The morning light streamed through the window, casting long golden beams across the room. Alaric stretched lazily, a smirk curling at the corners of his mouth as the memories of the previous night danced through his mind. His eyes shifted to the bed beside him, where Ulyria lay curled beneath the sheets, her silver hair spilling like moonlight over the pillow. Her face was serene, her breathing soft and steady.
A wave of possessiveness surged through him, laced with satisfaction. She was his now, in every sense that mattered. A pawn in his game, a leverage point for her son. The thought filled him with grim amusement.
Sliding out of bed, Alaric moved with deliberate care. He dressed quickly, pulling on his usual dark attire—a leather tunic and cloak that seemed to absorb the light. The faint rustle of fabric and the metallic clink of his belt buckle broke the silence, but Ulyria didn't stir. Her exhaustion suited him fine; she would need her strength for what came next.
