Later that night, when Salviana had finally drifted into uneasy sleep, Alaric slipped from their chambers without a sound.
He moved through the castle's silent corridors like a shadow unmoored, the guards too wary—or too wise—to question where he was going.
His black cloak billowed behind him as he descended the back stair, avoiding the main gates. The moon was high over Wyfkeep, silvering the rooftops of the city below.
Lanterns flickered in the narrow streets, and the night air smelled of cold stone and chimney smoke.
He told himself it was only necessity. That he needed the strength. That if he didn't feed, he was a danger to her—to all of them.
But as he passed under the creaking iron arch of the outer wall and vanished into Wyfellon's dark veins, he knew a part of him simply needed to remember who he was before her softness threatened to unmake him.
