Crimson Veil

Doubts

Alaric could not sleep.

The castle was still, draped in velvet darkness, yet he felt no comfort. He sat before the fire with a goblet of wine, though his hand trembled as he lifted it. The warmth of the flames should have soothed him, but all he saw was the faint glow that had trembled through the dungeon walls when he had spoken.

Lucian.

Even shackled, even cursed, even bound in the most unbreakable oath… he had dared to laugh.

Alaric swallowed hard, forcing down the bitter taste of unease. “He envies me,” he whispered into the firelight, as if reminding himself of a truth that might slip away if left unspoken. “That is all. He envies my title, my wealth, my strength.”

But the words rang thin. He knew what gnawed at Lucian most, though he dared not say it aloud. It was not the gold, nor the banners, nor the soldiers who bent the knee. It was her.

Seraphine.

His wife, delicate yet radiant, her beauty the envy of every court. Alaric clenched his jaw. Of course Lucian’s gaze would turn toward her. Any man’s would. Even broken in chains, a knight could not forget the hunger of his flesh.

The thought festered like rot, and Alaric drank deep from his goblet. “He looks at what is mine and despises that it is beyond his reach,” Alaric told himself firmly. “It is jealousy. Nothing more.”

And yet… why had the walls trembled when he dared to breathe her name?

Alaric’s fingers curled into the stem of the goblet. He forced his mind back to the oath—the curse that bound the knight. It had been a ritual of exquisite cruelty, crafted by the darkest of magisters. Half of Lucian’s soul had been wrenched from his chest that night, torn screaming into Alaric’s keeping.

That fragment pulsed even now, tied to Alaric’s life, feeding his power. With every breath Lucian took, Alaric grew stronger, while the knight withered in chains. And the oath… oh, the oath was ironclad. Lucian could not raise a hand against his lord without agony splitting through him, the chains tightening around his chest until the breath was stolen from his lungs.

Alaric smiled faintly, though it was hollow. “He is bound. He is broken. He is mine.”

But then he remembered the laugh.

The laugh that said otherwise.

For the first time in years, doubt pricked him sharp. Was the binding weakening? Impossible. The magisters had sworn it would last until death itself. And yet…

His mind betrayed him, replaying the sight of chains rattling against stone, of power straining beneath its fetters. The dungeon had seemed smaller that night, the air thicker, as though the very walls had held their breath.

Alaric stood, pacing the chamber. He would not allow fear to worm its way into him. Fear was weakness. Fear was for men without crowns. And yet… Lucian’s eyes haunted him. They had not been the eyes of a man broken. They had burned with something else. Something dangerous.

He would watch him more closely. He would double the guard, triple it.

And yet, even as he tried to assure himself, the whisper returned. The sound of a name spoken low, tearing through stone as though it were nothing.

Seraphine.

The goblet slipped from Alaric’s hand, crashing to the floor, red wine spilling like blood across the stone. His breath came ragged, uneven.

“No,” he hissed into the silence. “He is chained. He is cursed. He cannot touch what is mine.”

And yet the flames in the hearth spat violently, as though mocking his words.

For the first time in his reign, Lord Alaric realized he was not afraid of armies or kings.

He was afraid of one man.