The Bastard and the Prince

They worked in silence for a time, the faint crackle of the fire the only sound in the room. Lysandra's heart still raced, though she told herself it was the adrenaline of the mission, the danger that still loomed over them. It wasn't him. It couldn't be him.

"Here," Alaric said, breaking the silence as he pulled a stack of parchment from a locked drawer. He set them on the desk, his voice steady but quieter than usual. "These look like supply logs."

Lysandra stepped closer, her eyes narrowing as she scanned the pages. Her focus sharpened as she read the details, her mind piecing together the connections. "Weapons, rations… transport schedules," she muttered, her voice low. "This matches what that coward said about the northern stronghold."

She looked up at him briefly, her sharp gaze meeting his. "This is enough to tie Halvard directly to Selric's network. And if we're lucky, it'll lead us to whoever else is involved."

Alaric nodded, his expression grim. "We'll bring this back to court with us."

Lysandra's lips curved into a faint smirk, though her eyes remained cold. "Selric thinks he's untouchable. He's going to regret underestimating us."

"He will," Alaric agreed, his voice carrying that quiet determination she was coming to recognize. "We'll make sure of it."

For a moment, their gazes lingered, the space between them thick with unspoken tension. Lysandra's breath hitched, her sharp composure faltering as Alaric's steady gaze locked onto hers. There was something about the quiet intensity in his eyes that made her feel exposed in a way she wasn't used to. The fire crackled softly in the background, but the silence between them felt louder, charged with something she didn't want to name.

Then Alaric spoke, his voice low but deliberate, cutting through the fragile stillness. "Lysandra," he began, his tone careful, almost hesitant. "What would you do if Eldren decides to legitimize you as princess of Eldren?"

The question hit her like a dagger to the chest. For a moment, she froze, her mind racing even as her body stayed perfectly still. It wasn't just the question itself—it was the way he asked it, as if the answer mattered to him more than it should.

She straightened slightly, her arms crossing over her chest in a defensive gesture, as though she could shield herself from the implications of his words. "That's a dangerous question, Alaric," she said, her tone sharper than she intended. "Why would you even ask me that?"

His gaze didn't waver, his expression unreadable but intent. "Because it's not just a possibility—it's a probability," he said quietly. "If Eldern court see you as the solution to their succession crisis, they'll push for it. The king—your grandfather—might even agree to it, if only to ensure the line continues."

Lysandra scoffed, though the bitterness in her voice betrayed her. "And what? They'll make me their puppet princess, parade me around like a prize they can use to tie up all their loose ends?" She shook her head, a humorless laugh escaping her lips. "I don't think so."

"But what would you do?" Alaric pressed, his voice gentler now, though it still carried a weight that unsettled her. "If they gave you the choice—if they offered to legitimize you—what would you say?"

Lysandra's throat tightened, and she glanced away, her gaze falling to the floor as her defenses wavered. "Why does it matter?" she muttered, her voice quieter now. "They'd use me to keep the court in line, to placate the nobles, and then toss me aside the moment I stopped being convenient."

"But you could make a difference," Alaric countered, stepping closer. His voice was steady, but there was an edge of urgency in it now. "You could protect Eldren from people like Selric, from the necromancer. You could give the kingdom something it desperately needs—peace."

She looked up sharply, her eyes narrowing as she studied his face. "And what about Voltaria?" she asked, her voice cutting. "If I became princess of Eldren, how long do you think it would take before they start whispering to your father, the king, that I'm a threat to Voltaria? To you?"

Alaric didn't flinch at her words. Instead, he stepped forward, closing the space between them in one deliberate motion. His presence was commanding, his gaze locked on hers, steady and intense. Her heart skipped, but she refused to back down, her body rigid as his nearness sent a wave of heat rippling through her.

"How would you be a threat?" he asked, his voice low, each word laced with a quiet, burning conviction.

Before she could answer, before she could even process the shift in the air between them, he leaned down, his face inches from hers. The tension that had been simmering beneath the surface erupted as he pressed his lips to hers.

