Married To Darkness
Chapter 437: Through The Mountains

Chapter 437: Through The Mountains

Meanwhile, The crying echoed down the stone halls of Wyfkeep Castle like a haunting wind.

"Vivi! Uncle! Vivi!" little Rose wailed.

The small voice, thick with tears, belonged to a stubborn little girl with dark curls sticking to her tear-drenched cheeks. Little Rose—Princess Roselinde, but no one dared call her that—had been wailing for nearly an hour. No lullaby soothed her. No toy distracted her. No voice mattered unless it belonged to her two favorite people in the world: Uncle A. and Vivi—her childish name for Salviana.

The maids were at their wits’ end.

"She’s not sleeping. She won’t eat. Gods help us," one muttered, wringing her apron.

"We can’t summon Lady Salviana, she’s in hiding! We’d bring war to the door!"

"Can we—can we try Prince Warren?" another suggested. "She might listen to her father?"

They found him in one of the side wings, poring over scrolls he could barely read—his jaw tight, his hair a mess, and his eyes far too tired for a prince who rarely did anything royal. When they explained, he only nodded once and followed them in silence, his boots heavy with shame.

He tried. Gods, he tried.

"Rosie," he said, kneeling before her. "Vivi is... away. But I’m here. Papa’s here."

"I want Vivi!" she wailed and slapped at his hands when he reached for her. "And Uncle A.! You said he would come back! You said!" her words weren’t clear but she was saying it.

He blinked, guilt slashing across his face.

The maid bent down. "My prince, maybe we take her out to the gardens. The ones Lady Salviana had started to grow. Perhaps... she’ll feel closer to her there."

Warren agreed, helpless.

They stepped into the garden under a gray sky, the wind low and scented with petals. Salviana’s garden, though untended for weeks, had not withered. Instead, it bloomed—lush, fragrant, vibrant—as though touched by some ancient promise.

It had always been this way. Wherever Salviana walked, the world listened and those who didn’t were simply envious. Grass grew fuller. Blossoms unfurled. Fruit swelled. She was the Divine Lady, some whispered—a living myth, a blessing made flesh.

And she was gone.

But someone was already in the garden, kneeling on a patch of soft soil. She wore a simple dress, her sleeves rolled to her elbows, dirt on her hands and forehead. Her stomach rounded ever so slightly, a quiet hint of new life forming beneath her heart.

"Princess Florence?" Warren asked, startled.

Florence looked up from the flowerbed and brushed a lock of auburn hair from her cheek.

"I’ve been coming here," she said, voice calm. "To tend to it."

"To a garden?" he asked, confused.

She smiled softly. "Because I believe Salviana and the third prince will return. And when they do, I don’t want them to come back to something dead."

Warren stared at her, something warm and heavy blooming in his chest. "You believe they’ll come back?"

"I have to," Florence said, her hand brushing a daisy as it straightened at her touch. "Don’t we all?"

At that moment, Little Rose ran forward, tears still clinging to her lashes.

"Vivi!" she cried out, reaching toward Florence.

Florence crouched and opened her arms without hesitation, lifting the girl into her arms.

"I’m not Vivi," she whispered, pressing a kiss to her forehead. "But I promise, Aunt Salviana will be here soon. So you have to be brave until then."

The little girl hiccupped, cheeks wet and splotchy, but slowly—so slowly—calmed. Her tiny body curled into Florence’s arms like a tired kitten. Her fists unclenched. Her eyes fluttered.

A silence settled. Hope had taken root.

Warren stood awkwardly for a long moment before speaking again.

"You didn’t have to do this," he said softly, watching Florence sway gently, the child cradled in her arms. "Most people... are scared of showing any connection to the couple."

Florence turned her gaze to him, unblinking. "I don’t forget the ones who fought for me, she’s my friend and I remember how much she wanted to grow this garden."

Her fingers stroked Rose’s hair as she added, "And I know what it’s like to be the one left behind. So I won’t let this place forget them either."

Warren looked away. "You’re better than me."

"No," she said, looking down at her bump. "I just have something to protect now."

The two of them stood there a while longer, the garden rustling around them in a breeze that carried memories. The weight of the missing. The hope of return.

And above them, in the sky’s soft grayness, the first flecks of rain began to fall—gentle, not mourning—as though even the heavens were holding their breath for what was to come.

Little Rose was indeed Salviana’s goddaughter.

Down East.

