Married To Darkness
Chapter 456: Home And Garden

Chapter 456: Home And Garden

Alaric, already tense from the earlier clash, narrowed his eyes. "He wouldn’t just wander off."

"Unless something pulled him off," Jean added, barely hiding her growing anxiety.

Sebastian, lounging beside the window like a smug cat, folded his arms. "He’s a big vampire. He can handle himself. Probably just got tired of being hunted like a dog and decided to slip into a shadow or two."

"That’s not funny, Sebastian," Jean snapped, her voice sharp.

"I’m not joking," Sebastian replied, a flicker of seriousness sliding beneath his lazy expression. "If he wanted to disappear, he would. But if he didn’t want to... then yeah, maybe we should worry."

Salviana shifted closer to her husband, worry flickering across her face.

Alaric exhaled slowly, dragging a hand through his hair. "He won’t go far. If anything pulled him away, he’ll find a way back. We wait. We watch. But we don’t panic yet."

"I highly doubt anything pulled him, he looked uncomfortable," Sebastian mumbed.

Still, Jean’s gaze didn’t waver from the darkened roads behind them. The ache in her chest grew heavier.

"Please be alright..."

The carriage rolled to a halt in front of the carved stone archway that led to the royal guest quarters. Familiar halls—gold trim, velvet carpets, polished columns, the scent of warm incense. The same place they had once walked through in fear. Now they were back, armed, bloodied, and... uncertain.

As the door swung open, Alaric stepped out first, offering his hand to Salviana, who descended gracefully despite the weight of her thoughts. She leaned into his side, not just out of love—but because she felt the tension rippling off him like fire trapped beneath his skin.

"Home again," she murmured.

"Not for long," he replied quietly. "Not unless things change for the better."

Jean followed after, her boots hitting the floor harder than usual. Her eyes still darted. Still searching.

Sebastian came down last, stretching his arms and glancing around the palace halls like a tourist.

"Well. This is cute," he said, catching up beside Alaric and Salviana. "Tell me again which room I’m sleeping in? Hopefully not next to the angry ghost of politics past?"

"You’ll be nearby," Alaric said curtly. "Unfortunately."

"I’m here for support, Our very own demon prince. Emotional, magical, sarcastic support. Don’t sound so thrilled."

Salviana sighed, rubbing her temples. "I don’t care if you sleep on the roof, Sebastian. I need a bath, a nap, and maybe a spell that makes court people stop breathing for ten minutes."

"Dark, but I like it," Sebastian grinned.

Jean, however, wasn’t smiling. Her eyes searched the corners of every corridor.

Where did you go, Lucius? Why now? Why like this?

They reached the doors to their chambers. Maids bowed low, opening them without a word. Their things had been cleaned, their scents had returned to the air, and the past bled into the present with an eerie, unresolved finality.

As Alaric stepped in with Salviana, he paused at the threshold.

He turned to Sebastian.

"You’re with us now," he said.

Sebastian blinked. "I... am?"

"For now," Alaric added. "Until I find out what else you’re hiding."

Sebastian gave a sly grin. "Now that sounds more like you."

Jean lingered at the hall entrance. The wind stirred through the corridor windows. And still, no Lucius.

No shadow on the wall.

No voice in her ear.

Just... silence.

She swallowed hard and entered her room—alone.

However, Emma, Sarah, and Thalia rushed over the moment the carriage doors swung open.

They didn’t bother with formality—just relief and a rush of gratitude.

"My lady—!" Sarah’s voice wobbled as she threw her arms around Salviana’s shoulders. Thalia hovered a moment, then joined in, hugging her from the other side.

Sarah, more composed but no less earnest, bowed her head, her fingers twisting together. "We’ve been waiting. Every day."

Salviana blinked rapidly against the sudden sting in her eyes. All the fatigue, the nights on hard ground, the months of running—it all threatened to come pouring out of her at once.

"Thank you," she whispered hoarsely. "I... missed you all so much."

Sarah gave a watery laugh. "You look exhausted, but you’re here. That’s enough."

Behind them, Alaric stepped down from the carriage. His gaze softened at the sight—his tired, steadfast wife surrounded by these women who had never stopped preparing for her return.

Thalia turned to him, giving him a respectful nod. "Our prince!. Welcome home."

