CHAPTER 482: INSPIRED BY LIGHT

"Oh," she breathed, eyes wide. "They’re everywhere."

Their guard, Simon, appeared from the shadows with the quiet efficiency of a man used to his lord’s whims. Seeing their fascination, he bowed slightly and said, "Shall I fetch a jar, my lord?"

Alaric smirked. "Do it."

Within moments, Simon returned with a glass bottle, and Alaric pressed it into Salviana’s hands. "Here," he said softly, his gaze never leaving her. "Catch them as you can."

Her eyes sparkled. "Your belief in me is almost scary," She lifted the jar cautiously, waiting until one of the fireflies hovered close. With careful hands, she cupped it into the bottle.

The moment the tiny creature slipped inside, its glow lit her face, painting her features in soft, ethereal light.

Alaric’s breath caught. Divine. That was the only word for her. Even dressed in mortal silks, even barefoot in the grass, she was more radiant than any goddess sung about in ballads.

"You’re staring," she teased, her voice soft, the corners of her mouth curving into a playful smile.

"I’m memorizing," he corrected, stepping closer until his shadow mingled with hers. "Every laugh, every look—so I can hold them when you’re not near."

Her cheeks heated, and she ducked her gaze, watching the little firefly glow and dim within the jar. "You speak like every word is spun from poetry," she whispered.

He tilted her chin up gently, his thumb grazing her jaw. "Oh No. Poetry wishes it could speak like I do when it comes to you."

Her lips parted, but laughter bubbled up again when another firefly brushed against her cheek, tickling her.

She giggled, swatting it gently toward the jar. Alaric’s deep chuckle joined hers, the sound vibrating through her where his hand rested against her back.

They spent the late evening weaving through the gardens, chasing fireflies like children. Her gown tangled around her ankles more than once, and every time she stumbled,

Alaric caught her, steady and unyielding, his smirk growing wider.

"At this rate," he murmured, lifting her once when her hem nearly tripped her, "I’ll have to carry you through the entire garden."

"And what if I let you?" she teased breathlessly.

"Then I’ll never put you down," he said simply, his gaze burning into hers until she had to look away, flustered.

Maids passed occasionally along the corridors of the castle, some pausing discreetly to watch. Their hands pressed against their lips as they whispered awws to each other, seeing their master and mistress laughing, stumbling, glowing beneath the stars with fireflies swirling around them. It was a sight rare in court—a love so unguarded, so unashamed.

Salviana clutched the jar close to her chest, the little lights within flickering like trapped stars. "Do you know what they say about fireflies?" she asked as they slowed their chase.

Alaric shook his head, still watching her more than the lights. "Enlighten me, divine one."

"They say each one is a wish," she whispered, eyes soft. "And if you catch one, it carries your wish to the night, so the stars themselves can answer."

He raised a brow. "And what will you wish for?"

She hesitated, her gaze dropping to the glowing jar. Her heart swelled with words she wasn’t sure she could say aloud—that she wished for safety, for her people, for their love to withstand every shadow waiting to steal it away. But instead, she looked up at him and smiled gently. "I’ve already got mine."

His chest tightened at her words, and without hesitation, he bent and pressed his lips to hers. A kiss deep and slow, flavored with laughter, firelight, and devotion. She melted into him, the jar warm between them, the fireflies pulsing like their very hearts.

When they broke apart, he rested his forehead against hers, whispering, "Then I’ll spend my life making sure your wish never fades."

The night lingered around them, quiet save for their mingled laughter and the faint hum of fireflies. They wandered back toward their chambers, hand in hand, the jar of glowing lights bobbing between them like a secret treasure.

For Salviana, it wasn’t the grandeur of the castle, nor the schemes of court, nor even the divine power whispered in her name that mattered most.

It was this—Alaric’s steady hand, his gaze like fire and safety all at once, and the little lights they’d caught together, proof that even in a dark world, love could glow.

Back in their chambers, the night felt alive. Salviana and Alaric set the glass jar of fireflies by the window, where the tiny lanterns pulsed like living stars against the dark pane. The glow softened the room, mingling with the crackle of the fireplace.

She curled against him in bed, her cheek resting over his chest as his hand absently stroked her hair. His lips pressed into the crown of her head, feather-light kisses that made her melt deeper into his warmth.

For a time, they spoke in hushed tones—their voices intimate, conspiratorial, as if the world outside no longer existed. Her laughter came soft and unguarded, his murmurs of endearment rumbling against her ear like a prayer.

But then—suddenly—Salviana jolted upright.

"I have to paint."

Alaric blinked, half startled. "What?"

Her eyes shone with urgency, her breath quick as if inspiration itself had seized her. "I—I need to paint. Right now. Please, Alaric, I feel it. If I don’t, it will slip away."

For a heartbeat he only stared at her—then he smiled, slow and indulgent. "My love, you don’t need to beg me for this. If you wish to paint, then paint." He brushed a knuckle along her flushed cheek. "I’ll hold the light for you."

Before she could argue, he swung his legs off the bed and reached for her hand. She grasped it eagerly, pulling him with her. Together they slipped down the corridor into her painting room, the soft pad of their feet muffled against velvet runners.

Alaric moved first, striking flint against steel until one candle after another bloomed to life. The flames multiplied—five, then ten, then twenty—until the chamber glowed as though dawn itself had come to greet her. Shadows danced across the walls, gilding her brushes, her canvases, the jars of pigment waiting to be touched.

"Is that enough?" he asked.