The sun had just begun to sink beyond the hills when Alric entered the gardens, his boots silent on the crushed stone path. He came here often in the evenings now — to think, to breathe, to escape the court's tightening noose.
Tonight, the roses smelled sharper than usual. Like iron. Like memory.
"You walk like a soldier still," came a voice behind him — dry, familiar, half-laced with amusement.
Alric turned. Standing by the fountain was a man in grey, his cloak weathered, his beard touched with age. Sharp eyes, once full of mischief, now watched the world like a chessboard.
Caelum, once tutor to Alric during his younger years. Now advisor to no one, a ghost who lingered in the folds of the palace, rarely called upon but never quite dismissed.
"Didn't think you still breathed, old man," Alric said, a tired smirk pulling at his lips.
"I breathe, and I listen. That's more than most in court," Caelum said, stepping forward. "You look haunted."
"I look married."
Caelum chuckled, low and brief. Then he studied Alric's face more seriously. "You loved her from the start. I saw it in your eyes that night at the ceremony. Like a moth to fire."
"She's not fire," Alric said.
"Isn't she?"
Alric fell silent.
Caelum sighed, pulling something from his coat — a folded letter. "I found this near the courier's wing. I wasn't looking for anything… but I recognize code when I see it. Do you still remember the cipher I taught you? The one for reading noble correspondence in times of war?"
Alric's breath caught.
"She's writing to someone. Regularly," Caelum continued, voice gentler now. "I'm not telling you what to believe. I'm only reminding you: not all battles are fought with swords."
---
Back in her chamber, Saren dipped her quill in ink, the candlelight flickering over her steady hand. She didn't know the letter had been intercepted. Not yet.
But tonight, her writing faltered. The words blurred.
She found herself staring at the parchment, remembering the way Alric had looked at her at breakfast. The way his hand brushed hers — unintentional, warm, real.
Don't be weak, she told herself. You chose this. You chose power. You chose the throne.
And yet, her heart whispered, What if I had chosen him instead?
But she signed the letter anyway.
To my brother, it read.
Phase two begins. The court tilts in our favor. He trusts me entirely.
.....to be continued....
Author's Note:
Ah, the scent of roses and betrayal—how delightfully tragic.
Alric's heart is starting to ache in all the right places, while Saren's quill dances dangerously close to damnation. And Caelum? Bless that cryptic old sage for stirring the pot just when things were settling.
Letters are flying, loyalties are shifting, and hearts?
Well… hearts are traitorous little things, aren't they?
Until the next secret slips through—
– Your devious author.