Without a word, Alaric spun toward the polished brass pole—Lara's unconventional idea, once scoffed at by his generals, now a vital escape route in moments like this. He grasped it and launched himself downward, descending all twelve stories in a blur of speed and muscle. Wind roared past his ears. In seconds, he landed with precision on the ground floor, his boots thudding softly on the polished stone.
Outside, his warhorse Arion stood waiting, a majestic black stallion with eyes like embers and flanks rippling with power. Alaric mounted in a fluid motion, and with a sharp kick, they were off—galloping through Calma's winding cobblestone streets like a bolt of lightning cutting through the early morning.
The mansion had once belonged to Calma's mayor. Now, it was Lara's home—a betrothal gift Alaric had given her, not for luxury, but as a fortress of freedom. A symbol of her independence.
