A local gathering was underway, a roadside festival of sorts, and of course the Prince insisted they join.

"Thalia, Sarah, Emma!" Embrez called, spreading his arms dramatically as he descended from his saddle, his crimson cloak swirling with theatrical grace. "Tonight, we live! We drink, we dance, we defeat someone’s uncle in arm-wrestling!"

Thalia giggled, tugging Emma’s sleeve. "I think we just became part of a travelling circus."

"Correction," Emma whispered, "we just became audience members to a royal idiot’s one-man show."

"I heard that!" Embrez called, though he was already striding into a ring of shouting villagers, shirt halfway unbuttoned, grinning like a devil blessed by the moon.

Sarah stood beside them, arms crossed, but even she cracked a small smile. "He’s absurd."

"And dangerous," Thalia muttered. "In a charming sort of way."

Combat challenges were issued, much to the dismay of his worried guards, and Embrez—bare-chested now—went head-to-head with a hulking man known locally as "Boarshoulder." He lost gloriously, then demanded a rematch for "honor," only to lose again. Laughing and bleeding slightly, he turned to his companions, arms wide like a martyr of joy.

"I die tonight not of wounds, but of beauty and bad choices!"

Then came the animal chase—something about wild hounds and stolen chicken legs—and later, a dance competition with a veiled priestess that left the entire camp stunned and speechless.

And finally, the moment arrived. The next stretch of road curved toward Wyfkeep Castle.

Prince Embrez stood tall before his horse, adjusting his cloak. His expression shifted—still mischievous, but tinged now with something deeper. A flicker of knowing. Of destiny.

He turned dramatically, the velvet folds of his coat fluttering behind him like crimson wings. "Wish me luck, darlings," he said grandly. "I go to dance with wolves in silk."

Emma leaned toward Sarah, murmuring, "And if he doesn’t make it?"

He heard her.

Without turning, he raised one hand over his shoulder and called, "Then write me a tragic ballad. Something in E minor."

Thalia clutched her side, laughing, while Sarah shook her head, trying—and failing—not to smile.

With a theatrical sigh, Embrez mounted his obsidian horse, the beast almost as arrogant-looking as its rider. The guards flanked him swiftly, and with one final, absurd salute, the prince galloped off down the dusty trail toward the castle.

A swirl of red. A roar of hooves.

And then... silence.

Sarah exhaled slowly. "He’s... something."

"A disaster," Emma said.

"A necessary one," Thalia added, her tone shifting—growing heavier.

They stood at the edge of a road that would lead them deeper into plans they didn’t fully understand. But for now, it was easy to pretend this was just another journey.

Behind them, the laughter of villagers still echoed. Ahead, destiny waited with a sword behind its back.

The party had split. The storm was coming.

And the next Chapter of their fate had begun—scattered, dangerous, and laced with secrets none of them were ready to unearth.

Meanwhile, here with the two knights.

The sun had barely begun its descent when the first arrow whistled past Jaefel’s face.

He ducked instantly, drawing his sword as the trees around them erupted in movement. Shadows leapt from behind rocks and underbrush—five, no, six bounty hunters, masked and armed to the teeth.

"Company," Jaefel muttered, already bracing for the next strike.

Samion smirked, cracking his knuckles. "You think they want an autograph or my head?"

"Don’t flatter yourself," Jaefel snapped, just before lunging into the fray.

The clash was brutal and fast. Steel rang against steel. Jaefel’s blade carved through a masked attacker, spinning as another came from behind. Samion fought more like a brawler than a knight—fists, elbows, kicks, then a swift dagger to the gut.

"Who sends these amateurs?" Samion scoffed, catching one by the collar and slamming his head into a tree trunk.

A final bounty hunter ran toward Heappal’s stretcher—bad mistake. Jaefel threw a dagger clean through his shoulder, pinning him to a tree with a grunt.

Silence fell, broken only by heavy breathing and the soft hiss of spilled blood soaking into the earth.

Samion spat to the side, blood dribbling from his mouth. "Well... that was refreshing."

Jaefel wiped his blade with a cloth, then muttered, "I was hoping for a quiet escort."

"No such thing with wanted royals and ghost-rumored witches on the loose," Samion replied, nudging one of the unconscious attackers with his boot.

"Let’s get moving. Before these fools wake up and start crying."

They checked on Heappal, still unconscious but stable. Samion climbed back onto his horse, groaning as he rolled his shoulder.

"You bleeding?" Jaefel asked.

"Just pride. And maybe a rib."

Jaefel mounted beside him. "Can’t break what you don’t have."

Samion grinned, spitting more blood into the grass. "Remind me to punch you when we’re not being hunted."

"Looking forward to it," Jaefel said, kicking his horse forward. "Let’s ride."

With that, they galloped back onto the trail—bloodied, bruised, but very much alive.