CHAPTER 442: REMEMBER OUR MISSION

"Poison," Alaric said coldly.

The second man bolted.

Too late.

Lucius appeared from nowhere, blocking the door like a shadow given form. He wasn’t smiling.

"I hate interruptions during dessert," he said calmly.

There was a crash. Chairs scraped. A fight exploded in less than a second.

The first attacker twisted, dagger flashing—but Alaric ducked, pivoted, and elbowed the man across the face. Blood flew. The man dropped to his knees, dazed.

Lucius handled the other with grim efficiency—an umbrella strike to the gut, then a vicious slap with the hilt.

The bakery owner came running in, screaming, "My tables!"

Alaric leaned down, grabbed the dazed poisoner by the collar, and pressed their foreheads together—intimate, threatening.

"If you were desperate," he whispered, "you should’ve begged. Not died trying."

He dropped the man like a stone and turned to Salviana, who stood calmly by the window, her plate untouched.

"Are you ok?" Alaric asked slightly frantic.

"I was just getting to the center," she sighed. "That’s the gooey part."

Alaric offered his hand. "We’ll find another one. Come on, Fiery."

They stepped out into the cold.

As they walked away, Salviana squeezed his fingers. "They had to ruin our date with schemes."

"The price is rather tempting despite the warning from Embrez."

"Next time, just dance with me under the stars, there’s no way we’ll be interrupted."

He smiled. "And if the stars try to poison you?"

"Then burn the sky." She giggled afterwards but Alaric smiled softly, if he could, he will.

The market air smelled of leather and roasted chestnuts, the din of bartering voices echoing down the narrow stone alleys.

Stalls brimmed with cloaks, trinkets, daggers, and charms—but one in particular caught their eyes.

Shoes.

Rows of polished boots, silken slippers, and soft velvet-lined sandals lined a low wooden bench. A bright green awning fluttered above it, casting the whole space in a strange, otherworldly light.

"Let’s get new shoes," Salviana said suddenly, stepping toward the display like a magpie drawn to treasure.

Alaric tilted his head. "For what? Our feet are safer in these wears."

"For luck, my prince, luck" she said simply, with a mischievous smile.

"You believe in lucky shoes?" Alaric held back a grin.

"I believe in the energy of choices. Fresh soles for a fresh journey." She glanced over her shoulder. "You don’t have to understand it, just buy it."

Alaric chuckled and joined her. "Alright, fiery wife. What pair will bring you fortune?"

She bent slightly, fingers skimming a deep crimson pair with delicate silver embroidery.

"These. They remind me of roses and war."

"Of course they do." He picked up a pair of sleek black boots for himself. "And I’ll take these—quiet, clean, lethal. Like me."

Salviana arched a brow. "Humble, too."

They tried them on in near-synchrony, facing each other across the worn rug the merchant had laid out. The boots fit perfectly, like stories they hadn’t told yet.

"New shoes," she whispered, standing tall. "New fate."

Alaric reached across the space between them and took her hand.

"We’ll go to good places."

Her lips curved. "We already are."

They paid the startled old merchant—who tried to insist that couples who buy matching shoes must promise to never lie to each other again.

"We’ve never lied," Alaric said calmly, flipping him a gold wyfin.

"Except about how tired you are when I ask you to carry things," Salviana muttered with a smirk.

"That’s self-preservation," Alaric replied as he tucked her hand into the crook of his arm.

"Where to now, mountain man?"

"Wherever your cursed boots guide us."

"Alaric!" She scolded and he smiled, "I apologize," he said.

She laughed. "Then I hope they lead us to fine wine, because your wife is thirsty."

Alaric narrowed his eyes, "Wine Fiery? That’s new."

"And blood for you," Salviana whispered.

Alaric grinned.

They walked off, boots clicking in rhythm, hearts a little lighter, their shadows long and stretching together in the cobbled road.

Lucky shoes indeed.

Somehow they have forgotten about the cheesy couple behind them.

Soon The golden afternoon light had begun to fade into the smoky blue of early evening, casting a soft, enchanting hue over Wyfhelm’s bustling market streets.

Alaric and Salviana walked side by side, newly-bought boots clicking against cobblestone, their laughter weaving gently between the buildings like the start of a song.

But Lucius wasn’t laughing.

He lingered at the edge of the group like a shadow with a heartbeat, his black-gloved hands folded behind his back, his silver eyes trained on the clouds.

Without a word, he stepped forward and lightly tugged Alaric by the elbow.

"A moment," Lucius said quietly.

Alaric glanced toward Salviana, who gave a gentle nod before turning her attention to a row of crystal brooches at a vendor’s stall.

They moved to a narrow alley, framed by stone walls and the quiet hum of distant chatter. The light here was dimmer, colder.

"What is it?" Alaric asked, folding his arms.

Lucius’s eyes, haunted and sharp, bore into him.

"When do we remember why we left the castle in the first place?"

Alaric sighed, running a hand through his midnight-dark hair, his jaw tense.

Lucius didn’t wait. "What about the mission, Alaric? The real one. The one that matters to us. The one you promised to help with."

Alaric leaned back against the stone wall, exhaling. He didn’t answer.

"The search for our kind. Our origin," Lucius continued, voice dropping to a whisper. "You remember what I told you. I see shadows in my dreams. I feel them watching. My blood sings for something lost andI know yours does too."

Alaric’s voice was tired. "Lucius—"

"Salviana hasn’t even looked into the mirror again. We’ve been stalling. You know it."

"We’ve been surviving," Alaric shot back, his tone low but laced with fire. "You think I don’t want answers? You think I don’t ache for them?"

"So what now? We keep playing tourist while the truth about us rots in the dark?" Lucius asked bitterly.

Alaric stepped forward, eye to eye with his oldest friend.

"Our next step is staying alive, Lucius. We’re being hunted. The king wants my head on a pike. Salviana’s safety comes first. Yours too."

Lucius clenched his fists. "And my memories? The ones I still don’t have?"

"Is Jean not helping?" Alaric asked.

Lucius glanced away, jaw tight. "She tries. But she can’t research if we’re always running or charming innkeepers or dodging poisoned pastries."

A bitter chuckle escaped Alaric’s lips. "Welcome to being a fugitive prince with a wife, a vampire friend, and an entire kingdom with a bounty on your name."

"It’s not funny."