Married To Darkness-Chapter 453: To The King They Go

"Look at this," he muttered, eyes bright with amusement. "We rode through fire and demons for this peaceful welcome?"

"Shut up," Jean hissed at him.Sebastian smirked but said no more. "They’re scared of us. That’s what this is. Why announce a wolf’s return if you don’t plan to cage him? But I’ve made it this far, and I’ll watch the world burn before I fall to cowards in armor." Sebastian was a force.

The silence shattered.

Like thunder on marble, armored boots struck the ground—twenty knights marched out of the castle in unison, shields gleaming in the pale sun, helmets down, blades at their sides.

They formed a hard wall in front of the gate, a glittering barricade of steel and discipline.

Alaric’s eyes flicked over them—calculating, assessing. "Finally. A proper welcome. But why delay the arrest? Why let us stand so near the gate? They’re planning something. Either an ambush or a show. But I’ll give them neither." He smirked.

Salviana stiffened, her voice barely a breath. "Alaric... what’s about to happen?"

He didn’t answer.

Not yet.

Boots thundered again.

Twenty more knights emerged from the other side, forming a ring around them. Perfect symmetry. Precision.

A trap—beautifully laid.

Jean reached for Lucius’s hand.

Sebastian’s fingers twitched beside his hip, the rings on his hand glowing faintly.

Lucius stared straight ahead.

"So this is it. Either they bow or we bleed. But I’ve been hunted enough for a lifetime. I will not kneel."

Salviana’s breath hitched as she leaned down to whisper, "Is this death?"

Alaric looked up at the towering gates, the line of knights, the city he once called home.

He turned slowly toward her, his expression unreadable—calm in the face of steel.

"No," he said quietly, reaching for her hand and helping her down. "This is politics."

He kissed her knuckles, eyes dark with fire.

"Let them surround us. Let them roar and rattle blades. I’ve come back not to beg—but to remind them: I am still the third prince of Wyfn-Garde. And I did not come alone."

Just then, the gates creaked.

Something—someone—was approaching from within.

The air rippled with tension. The sun passed behind a cloud.

Every heart beat as one.

Waiting.

Watching.

"The king has ordered us to escort you in," the lead knight announced stiffly, armor clinking as he stepped forward. His voice was formal, but the tremor beneath it betrayed something deeper—uncertainty... or shame.

Alaric recognized him.

Ser Derren. A man he’d once fought beside—and later across blades with. A man who’d spat oaths at him in a battlefield rainstorm and sworn Alaric would never be welcome in the capital again.

And now, he bowed.

"Third Prince," Derren muttered, eyes downcast.

Alaric tilted his head. Slowly. Deliberately. "Oh, I remember you," he said, a faint smile curving his lips. "How humbling this must be."

Derren didn’t look up. "I only follow orders."

Alaric’s gaze flicked sideways to Salviana, whose hand he now held. She looked radiant and sharp-eyed, her copper-red hair catching the sunlight like firelight on a blade.

"We will join the king," Alaric said smoothly, "but surely, he wouldn’t want us to appear before him with dust in our hair and blood on our boots?" He gestured down to his stained armor with a faint smile.

"We’ve traveled far," Salviana added, lifting her chin. "The king will wait a little longer. We shall not stand before him looking like fugitives."

Derren hesitated, then gave a half-bow. "I was ordered to bring you immediately, but... I understand. I will inform the stewards to prepare the rooms."

"Kind," Alaric replied, voice dry. "Come, wife. Let’s reclaim our home."

The gates groaned open, and the moment they stepped inside Wyfkeep Castle, everything changed.

Eyes.

So many eyes.

Maids, servants, squires—they all stopped to stare as the disgraced Third Prince returned not in chains, but at the head of a procession.

Everyone bowed. Hastily. Uncertainly.

And then they scattered.

The group’s horses were taken quickly, but the silence in the air felt thick as oil. They kept their weapons. No one dared ask them to give those up.

But there were no carriages. No litters.

They were expected to walk.

The winding path up to the High Hold of the castle was long—too long. Wyfkeep had always been an arrogant sprawl of stone and spires, a symbol of royal power. And today, it felt like it was testing them.

Jean groaned aloud. "Seriously? We’re going to hike up this whole thing?"

"This is their way of reminding us we’re not honored guests," Sebastian muttered behind her. "It’s petty. I respect it."

"Shut up," Jean said, but she clutched Lucius’s hand tighter.

"Oh, Jeanie pumpkin, you like me, we’re going to be best friends," Sebastian smiled.

"God forbid," Jean wailed and Sebastian only shook his head laughing.

Lucius, hidden beneath his dark cloak, walked in silence. The sun was bright today—brighter than expected—and his hands were trembling slightly. His pallor had deepened, lips tight.

"Lucius," Jean whispered. "Are you okay?"

"I’m fine," he muttered, voice clipped. "Just... bright. And tiring. But I’m not breaking."

He held his umbrella like a shield, every step measured but majestic. Even now, he refused to show weakness. ’Let them stare. I’m still Lord Drake. And I will not falter. Not yet.’

Alaric, ever vigilant, walked in silence—his senses alert to every movement, every hush. His wife’s hand stayed in his. He hadn’t let it go since they crossed the gate.

"They’re watching us. Judging. Waiting for weakness. But they’ll see none. I came home for truth—and power. And I didn’t come alone."

Salviana didn’t speak. But her eyes scanned the towering arches, the tapestries fluttering, the flickers of shadow behind windowpanes. ’So this is where our fate will pivot. The castle of my husband’s birth... and maybe our last battlefield.’

She looked beautiful still, her red hair curlier than before she left the castle. She had more freckles and her green eyes shone with even more hope. Hope for a better future.

She walked tall beside him, even as sweat kissed her spine and unease curled in her stomach.

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