Crimson Veil

Firehouse

The chamber was dim, the single candle by her bedside flickering strangely as though it breathed with her. Seraphine had been staring at it, her chest tight, when for a heartbeat it flared tall and blue before snapping back to normal. She quickly looked away, shaken.

The door opened without warning. Alaric entered, his boots striking against the stone, his presence filling the room like smoke.

Seraphine quickly folded her hands in her lap, trying to still their tremble.

Alaric studied her in silence for a moment before speaking. “He spoke your name.” His voice was sharp, cutting. “Lucian. Down in the dungeon. Why would he whisper Seraphine if he does not know you?”

Her throat dried, but she forced her tone to remain calm, confused. “My name?” she repeated softly. “Why would he do that? I have never even seen him.”

“Do not toy with me.” Alaric stepped closer. His hand lifted as if to grasp her chin. The moment his fingers brushed her skin, a sharp hiss escaped him. He recoiled as if bitten by flame, shaking his hand. A faint red mark bloomed across his fingertips.

He frowned, tried again, and the same thing happened—this time stronger. The burn seemed to crawl up his palm. His face twisted, teeth clenched against a cry. He forced himself to hold her for only a second longer before yanking back, cursing.

Seraphine blinked rapidly, feigning alarm. “My lord?”

Alaric stared at his hand, flexing his fingers as though expecting them to split open. “You are… burning,” he muttered. “Like fire beneath the skin.”

Her voice came quiet, trembling just enough. “I have felt warm all day. It must be a fever. Forgive me if I seem weak.”

Suspicion lingered in his gaze. He narrowed his eyes, as though searching her face for cracks in her story.

Seraphine lowered her eyes, speaking softly, like a confession. “Then he must have overheard it… my name. The servants speak freely. Surely a desperate man would clutch at anything to unnerve you.”

Alaric’s brow creased. “Why yours?”

She let her lips tremble as she met his eyes briefly. “Because I am your wife. If he can plant doubt between us, then he wins—without ever breaking his chains.”

The words struck him. He stilled, considering.

Seraphine leaned forward just slightly, voice gentler now, with a hint of pleading. “You know me, my lord. You know I am yours. If you believe him, then his trick succeeds. But if you trust me… then he has nothing.”

Slowly, suspicion unraveled into smug relief. He exhaled sharply, almost laughing. “Yes. Of course. Clever ploy, but meaningless. He envies what I have—my throne, my wealth, my wife.”

He looked at her, still flexing his reddened hand, and sneered. “Even fevered, you are mine.”

With that, he turned away, his shadow spilling across the chamber as he left, closing the door behind him.

Seraphine sagged back against her pillows the moment she was alone, her mask falling. Her breath came ragged. She touched her own cheek where his hand had tried to rest—her skin was warm, alive, as if carrying a hidden fire.

Something inside her was stirring. Something even Alaric’s suspicion could not yet name.