For a moment, the world seemed to fall away. The fire crackling in the background, the weight of the mission, the looming threat of Selric and the necromancer—all of it faded, leaving only the heat of his kiss and the steady pressure of his hands lightly brushing her arms.

Lysandra froze, her body caught between instinct and something far deeper. Her mind screamed at her to pull away, to push him back. But her heart betrayed her, and instead of retreating, she found herself leaning into him.

The kiss was steady and passionate, his lips soft yet firm against hers. It wasn't rushed or desperate—it was deliberate, as though he were trying to tell her something words couldn't. For all her sharpness, for all her walls and defenses, Lysandra couldn't help but feel the sincerity in it. And that terrified her.

When she finally pulled back, her breath came in shallow bursts, her chest rising and falling as she stared up at him. His face was still close to hers, his expression raw and unguarded in a way she hadn't seen before. The firelight danced in his eyes, but it wasn't enough to mask the vulnerability in them.

"Alaric…" she began, her voice shaky and uneven. She hated how weak it sounded, how it betrayed the turmoil raging inside her. Her carefully built walls trembled, leaving her exposed in a way that made her chest tighten with both fear and something she didn't want to name.

"You're only a threat to my heart," he said softly, his voice steady but carrying an honesty that left her breathless. His words hung in the air between them, quiet but undeniable.

Her breath hitched, and she took a step back, her hands curling into fists at her sides as if she could hold herself together through sheer force of will. "You can't say things like that," she whispered, her voice laced with both anger and vulnerability.

"Why not?" he asked, his tone calm yet resolute. He didn't move closer, but his gaze never wavered, his eyes searching hers as though he could see through every layer she tried to hide behind. "Why shouldn't I tell you the truth?"

"Because it doesn't matter," she snapped, though her voice faltered, betraying the crack in her defenses. She shook her head sharply, as if trying to dispel the weight of his words, the intensity in his eyes that seemed to cut through all her carefully constructed walls. "It's just fantasy you're speaking," she said bitterly, her voice trembling despite the edge she tried to maintain. "Nothing more than a romantic fairytale."

Alaric didn't flinch. His gaze held steady, his expression calm but unyielding as he took a step closer. "Do you really believe that?" he asked softly, his voice carrying a quiet determination. "That this is all some story I've made up in my head? That what we're fighting for—and what I see in you—isn't real?"

"It can't be real," she shot back, her arms crossing tightly over her chest as though trying to shield herself. "Because the world doesn't work like that, Alaric. There's no room for fairytales in this mess of a world we live in. Not for people like me."

"People like you?" he echoed, his voice sharpening slightly. "You mean people who've survived against impossible odds? Who've faced every challenge thrown at them and come out stronger? People who've proven time and again that they're more than what the world tried to make of them?"

"Stop," she said quietly, her voice trembling as she turned away, unable to meet his eyes any longer. "Just… stop. You don't understand."

"Then help me understand," he said, his voice soft but insistent as he stepped closer, his presence a steady force at her side. "Tell me why you're so afraid to let this—let me—matter."

She clenched her fists, her nails digging into her palms as she fought to keep herself together. The truth was there, clawing at her throat, but she couldn't bring herself to say it aloud. She hated how much his words affected her, how much she wanted to believe in the impossible, even when every instinct told her to run.

"Because if I let it matter, then it can be taken away," she said finally, her voice barely above a whisper. The words hung heavy in the air, raw and unguarded, and she hated herself for saying them.

Alaric's expression softened, his gaze filled with something she couldn't bring herself to name. "Lysandra," he said gently, his voice steady, "I can't promise that this fight won't cost us more than we can imagine. But I can promise you that you don't have to face it alone."

She looked up at him, her throat tightening as she met his gaze. There was no hesitation in his eyes, no trace of doubt. He believed in her, in them, in something beyond the chaos and pain that had defined so much of her life. And it scared her more than anything she had ever faced.

"You're an idiot," she said finally, her voice wavering as she tried to mask the storm inside her. "But a persistent one."

A faint smile tugged at his lips, though his gaze remained steady. "I'll take that as a compliment."