Chapter 31 The Thief #2
He could feel his anger blazing, the urge to cut Kael down in his sleep growing with each glance at her confusion.
And now… now he had to make a choice.
He moved closer to her with lethal grace.
She hesitated —stepping back.
“What are you doing?”
Alarik closed the distance. He touched her face like she might shatter.
“I’m sorry,” he murmured. “But I cannot leave you here.”
He pressed a small vial of the potion — only enough for the journey to Nerium. He pressed it to her lips forcing her to drink.
She fought him but it was too late the stars behind them cracked and the dream began to shatter.
Wind roared. Light flashed. The world fell inward once more.
When the world around them reformed — they were no longer in Nythra. The air was warmer, thick with sea salt and hum of Calanthe's coast. The walls before him were stone veined with silver.
Alarik's arms tightened around her as her body slumped fully into his —still breathing and whole.
His knees buckled, not from weaknesses, but from sheer relief that it had worked.
Against all odds. The potion's final trace still sparked faintly in his veins, burning like starlight laced with pain.
He'd mixed a numbing agent and sleeping formula into Maris dose to ensure she wouldn't suffer the same burn as him.
He exhaled a trembling breath against her hair.
"Thank you," he whispered to no one in particular.
He moved fast.
Past the Nerium castle guards who opened the ancient archways without a word.
Past the violet glass doors veined with gold that told the old stories of gods and mortal kings.
His boots echoed on marble in the silence of his haste, the weight of her body reminding him with every breath that the line had been crossed and that there was no going back.
She was here now and all of Achyron would feel the ripple of that choice.
At the entrance hall, a figure stepped forward, a young female warrior clad in deep blue leathers, golden braids twisted into a crown around her head. A sword hung at her hip, a golden pin gleaming at her collar, a mark of her noble birth.
“Your highness,” she said, with a bow — voice calm, though her blue eyes flicked to the unconscious girl in his arms. “The Veil Breaker.”
Alarik gave a single nod. “Keep her safe.”
The woman bowed. “Of course. I’ve prepared the coastal chambers.”
He inclined his head. “Thank you, Serenya.”
Serenya, daughter of House Kareth, noble-born, blade-trained, loyal to a fault. She would guard Maris with her life. He’d made sure, forcing the warrior to pledge a blood oath to the mortal woman.
“See that she wakes surrounded by warmth,” he said.
Serenya stepped closer, her expression softening as she reached to take Maris from him. “I’ll stay with her until she wakes.”
“No,” he said quickly, tightening his grip.
“I’ll carry her myself.”
And he did.
Through the maze of polished stone and flickering crystal sconces, past towering archways and stained-glass windows that bathed the halls in amethyst light.
To the guest wing carved from the southern cliff-face, where sea air drifted in through enchanted glass and the wind sang lullabies in tongues forgotten by men.
He laid Maris on the silk-sheeted bed and brushed a strand of hair from her cheek. For a moment, he just —looked. Even in unconsciousness, she was radiant.
Not just beautiful, but shining. Like the gods had stitched her together from threads of starlight and storm and handed her over to be the final turning key in the lock of fate.
“I hope you understand,” he whispered.
Then he stepped away as Serenya entered quietly with salves and linens.
“Will she wake soon?” the warrior asked, kneeling at the bedside.
“She will before sunrise, I only gave her a small dose of sleeping elixir,” Alarik said. “But keep her calm when she does.”
“And her king?” Serenya questioned.
Alarik turned, eyes hard. “Will burn if he tries to take her back.”
Zairon was waiting for him in the war chamber.
The golden-eyed warrior stood by the massive map table, the edges lined with carved citadels, moving markers of light and shadow flickering over the coasts. He turned as Alarik entered, blood-splattered and ragged.
“You did it,” Zairon said, voice low. “Gods bless… you actually stole her.”
Alarik nodded grimly.
Zairon crossed his arms. “How bad?”
“Worse than I thought. Kael’s court is more unified than ever. His nobles celebrated her like she was some fallen star sent to bless them. Kael,” Alarik’s jaw tensed. “He looks at her like she was the first thing in his cursed life he's ever loved.”
Zairon exhaled. “That’s going to break him.”
“I’m counting on it.”
“But the cost,”
“I know the cost,” Alarik snapped, slamming his fist on the table. The citadel markers jumped.
Zairon spoke quietly, “But you think she’ll come to understand here?”
Alarik dragged a hand through his hair. “I don’t know. But she deserves to know what she is before anyone lays a binding claim to her.”
There was a long pause.
Then Zairon stepped forward, placing a hand on his shoulder.
“Then we better prepare,” he said. “Because the king of monsters will come for his bride. And he won’t come alone.”
Alarik didn’t answer.
He just looked back through the open arch toward the sea-soaked halls and whispered the only thing that felt real anymore.
“She’s not his bride yet.”