The palace was quiet that night.
Only the soft rhythm of Alaric's boots echoed faintly as he made his way through the corridors.
He had dismissed his men hours ago, ended every report, sealed every command, yet rest still eluded him.
And as always, when his world felt ready to fracture, he sought the one thing that grounded him.
Daphne.
When he entered their chambers, the sight that met him stole the breath from his chest.
She was at her desk, her hair was down, just as he liked it, the lamp's golden glow soft against her skin.
Scrolls and letters were spread around her, and she leaned over one of them, reading intently.
He didn't speak.
He just stood there, watching her, letting the sound of her quill and the warmth of her presence pull him back from the day's chaos.
After a while, Daphne looked up, sensing him.
Her lips curved in a gentle smile as she set her quill aside.
"You look exhausted," she said softly, crossing to him.
