When the court finally bowed again and the throneroom emptied, Alaric rose.
His knights closed around him instantly. But his thoughts were already elsewhere.
Daphne.
Something was wrong. He could feel it.
He strode through the marble corridors, the echo of his boots thundering in the silence.
The moment he turned a corner, the world seemed to tilt.
There she was.
His heart slammed against his ribs. His wife, his Rose, was slumped against the cold marble wall, her satchel tipped over, instruments spilling across the floor like broken glass.
Her gown was torn at the sleeve, blood staining the pale fabric, her arm pressed tight to her wound as she tried to steady her breath.
"Daphne!"
Her name tore from Alaric's throat like a roar as he rounded the corner of the dim corridor.
Alaric dropped to his knees before her, his hands already on her face, tilting her toward him, scanning every inch of her with eyes wild and blazing.
