The afternoon sun bled through the high stained-glass windows of the royal suite, casting long, crimson shadows across the floor. Silas had been moved to a comfortable chair by the hearth, wrapped in a thick robe of Alaric's own making. He looked hauntingly beautiful in the firelight—a ghost returning to life—but his silence was a weapon that Alaric didn't know how to fight.
Alaric paced the room, his movements restless and predatory. Every time he glanced at Silas, his heart twisted with a mixture of relief and a dark, lingering fear. He had reclaimed the body, but the soul of his mate felt miles away. The silence between them wasn't peaceful; it was filled with the ghosts of everything Silas had tried to escape.
A soft knock at the door interrupted the stillness. It was a palace page, delivering a tray of restorative tonics and the news that the Council was growing impatient. Alaric dismissed the boy with a snarl, but his eyes stayed on the medicine. He picked up the vial, the liquid shimmering under the light. It was the same type of suppressant Silas had used to hide his scent—to hide himself.
Alaric walked over to Silas, his shadow towering over the seated man. He held the vial out, his jaw tightening as he waited for Silas to take it. But Silas didn't reach for it. He kept his hands tucked in his sleeves, his gaze fixed on the dancing flames.
The Prince felt a crack in his legendary composure. For the first time in his life, Alaric felt small. He was a conqueror who had crossed frozen wastelands and slaughtered armies to bring this man home, yet he couldn't bridge the three feet of space between them. The realization began to sink in that while he could lock the doors and guard the gates, he couldn't force Silas to love a monster who had turned his life into a golden prison.
Alaric set the medicine down on the side table with a clatter that echoed too loudly in the quiet room. He didn't speak, but his scent—usually a dominant, spicy wood—began to sour with the tang of raw grief. He watched the back of Silas's head, waiting for a sign, a word, or even a look of hatred. Anything would be better than this cold, distant neutrality.
The Alpha's pride was crumbling. He had spent years building a reputation as the most wicked and heartless Prince in the lineage, a man who viewed Omegas as prizes to be won. But as he stood there in the fading light, he realized the prize was empty if the heart was missing. The weight of his own actions—the possessiveness, the demands, the force—started to crush him from the inside out. He wasn't just losing a mate; he was losing the only thing that made him feel human.