39: PERHAPS THERE WAS HOPE

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The morning light barely filtered through the heavy curtains of the royal chambers, casting a dim glow over the bed where Zara lay, her body aching with exhaustion. Every inch of her felt weighed down, as though shackled by an invisible force, and in a way, she was. The spell had taken root so deeply that she could feel its suffocating grip tightening around her very soul. Thoughts that should have belonged to her alone were no longer safe. The spell twisted them, tainted them, reshaped them to align with him. 

Alaric.

His presence beside her was suffocating, his warmth an unwelcome reminder of her imprisonment.

His arm draped over her waist in a possessive hold, as though even in sleep, he sought to claim her. His breathing was slow, steady, as if he had no care in the world. As if the universe had bent itself to his will and given him everything he desired.

For him, it was a victory.