The King marched into the hall, his eyes cold and greedy. He looked at Alaric, expecting to see a son who was trembling with fear. But as he looked around, he realized the Prince's personal army wasn't standing down. They were closing the exits. The King had walked directly into Alaric's trap.
Alaric didn't raise his voice. He simply stepped closer, the tip of his black sword grazing the stone floor. "Father," he said, his voice like ice. "You are old. If you want to keep your crown—and your life—you will turn around now. Go back to your throne and sit down. If you stay in this tower, you won't live to see the sunrise."
The King looked at the soldiers. He saw their loyalty was to the Prince, not the crown. For the first time, the old man felt true terror. Realizing he could not win, the King let out a frustrated snarl and signaled his men to retreat. He left the tower in a hurry, already planning his next move, but for now, the danger was gone.
Alaric watched them leave, his body finally relaxing. He didn't celebrate. He immediately turned and walked back into the chamber.
Inside, the fire had burned down to glowing embers. He found Silas fast asleep on the chair, exhausted by the stress of the night. Alaric moved silently. He shed his heavy armor and washed the scent of blood and iron from his skin.
He gently lifted Silas in his arms. Silas stirred for a second, his eyes fluttering open. "Alaric... you're back. I need to tell you..."
"Sleep, Silas," Alaric whispered, his voice deep and tender. He laid Silas in the large, warm bed and climbed in beside him, pulling Silas close to his chest.
"But I have things to say," Silas murmured, his voice thick with sleep.
"Tomorrow," Alaric promised, holding him tight. "When you wake up, we have a whole life ahead of us. For now, just sleep."
Silas let out a long sigh and tucked his head under Alaric's chin. Protected by the man the world called a monster, he finally fell into a deep, peaceful rest.