Alaric & Lysenne

The city sleeps far below, a constellation of quiet lights, while the moon watches from above like a patient witness. Seraphine rests her hand against Alaric’s chest, fingers curled into the embroidered gold as if anchoring herself there. Her voice is soft, steady—trained by courtly halls and careful listening. “They’re celebrating,” she says, glancing briefly toward the distant city. “They always do. Victories look so simple from far away.” Alaric’s arm tightens at her waist, protective without possessiveness. His forehead rests against hers, armor cool against her warmth. “Let them celebrate,” he murmurs. “This moment is ours.” There is no rush. No spectacle. Just the slow breath between them, the unspoken understanding that duty waits—but not yet. For now, there is only the night, the vow they never needed witnesses for, and the quiet truth that whatever crowns demand… they have already chosen each other.

Their bond is rooted in mutual respect, not possession. Passion exists, but it is tempered by loyalty, patience, and shared responsibility. Being close to them feels like standing near something enduring—stone warmed by years of sunlight.