Alaric walked beside Lara, their steps quiet against the stone path winding through the the middle of the garden’. The air was thick with the scent of flowers—rich, layered, alive. Jasmine clung to the breeze like a whispered memory, but Alaric barely noticed. His attention was fixed on her.
She moved with that effortless grace she never seemed aware of, her eyes occasionally flicking to the glowing lanterns that hung like stars brought down to earth. They flickered softly, casting golden light on the carved columns of the gazebo ahead.
The man and the woman stepped into the gazebo nestled in the heart of the garden. The flickering lantern light illuminated the intricately carved pillars like fireflies, casting playful shadows that danced against the dim backdrop.
Lara and Alaric settled across from one another on the weather-worn stone benches, a round marble table separating them. The silence between them was not empty, but electric—charged with unspoken thoughts and memories.
Alaric cleared his throat, the sound quiet but deliberate.
"I heard that Prince Reuben approached your father on the day the king revealed he would inherit the throne, and asked your hand in marriage." Alaric’s voice hung in the air, rich with a bittersweet resonance that deepened its huskiness, as if each word carried a weight of unspoken emotions. Beneath the composed delivery was a tremor of something he couldn’t quite suppress.
Lara’s head snapped up. "What?" she blurted, her voice sharp with disbelief. Her eyes widened, confusion flashing through them like a sudden gust through still leaves. "When did you hear that? Who told you?" Her words tumbled out in a breathless rush, the weight of the revelation crashing over her. "No one mentioned anything to me," she added, her tone softening into hurt. Her brows furrowed. Why had they kept it from her?
On the day General Odin and his sons returned from Prince Reuben’s palace, they had spoken to her mother in hushed voices behind closed doors. Freya, ever protective, had long rejected the idea of her daughter being entangled in royal politics. She wanted Lara to live simply, to marry a man who loved her and only her—not to be swallowed by the scheming labyrinth of life in the palace.
Didn’t her friend, Alaric’s mother, die because of someone else’s scheme? She only had one daughter and did not want Lara to suffer the same fate.
After that quiet family council, the decision had been made. No one would tell Lara about the crown prince’s proposal. Not even Percival, who was always quick to act without thinking, nor Asael, who adored her with an almost obsessive protectiveness. They had all agreed: she would learn of it only on the eve of the banquet, and they would try to prevent her from attending.
Alaric’s gaze remained fixed on her. "I heard it from someone I trust. And... did you know Reuben has a painting of you? From that night—you were dancing."
Lara blinked, startled. A memory stirred. She recalled the faint scratch of charcoal, the glint of a sketchpad held by an unseen observer. "I remember someone sketching," she murmured, her voice quiet. "But not painting." She closed her eyes briefly, reaching back through time—the night at the barons’ mansion, the night she did an exhilarating dance with Prince Alaric.
Alaric leaned forward, but then caught himself. "Never mind that," he said, eyes still studying her. "Are you going to the banquet tomorrow?" He asked, his face stoic against the flickering yellow light.
Lara nodded. "Yes. My father and all five of my brothers are going. I’ll be with them."
"Did you get an invitation?" he asked, a flicker of something unreadable passing over his face.
Lara hesitated. She had seen the official scroll when it was handed to her father—General Odin. It bore the names of her parents and brothers. Nothing for her.
But then... she remembered. Her father had discreetly tucked away a second scroll, his hand moving just a little too quickly. Her brow furrowed. Why would he hide that?
Alaric’s voice broke through her thoughts, quiet and steady. "Perhaps that second invitation was meant for you."
"For me?" Lara echoed, now more intrigued than ever. She turned the idea over in her mind. It made sense. Her mother and brothers wouldn’t have hidden it unless it meant something—unless it was important.
"Maybe they did not want you to attend; hence, they hid it." Alaric offered a plausible explanation. "Are you still attending?"
"Yes," she said after a moment. "And I’m still going. Why wouldn’t I? It’s a chance to meet other nobles. Understand the people I’m supposed to be mingling with." She needed the connection for her future plans.
Alaric’s face darkened. A flicker of worry crept into his expression, as though the ground beneath him had shifted. The thought of Lara brushing shoulders with other nobles sent a sharp pang through him.
Something in him snapped—some quiet thread of patience. The idea of her standing beside another man at that banquet, of Reuben smiling at her with princely charm, made his pulse surge with something close to panic.
From Lara’s point of view, she saw the flicker of emotion in his eyes—something protective, or perhaps something more complicated. It tugged at the edges of her heart.
Then, suddenly, Alaric reached across the table and took her hand.
His touch was warm—steady. She looked up in surprise as his fingers wrapped gently around hers.
"Then... come with me," he said, his voice barely above a whisper, but brimming with sincerity. "Be my companion tomorrow."
It wasn’t just about the banquet. It never had been. He wanted her beside him, not as a shield, not to spite a prince—but because he needed her to choose him, because there is something in her that made him happy, and complete. She had become the one person who made him forget the weight of everything else.
For a heartbeat, the garden held its breath.
"Are you serious? Didn’t you have concubines? How would they feel if their husband came to the party with another woman?"
Alaric clenched his fists. "Those women were dumped on me by my father. I never consented. I haven’t even seen their faces. I don’t consider them as my wives, and I don’t believe in concubinage." Alaric declared resolutely.
For the first time since they arrived at the garden, Lara had a genuine smile on her face.