The door creaked open, and Alaric stepped inside, the silver tray steady in his hand despite the storm raging within him. His eyes found her instantly—Salviana.
She stood on the balcony, her red hair a cascade of fire against the morning sun, the silk robe Jean must have draped over her slipping slightly off one shoulder.
The wind teased the strands around her face, her skin still pale but glowing softly beneath the light.
His chest ached.
"Fiery?" Alaric bellowed, his voice rough, tentative—like he didn't quite believe she was real.
Salviana sucked in a sharp breath at the sound of his voice, and when she turned to face him, there was a single word on her lips.
A name—his name—but more than that. A spark. A prayer.
"Fire?"
His heart cracked wide open.
"My love," Alaric growled, the tray clattering onto a nearby table—forgotten the moment he crossed the room.