Married To Darkness - Chapter 492

Chapter 492: Two Sides Of the kingdom
Jennifer’s fan fluttered in front of her face as she whispered back, “Pathetic, really. A princess clinging to a servant like a child to her nurse.”

Across the table, Jolene forced a smile to hide her frown. She muttered just loudly enough for those near to hear, “Such theatrics… all for attention.”

But not all the glances were cruel. Lilian, ever the crown princess, arched a brow and said evenly, “A loyal servant is rarer than jewels. If the seventh princess values hers, perhaps we should learn to admire instead of sneer.”

Christina scoffed at that, but said no more.

Salviana either did not notice or chose not to. She had eyes only for her two companions. She took Florence’s hand in one of hers, Jean’s in the other, and guided them forward toward the table. “Come, I kept seats for you. Right beside me.”

“You did?” Florence asked, touched.

“Yes,” Salviana said firmly, guiding Florence to the most comfortable chair—the one with the cushioned arms, which she had guarded fiercely earlier against Eva. “For you, Florence. I would not let anyone else take it.”

Florence sat slowly, lowering herself with grace despite her condition, and sighed in gratitude. “You think of everything.”

“And for Jean,” Salviana continued, patting the seat on her other side. “Here, my dear. Right where I can see you.”

Jean hesitated. “I am only—”

“You are my friend,” Salviana cut her off sweetly but firmly. “Not only my lady-in-waiting. And I want you here.”

Jean obeyed then, her cheeks flushed as she lowered herself into the seat.

The arrangement drew more than one dagger-eyed look. Irene’s face pinched in fury. “Imagine—seating a commoner at our table!” she hissed, her voice tight.

Beatrice, Spencer’s wife, leaned back with a smirk. “Perhaps she thinks herself a reformer. Next she’ll have the kitchen boy dine with us.”

But Florence, ever serene, lifted her voice softly. “If loyalty and friendship are grounds for a seat, then Lady Jean has earned hers more than many of us.”

The hall went quiet. Florence rarely spoke sharply, but when she did, it landed.

Salviana smiled gratefully at her, then turned to Jean with warmth that radiated like sunlight. She clasped her hand under the table and whispered, “Do not mind them. You belong here with me.”

Jean swallowed hard, her throat tight with gratitude. “Thank you, my lady.”

“Lady sounds weird,” Salviana whispered back with a smile.

That word alone drew another round of whispers, some scandalized, others quietly admiring.

Salviana ignored them all. She turned back to her tea as if nothing in the world could touch her happiness now that her circle—Florence and Jean—was whole again.

And though the salon rippled with envy, disapproval, and feigned politeness, Salviana felt stronger than she had all week. With Florence to one side, Jean to the other, and the fireflies of last night still glowing in her heart, she thought—let them stare. Let them choke on their bitterness. I have what they do not.

Meanwhile,

Alaric Velthorne had left before dawn, his wife still tangled in silken sheets, her breaths soft and oblivious to the world he carried on his shoulders. He had kissed her hair once, silently, before strapping his blade to his back and riding out beneath the pale light of a dying moon. Duty had always pulled him from warmth—first as a prince, now as the kingdom’s shadow-guard, the one who handled what the court dared not speak aloud.

Wyfn-Garde lay at the edge of Wyfmoor, a strange corridor of twisted woods where worlds overlapped like torn parchment. The air here never settled. It shifted, heavy with the scent of iron and damp earth, and sometimes one could hear whispers that were not of men. For centuries, creatures that did not belong here slipped through the rift-gaps, crawling into his world with hunger, violence, and malice.

And when they did, Alaric was the one to send them back—by blade or by death.

Heappal, the grizzled knight with scars crossing his weathered jaw, trudged beside him in heavy plate. “Dawn hasn’t yet kissed the stones of the castle,” he muttered. “And already you drag me to hell’s doorstep.”

Alaric smirked faintly. “You’d grow soft drinking wine in halls. Better steel your bones on real work.”

Behind them, Sebastian kept pace, staff in hand, his deep-green cloak brushing the moss. Unlike Heappal, the wizard seemed calm, almost curious, his gray eyes fixed on the shifting mist. “The air stirs strangely today,” he murmured. “Three tears in the veil, maybe more. Beasts bleed through. If we do not hold the line, Wyfmoor may not survive the week.”

“Then let us hold it,” Alaric said simply, drawing his greatsword in one smooth motion. The steel sang—a sound that seemed to challenge the very woods.

The sound of snapping branches erupted before them, heavy paws slamming against the damp earth. Then they emerged—hulking things, at least six of them, their bodies twisted as though a wolf had been fused with a lizard. Their muzzles were filled with jagged teeth, and ridges of bone jutted from their backs, glistening with slime. Their eyes burned with an unnatural green fire.

“They hunt in packs,” Heappal muttered, pulling his longsword free, shield raised.

The first lunged, faster than expected. Alaric moved like lightning, sidestepping, his blade slicing upward. The creature split, black ichor spraying as its death-cry rattled the trees.

“Two to the left!” Sebastian called, thrusting his staff. A burst of searing blue flame leapt forth, engulfing one beast mid-leap. The smell of charred flesh clung to the air.

Heappal took a hit to his shield, the impact rattling his arm. “Strong bastards!” he grunted, shoving the wolf-lizard back with sheer might before burying his sword deep into its throat. Blood sprayed across his armor, hissing as it touched the enchanted steel.

Another lunged at Alaric from behind, claws swiping. He spun, grabbing its forearm mid-swing, muscles straining. With one motion, he wrenched it forward and smashed his blade down its skull, splitting bone in two.

The ground became a blur of snarls, sparks, and steel. Sebastian’s magic cracked like thunder, blasting two beasts back with arcs of lightning, their bodies twitching grotesquely. Heappal fought like an immovable wall, shield bashing one creature before impaling another. Alaric was fluid death, his blade whistling through air and flesh, cutting down three more before their bodies even cooled.

Within minutes, the pack lay still, twitching corpses staining the moss with their unnatural ichor.

Sebastian’s breath misted as he lowered his staff. “Scouts. The smallest of what slipped through.”