The air in Alaric's private chamber felt different.
Thicker. Heavier.
As if the walls themselves were holding their breath.
Elizabeth stood with her back to the flickering fireplace, arms folded across her chest. The shadows clung to her figure, only her eyes glinting like sharp-cut amethyst as Alaric entered, closing the door behind him with a quiet finality.
He didn't speak immediately.
He studied her instead, every movement, every flicker of her expression. Elizabeth was many things, but subtle wasn't one of them. Her presence alone was a storm—one he'd long thought was locked away, sealed like a cursed chapter in history.
"I knew you were alive," he said at last, his voice low and deliberate. "A necromancer doesn't die so easily."
Elizabeth's lips curled into a mocking smile. "Coming from the man who buried the truth with more care than any necromancer could summon a soul? That's rich."
Alaric's brow twitched. "You were imprisoned."
