Disrespectful, Angry Jabs

Alaric watched her for a moment longer, memorizing every inch of her fragile form, before quietly slipping from the bed. 

His bare feet met the cold floor with a soft thud.

When he opened the chamber doors, the corridor wasn't empty.

Jean stood there, stiff and formal as ever, though his usual sternness was softened by concern. 

Beside him, the royal physician clutched a leather bag, her fingers twitching like she couldn't wait another second to lay eyes on the princess.

"My lord," Jean inclined his head. "May we check on her?"

Alaric didn't answer immediately. His jaw worked, the tension a solid knot in his throat. Finally, he gave a single, reluctant nod. "Be careful with her."

"Of course."

As the two entered the chamber, Alaric didn't watch them go. His focus shifted down the hall, where Lucius stood—arms crossed, expression carefully neutral.

Alaric stalked toward him, his stride purposeful. "Where is he?"