"Do it," Alaric commanded.
A faint, golden shimmer rippled through the air, and in an instant, the room transformed. The tangled furs snapped into place, perfectly folded and smoothed as if they had never been disturbed, while the stained silks were replaced by fresh, crisp fabric that smelled of mountain air and lavender.
Even the floor was restored; the spilled water and the physical traces of their night vanished, leaving the stones dry and polished.
The heavy, musky scent of their passion was swept away, replaced by the biting clarity of the morning frost.
Alaric stood and pulled his tunic back on.
He walked toward the washroom door, listening to the soft, rhythmic splashing of Sansa scrubbing herself with the freezing water.
"The room is clean, Sansa," he called out, his voice a low, vibrant rumble. "The mess is gone, the air is fresh, and your furs are straightened."
The splashing stopped abruptly. A heavy silence followed before her voice drifted through the wood, sounding skeptical and strained. "Don't be kidding, Alaric," she murmured, her disbelief clear. "It hasn't been more than a minute since I stepped inside. How could you possibly have cleaned it so fast?"
He could hear her shifting, likely shivering from the cold. "Don't play around," she scolded, her tone rising with an edge of panicked urgency. "We could be caught at any moment. If you're just sitting there while the room looks like... like that... we're both dead."
"I told you," Alaric insisted, his voice steady and calm. "It's done."
Sansa fell silent for a long heartbeat, her curiosity finally outweighing her fear. "Come inside," she whispered.
When Alaric pushed the door open, the small room was thick with the scent of damp stone and the sharp, freezing mist of the water. Sansa stood by the basin, her copper hair plastered to her shoulders in dark, soaking clumps. She was dripping and pale, her skin pebbled with gooseflesh from the cold, though she still moved with a visible, heavy soreness in her legs.
The moment he stepped in, she gasped and quickly forced him to turn around, her hands pressing against his back to keep his eyes away. "Don't look!" she hissed, her face likely a deep crimson. "You've seen quite enough tonight. I don't need you getting... distracted again when the sun is already touching the battlements."
Despite her embarrassment, she didn't let him go. "You need to get cleaned, and quickly," she commanded. Before he could even protest, the sudden, shocking weight of a basin of water was upended over his head.
"Shit!" Alaric barked, the freezing spray hitting his scalp like a thousand needles.
"Hush!" Sansa scolded. Her hands moved with frantic speed, wiping the water and the lingering traces of night from his chest and shoulders. She worked with a mix of practiced care and panicked efficiency, followed immediately by another splash of ice-cold water to rinse away the last of the sweat.
With a final, sharp shove, she steered him toward the door. "Get out!" she whispered urgently. "And bring me a towel. There should be another one out there you can use for yourself."
Alaric stumbled back into the main chamber, shivering despite himself. He glanced at the towel rack and then back toward the washroom door. "I'll freeze to death before I even reach the linens, you savage," he joked, his voice low and playful.
"Then freeze quickly," she shot back, the audible chatter of her teeth punctuating her words. "And bring the towels!"
Alaric snatched two thick towels from the rack. Behind him, the washroom door creaked open.
"Keep your back turned!" Sansa hissed, her voice trembling.
Alaric obeyed, facing the stone wall and holding the linens over his shoulder. He heard the wet, rhythmic patter of her feet on the floor. She snatched the towels from his hand, and after a moment of frantic rustling and the sound of fabric snapping against damp skin, she let out a long, shaky breath.
"You can look now," she whispered.
Alaric turned. Sansa stood in the center of the chamber, one towel wrapped tightly around her frame and the other twisted into a makeshift turban to catch the dripping copper of her hair. She looked small and utterly exhausted, but as her gaze moved past Alaric to the rest of the room, her eyes widened in shock.
She stood frozen, her mouth slightly agape as she took in the impossible state of her quarters. The heavy furs were snapped straight and perfectly smoothed, showing no sign of the frantic struggle they had endured.
The silk and linen sheets were crisp and white, smelling faintly of lavender; the deep crimson stains of her lost innocence had completely vanished. The stones beneath her feet were dry and polished, and the heavy, musky scent of their passion had been replaced by the biting clarity of the morning frost.
"How...?" she breathed, her voice failing her as she stepped toward the bed, reaching out a trembling hand to touch the pristine furs. "Alaric, this is impossible. I was only gone for minutes. There were stains... the smell... the floor was a mess. How did you do this?"
She turned back to him, her expression a mix of genuine astonishment and dawning realization. Alaric watched her, a ghost of a smirk playing on his lips, but the satisfaction was cut short. In the periphery of his vision, a translucent, shimmering overlay pulsed into existence—the map that only he could see.
A vibrant red dot was moving steadily through the corridor, glowing with an aggressive intensity against the blue-tinted layout of the castle. It was closing in fast.
"Alaric?" Sansa asked, noticing his sudden, rigid focus. "What is it?"
"We're out of time," he said, his voice dropping to a sharp, commanding whisper. he moved quickly, crossing the room in two long strides to grab his discarded cloak.
"What do you mean?..."
"someone is coming," Alaric interrupted. He didn't have time to explain the magic. He reached out, his hand lingering for a brief, tender second as he smoothed a stray, damp copper lock against her forehead.
"Alaric, wait—!"
"Stay safe," he whispered.
He vaulted toward the window. With the morning frost still clinging to the ledge, he slipped through the narrow opening just as a key rattled in the heavy iron lock.
He dropped.
The air whistled past his ears for a terrifying heartbeat before he crashed into the thick, snow-dusted shrubbery below. The branches clawed at his tunic. He scrambled deeper into the shadows, pressing his back against the cold stone foundation of the keep, his heart thundering like a war drum.
Above him, the faint creak of the door opening echoed in the crisp morning air.
"My Lady?" a muffled voice called out. "You're awake early. I've brought the warm water for your..."
Alaric crouched lower, his eyes fixed on the red dot on his internal map, now hovering directly over the spot where he had stood moments ago.