Julian stood paralyzed in the center of the Great Hall, the silence between them ringing louder than the chanting outside.
He looked at the man he loved—the indomitable Duke of the North, a man who had faced blizzards and steel without flinching—and saw him crumbling under the weight of a miracle.
These made the words he could say die in his throat before he could even utter them.
Alaric's face was wet, the firelight catching the tracks of tears that felt like acid to Julian's soul.
"I do not mind being called a heretic," Alaric repeated, his voice cracking like thin ice. "I would bar the gates against the world. I would let the Empire's armies rot at my walls. But you... The peace you crave, I want that for you more than anyone else. I would start a war just to create that peace, Julian. But with the heart you have... You wouldn't let me. You would watch the blood on the snow, and it would kill you faster than any stake."
