Married To Darkness

Chapter 512: The First Prince’s Visit

"Prince Embrez," Salviana said, her voice finding a steadiness her heart hadn’t quite mastered yet. She stood straight, the silks of her gown whispering against the stone floor as she moved away from the water.

Embrez didn’t enter so much as he occupied the room. His hair was slicked back, every strand in its perfect, arrogant place, and his shoulders carried a confidence that felt like a physical weight. He didn’t look at Salviana first. His gaze slid to the side, landing on the maid with a look that was both familiar and unreadable.

"Little Bird," he murmured, using the moniker he always reserved for her. "You look as though you’ve seen a ghost. Or perhaps just a man who knows where the ghosts are buried."

Jean offered a stiff, shallow bow. Her eyes darted to Salviana—a silent, worried question—but she knew better than to linger when the Prince of the Road gave an order.

"Can you excuse us?" Embrez asked. It wasn’t a request.

Jean nodded and retreated, the door clicking shut with a finality that left the room feeling suddenly too small.

For a moment, Embrez said nothing. He wandered toward the small table where a maid was already tremulously setting down a tray of tea. He watched the steam rise with the focused intensity of a philosopher.

"You know, Salviana," he began, his voice light, conversational, and utterly terrifying. "There is a specific type of tea grown on the southern slopes of the Wyf-Garde borders. The locals call it ’The Widow’s Sigh.’ It’s finicky. If the water is a degree too hot, the leaves bruise and the taste becomes... acrid. Like copper. Like blood. But if you catch it at the right moment? It’s the sweetest thing you’ll ever endure."

He gestured for her to sit, acting more like the host than a guest in her own quarters. Salviana remained on edge, her fingers curling into her palms.

"I didn’t think the Prince of the Road took much interest in tea, or small talk," she countered, her voice tight.

Embrez chuckled, a low, melodic sound that didn’t reach his eyes. "Small talk is the only thing that keeps the world from tearing itself apart at the seams, my dear. We discuss the weather and the brew so we don’t have to discuss why the King’s birthday lanterns smelled of sulfur, or why my brother is currently walking around with a name etched into his skin that belongs to a dead woman."

He took a slow, deliberate sip of the tea, peering at her over the rim of the porcelain cup.

"You have the look of a woman who has a great many questions," he purred, leaning forward just an inch. "And I have always found that the truth is much like that tea. You have to be careful how you pour it, or someone is going to get burned."

Prince Embrez leaned back in the velvet armchair, the porcelain cup looking daintily dangerous in his large, calloused hand. He watched the steam curl into the air with a faint, knowing smirk that made Salviana’s skin prickle.

"What exactly are you doing here, Embrez?" Salviana asked, her voice snapping across the quiet room like a whip. She didn’t sit. She remained standing, her silhouette framed by the fading winter light of the balcony, her hands clasped tightly to hide the slight tremor in her fingers.

Embrez didn’t look up. He merely tilted his head, his sleek hair catching the amber glow of the fire. "A cold reception for the man who brought your husband’s pardon," he mused, his tone dripping with a mock hurt that felt entirely theatrical. He finally met her eyes, his gaze sharp and unsettlingly observant. "Am I truly so unwelcome in my brother’s home, little fire-bird? I thought we were all family now."

Salviana felt a momentary pang of guilt, or perhaps just the pragmatic realization that antagonizing the Prince of the Road was a poor tactical move. She took a breath, forcing her shoulders to drop. "You are always welcome, Prince Embrez. It’s only... the surprise of it. Alaric didn’t mention you’d be visiting the inner quarters."

"Alaric is a man of many silences," Embrez said, setting the tea down with a soft clink. "He guards his thoughts like a dragon guards a hoard of broken glass. Useful for survival, but terribly lonely for a wife, I’d imagine."

He stood up then, beginning to pace the room with that slow, predatory grace that reminded her so much of Alaric, yet lacked his brother’s brooding heavy-heartedness. Embrez’s energy was different—it was the energy of a man who watched a house burn just to see which way the smoke drifted.

"I have a question," Salviana whispered.

"Do ask," he prompted.

Salviana swallowed then asked, "Do you know who Anne-Marie is?"

Silence ensued.

"It reminds me of a story," Embrez began, his voice dropping into that smooth, Reddington-style cadence, full of pauses and hidden weight. "There was once a fox. Not a clever fox, mind you—a caring one. He lived on the edge of a meadow populated by sheep. Now, the sheep were terrified of him, as sheep are prone to be. They bleated and shivered whenever his shadow touched the grass. But the fox, in his strange, misplaced nobility, spent his nights chasing away the wolves. He bled for them. He lost an eye protecting a lamb. He thought, in his foolish heart, that if he did enough, they would see him as one of their own."

Embrez stopped by a vase of wilted lilies, touching a petal with a gloved finger. "One morning, the sheep cornered him while he slept, exhausted from a night of fighting. They didn’t use claws; they didn’t have them. They simply stood on him. Hundreds of them. A slow, soft, crushing weight. They killed him not because he was a monster, but because they couldn’t bear the debt of his kindness. It’s a messy thing, Salviana—being cared for by a beast."

The silence that followed was heavy with the scent of tea and woodsmoke. Salviana felt the air leave her lungs. She knew he wasn’t talking about foxes. He was talking about the Velthorne bloodline—and perhaps the way the kingdom treated Alaric.

She stepped forward, the name that had been burning a hole in her mind finally leaping past her lips.

"Is that what happened to her?" she asked, her voice barely a whisper, yet cutting through his metaphor. "To Anne-Marie?"

Embrez stilled. The playful, mocking light in his eyes didn’t vanish, but it hardened, turning into something cold and crystalline. He turned to face her fully, his expression unreadable.

"Anne-Marie," he repeated, the name sounding ancient and heavy in his mouth. He didn’t look surprised that she knew. He simply looked at her as if he were re-evaluating her worth. "My brother has been sharing his ink, I see."

Salviana’s heart hammered against her ribs. "He wants her name on his skin. Permanently. He said... she would have been outraged." She took a tentative step closer, her emerald eyes searching his face for a crack. "Who was she, Embrez? Was she the fox? Or was she one of the sheep?"

Embrez looked at her for a long, agonizing minute, the villian-esque mask slipping just enough to show a flicker of genuine, jagged sorrow.

"Actually the fox is me and I was telling the tale because you asked why I’m here, you’re the sheep" he said with a deep laugh and Salviana only sighed in exasperation.

"Anne-Marie," he said softly, leaning against the mantelpiece, "she is Alaric’s to tell you about" he said

’What?!’