Alaric inclined his head. "You’ve all done well. More than well."

"We’ve set up everything," Emma said, wiping her cheek. She gestured toward the tall doors of the chamber wing. "The rooms have been aired out, new linens put down, flowers replaced. There’s warm water for a bath, fresh clothes—and the kitchens are stocked. You only have to ask."

Salviana let out a little, incredulous laugh. "You’ve been busy."

Sarah beamed. "It was the least we could do."

Without waiting, Thalia led Salviana toward the inner hall, while Emma darted ahead to pull open the doors. A gentle breeze drifted out—carrying the scent of jasmine and fresh wood polish.

Inside, everything looked immaculate: lamplight catching in the glass decanters on the sideboard, plush rugs in deep reds and creams, bouquets in every corner.

Salviana turned in a slow circle, stunned. "It’s beautiful."

Emma and Thalia exchanged pleased glances. "Your bath is already drawn," Thalia said. "If you’d like, we’ll help you—"

"Yes," Salviana interrupted softly. She sounded so tired it made Emma’s throat ache. "Please. I think I might fall asleep standing up if I don’t sit down soon."

Sarah smiled. "Come on, my lady. Let us fuss over you. You’ve earned it."

While the women disappeared into the inner chamber, Alaric turned and scanned the hallway with narrowed eyes. A lifetime of caution, honed on battlefields and in treacherous courtrooms, refused to loosen its hold.

He passed through the kitchen, noting the crates of supplies stacked neatly along the walls—sacks of grain, jars of preserved fruits, wine casks, and neat rows of copper pots hung above the hearth. The space smelled of rosemary and baking bread, almost too wholesome for a place that had once been full of spies.

His boots made no sound on the polished stone as he walked, checking the window locks, the corners behind the drapes, the long corridor to the storage rooms.

Safe enough, he told himself. Safe for tonight.

He exhaled a fraction of the tension that lived in his bones and turned back, intending to join Salviana—but lingered a moment longer in the hush.

Because tomorrow, no matter how clean the sheets and how warm the baths, the world would come for them again.

But tonight, they had peace—and each other.

And that would have to be enough.

Alaric stepped through the tall archway that led to the garden. The door swung shut behind him with a soft click, leaving him in the hush of evening air.

For a moment, he simply stood there.

The garden was nothing like it had been the last time he saw it—a patchwork of raw earth, a few struggling shoots, and his wife’s hopeful hands pressing seeds into the soil.

Now...

It had bloomed.

Roses tumbled over the carved trellises in great blushing waves. Deep blue delphiniums stretched tall behind them, their blossoms nodding gently in the dusk breeze. Clusters of pale lilies opened shyly in the corners. The little stone path he and Salviana had laid together was half-hidden by lush green leaves.

He walked forward slowly, boots crunching over a few fallen petals. The perfume of everything—sweet, green, alive—rose around him and made his chest ache.

Who tended this? he wondered.

He reached out without thinking and brushed his thumb over a velvet rose, the same deep red as Salviana’s hair. The petals were cool and soft, like the promise of something he didn’t dare name.

Did she ask someone to keep it alive? Or did some gentle hand take pity on it, knowing we’d return?

He crouched by a bed of small white flowers she’d planted herself, the ones she’d called hopewort. They’d been little more than sprouts when they fled. Now they spilled over the stones like pale stars.

He’d never thought of himself as the kind of man who would care about a garden—but this place was hers. The last thing they built before the world went mad. The last bit of softness before the war came to their door.

At least it survived, he thought. Even if nothing else does.

A sigh left him. He rose, glancing back at the door to the keep, picturing Salviana somewhere inside, her hair unbound, her eyes closing in exhausted relief.

Then he looked out over the rows of blooms and the low wall beyond them, toward the darkening sky over Wyfkeep.

Soon, Lucius would come. They’d have to decide what to do next—where to hunt for their origins, which hidden places to search, and which enemies might already know too much.

He wasn’t naïve enough to think any of this was over. If anything, it was just a lull—a breath before the storm resumed.

But for now, he’d stand here. Let himself feel this one moment of stillness.

And when Lucius returned, they’d chart their course again.

Find the roots. Find the truth.

Alaric turned back to the door, taking one last look at the garden in bloom.

He would ask someone later who had tended it.

But right now...

Right now, he needed to be ready.