The wind bit harder the higher the group climbed.

Wyfmount Peaks rose like jagged teeth into the gray sky, their sharp edges dusted with snow despite the turning season. The air was thin, the path narrow, and each breath scraped down their throats like iron shavings. Far below, clouds drifted in the valleys like ghosts, veiling the trails they’d already survived.

Alaric rode in front, his cloak flaring with each gust. Behind him, Salviana, bundled in furs, leaned into the horse’s saddle, her fingers clenched tight around his waist—not from cold, but from weariness. Days of travel with meager food and no warm rest had hollowed them all.

Lucius, ever quiet, rode beside Jean, their vampire eyes darker than usual, their lips pale. Jean hadn’t spoken in hours, her mouth tight with restraint. Lucius... well, Lucius hadn’t stopped watching the veins in Salviana’s throat.

They were starving. Not for food—but for blood.

"We’ll find the market once we reach the inner city," Alaric promised again, though his voice carried more grit than certainty.

Salviana squeezed him lightly. "And if there’s no one to trade with? This news has spread everywhere"

No one would help us.

"Then we steal," Jean muttered behind them.

"No," Lucius said, almost too calmly. "We starve first."

Jean growled lowly in her throat, turning her face from the wind.

They crested a ridge and saw it at last—Wyfhelm, like a lion’s den carved into stone.

Massive walls, rimmed with watchtowers, clung to the cliffs. Smoke rose from chimneys. Banners of the Wyfn-Garde snapped in the wind. The city glowed faintly with torches against the gray and white—a fortress against the gods themselves.

"Looks just as miserable as I remember," Alaric muttered.

"You’ve been here?" Salviana asked, her voice muffled in his cloak.

"A few winters ago. We came to settle a border skirmish and nearly froze to death. The people are stubborn, prideful, and they trust no one." He looked back at Lucius and Jean. "Especially not royalties."

"But they work for the royalties," Salviana said.

"They have power," Lucius muttered.

"I’ll glamour us if it comes to that," Jean said flatly, but her voice was slower now. "Not sure I have the strength for it."

"We’ll find the blood first. Then supplies," Lucius said, eyes narrowed ahead. "Pumpkin, if you weaken, Eat the food, I don’t need it anyway."

"Are you giving orders now?" she snapped, but there was no real venom.

Salviana, watching from over Alaric’s shoulder, frowned. "How much time do you have?"

Jean gave a dry laugh. "For politeness? A day. For survival? Hours."

They descended into Wyfhelm just after dusk, cloaks wrapped tight, faces shadowed by hoods. The gates opened slowly, grudgingly, with creaking groans and wary eyes behind slits of iron helmets. No one welcomed them. No one asked who they were.

The marketplace was carved into the mountain itself—stone stalls in a hollow courtyard ringed by smithies, butcher stalls, and herbalists. Torches flickered. Bells clanged distantly from the barracks above.

The scent of metal, ash, and blood hung in the air.

"We split," Alaric said. "Lucius, Jean—try the underground quarter. We might meet warriors I know from the battles I’ve fronted,"

Jean turned, lips already twitching. "Say it. You mean a brothel."

"I mean a bloodhouse," Lucius corrected her calmly, to him that’s what he wanted and not ass. "You’ll get food while Alaric and I find blood."

Salviana slipped down from the saddle with a soft wince and turned to Alaric. "We’ll find food. Blankets. Maybe hot broth, if they believe we’re not here to rob them."

Alaric leaned closer, his hand brushing her cheek. "You’ll charm them. Or hex them, if that fails."

"I’m too tired to hex." She smiled, playing along. "But I could cry prettily."

"I won’t let you cry for them. I’ll handle the rest."

He kissed her softly, despite the cold.

And for a moment, the frost bit less sharply.

The winding road led them into Wyfhelm’s Lower Market, a steep street built into the mountain’s inner spine, where soot from blacksmiths mingled with the scent of cured meats and snow-damp stone. The people here didn’t look twice. In this city of grim warriors and quiet merchants, no one cared for strangers unless they carried coin—or caused trouble.

It suited them.

Salviana’s hand lingered in Alaric’s as they slipped into a corner stall that sold roughspun cloaks, mountain gear, and carved combs. A woolen cape with silver clasps caught her eye, and before she could protest, Alaric had already tossed a coin to the vendor.

"You need to blend in," he said, tucking a fur-lined scarf around her shoulders. "And look less like a goddess."