’I should’ve trained,’ she scolded herself bitterly. ’I would have been ready.’

"Alaric! Alaric, please wake up!" she cried, her hands seizing his shoulders. She started to shake him violently, her desperation rising as he remained limp in her arms. Was the prince truly lifeless? She refused to believe it. She wouldn’t give up—there was simply no way the world ended like this.

The darkness had fully claimed the woods now, turning the landscape into a jagged silhouette of shadows and bone-white branches. The air was thick and eerie, vibrating with the silent approach of the possessed. Salviana knew their position wouldn’t hold for long; the circle was closing.

In the midst of her panic, a brilliant, desperate thought struck her. She was a Divine Lady—her blood was not like that of the royals or the guests. If Alaric’s life was fading because of the blood he had poured onto the forest floor, perhaps hers could bring him back. She had to revive him, and she had to do it fast. Every second they remained stationary was a second closer to their end. Who knew when this nightmare would stop, or if it ever would?

She reached out and snatched one of the enemies’ arrows lying in the dirt, its iron tip cold and sharp. With a sharp intake of breath, she tore into her own skin, the pain a secondary thought to the urgency in her soul. As the crimson began to flow, rich and vibrant, she leaned over her husband and set the wound to his mouth, praying the divine essence would be enough to wake the monster within.

She knelt in the dirt, her arm trembling as she held her self-inflicted wound to Alaric’s cold lips. She fed him for minutes, but he wouldn’t move, his body remaining a heavy, lifeless weight against her. A deep, bone-weary fatigue began to seep into her limbs, and the effort of holding her hand aloft became a grueling task.

Desperate and fearing the fading heat in his skin, she tore the wound further, forcing the blood to rush more freely—she needed him to wake up now, or they would both be lost to the dark.

Still, he remained motionless, the arrows protruding from his frame like jagged thorns. She bent low, her lips brushing the shell of his ear as she whispered a single word: "Alaric."

Like a summon, his eyes snapped open—not the warm gaze she knew, but a void as dark as midnight. She let out a ragged, shaking sigh of relief, though the urgency in her soul didn’t waver. "Alaric, we need to leave," she insisted. He looked utterly dazed, the divine blood rewiring his brain and surging through his veins like liquid fire. When his predatory gaze snapped toward the bleeding spot on her arm, she quickly concealed it against her chest, shielding her vulnerability from his clouded instincts.

"Take us home, to our bedroom," she commanded, her voice a firm anchor in his mental fog. She pulled him into a crushing hug, burying her face in his neck as she whispered, "Teleport us to our bedroom, my love."

Within the blink of an eye, the air in the clearing folded. The space where they had lain was suddenly, violently empty.

Seconds later, the hunters burst through the brush. Sebastian and Simon led the charge, their milky eyes darting across the flattened grass and the dark stains of blood on the fallen oak. They moved with a frantic, robotic energy, stabbing spears into the hollows of trees and tearing through the ferns. Prince Benjamin, swaying with a mixture of wine and malice, roared in frustration, his crossbow leveled at nothing but shadows.

They circled the spot like starving wolves who had just seen their prey vanish into thin air, their silent, synchronized search turning into a chaotic scramble as the Eye above pulsed with a furious, sickly amber glow. But the forest held no answers; the Prince and his Fire were gone.

The transition into the bedroom was instantaneous, the oppressive chill of the forest replaced by the familiar, heavy scent of sandalwood and expensive linens. They were back in the sanctuary of their bedroom, but the toll of the night was immediate.

As the adrenaline began to bleed away, Salviana went limp in Alaric’s arms, her body finally surrendering to the exhaustion and blood loss from her divine sacrifice.

Alaric, still disoriented and reeling from the surge of her powerful blood rewiring his senses, let out a low, guttural growl. His eyes remained dark as midnight, his mind a haze of instinct and pain. He dropped her gently onto the plush surface of the bed, his movements jerky and uncoordinated as his body struggled to stabilize.

Standing over her, he didn’t call for a physician or reach for bandages. Instead, his jaw tightened into a fierce scowl, his teeth bared in a silent snarl of agony. He reached up to his shoulder, gripping the shaft of the first arrow. With a violent, rhythmic jerk, he began to pull the arrows from his body one by one.

The wood groaned against his flesh, and the iron heads tore through his healing muscle, but he didn’t make a sound. He tossed the blood-slicked projectiles onto the floor, his black eyes fixed on his unconscious wife as his supernatural physiology fought to knit his shredded skin back together. 𝗳𝚛𝗲𝕖𝚠𝚎𝚋𝗻𝗼𝕧𝗲𝐥.𝚌𝚘𝐦

The silence of the bedchamber was heavy, broken only by the ragged rhythm of Alaric’s breathing. Though the arrows were out, his body was still a battlefield of closing wounds and the scorching heat of Salviana’s divine blood. Every movement felt like wading through thick oil, his senses blurred by a predatory haze that fought against his love for the woman lying senseless on the silk sheets.

He stumbled into the adjoining bathroom, his fingers gripping the marble basin for support. The clatter of a silver bowl and the splash of cool water sounded like thunder in the quiet room. He dipped a clean linen rag into the water, his movements jerky and uncoordinated, before retreating back to the bedside. He looked down at her—pale, fragile, and marked by the very blood she had used to save him.

With a focused scowl, he dropped to his knees at the foot of the bed. His large, calloused hands—still stained with the dark residue of the forest—reached for her boots. He worked the laces with agonizing care, his knuckles occasionally brushing the soft leather as he slid them off, followed by her stockings, revealing feet that were cold to the touch. He set them aside with a gentleness that belied the monstrous strength currently rewiring his veins.

Rising slowly, he moved to her side. He dipped the rag again