Married To Darkness-Chapter 346: Fight For Me!

The Grand Castle Hall

The air inside the hall was thick — not with smoke or incense — but with tension.

Lords, councilmen, and high-ranking guests lined the gilded chamber, their robes whispering against the marble as they shifted uncomfortably in their seats.

Conversations were hushed yet urgent, a soft chaos bubbling beneath the surface, as though something dangerous lingered just beyond the grand double doors.

At the far end of the hall, King Gideon sat upon his towering throne, carved from obsidian and gold, his crown slightly askew as though he’d been running his hand through his hair one too many times.

His jaw was tight — not in anger, but in weariness.

And then came her.

Audrey Velthorne, the first concubine, swept into the hall like a storm wrapped in silk. Her crimson gown clung to her every curve, a bold statement of both defiance and desperation.

Her chin was high, but her eyes — sharp as a dagger’s edge — gleamed with barely-contained fury.

The court quieted.

The concubine had not been summoned — a bold move indeed — yet there she stood, right before the king and his council.

"Your Majesty," Audrey began, her voice smooth but urgent, "I seek justice."

King Gideon’s gaze darkened. "Justice?"

She pressed a hand to her chest. "For my son, Jaron. Your son."

The court shifted, a ripple of unease flowing through the lords and advisors.

They knew. The rumors had already spread like wildfire — the demon prince had caught his cousin.

King Gideon’s fingers drummed against the armrest of his throne. "Speak carefully, Audrey."

Audrey’s voice quivered, not from fear — but from restrained rage. "Your Majesty... the third prince—"

A wave of discomfort surged through the hall.

No one said his name. They never did. Not since the king forbade it.

He was the demon prince. The third prince. But never Alaric.

Audrey continued, "—he has taken Jaron. Locked him away in the dungeons beneath his chambers."

The king’s expression remained unreadable. "And why would he do that?"

Her lips tightened for half a second, but she quickly masked it with an air of wounded indignation. "Because the demon prince thinks himself above the law! He captured Jaron without trial, without royal consent — simply because of a personal vendetta!"

Soft murmurs broke out across the hall.

"Is this true?" Lord Beaumont muttered.

"The third prince does whatever he pleases."

"The demon prince acts without mercy."

"I heard he nearly killed Jaron with his bare hands."

Audrey’s voice rose, slicing through the whispers like a blade. "Your Majesty, this is not justice — this is brutality. Jaron is a prince too — your blood! He should be judged by the royal court, not a wild beast with no regard for the law."

The air grew heavier.

The king’s jaw twitched — a rare flicker of emotion.

A beast.

She’d called Alaric a beast.

The court stood on edge, waiting for the king’s response, half-expecting him to lash out — but instead, he spoke calmly.

"I will speak with the third prince."

Audrey blinked. "Your Majesty—"

"You have been heard, Audrey," the king said, his voice like steel. "Leave."

Her throat bobbed with unspoken protest, but she curtsied stiffly. "Yes, Your Majesty."

As she turned, the whispers began again, louder this time — disjointed thoughts clashing like swords in the air.

"Did you hear? He called him the third prince."

"Not by name — never by name."

"Well hasn’t it always been like that?"

"Why would the king allow him to do as he pleases?"

"What is happening in this castle?"

The tension hung like a storm cloud, thick and unrelenting.

And as Audrey left the hall — fury blazing behind her carefully composed mask — the only sound louder than the murmurs was the ghost of a name no one dared to speak.

Alaric.

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Evening pressed against the castle walls like a velvet cloak, darkening the sky with streaks of indigo and gold. A soft wind whispered through the corridor, but inside Alaric and Salviana’s chambers, all was quiet.

Salviana lay curled in their bed, her breathing soft and even — the rhythm of a woman finally resting after too much pain.

Alaric’s hand lingered against her cheek for a moment longer, his thumb brushing the faint mark still ghosting her skin. His fiery wife — his survivor — now asleep beneath his careful watch.

Then came the knock.

His jaw clenched.

Careful not to wake Salviana, he eased himself away from her warmth and slipped into the corridor. The maid, Thalia, waited just outside the door, her head bowed.

"Your Highness," she whispered, "the first princess is waiting for you... in your office."

Alaric’s brows drew together. "Genevieve?"

Thalia gave a small nod.

Why would she come now?

His frown deepened, but with a final glance back at the sleeping Salviana, he steeled himself and strode down the corridor.

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The moment Alaric opened the door to his office, the air inside seemed heavier.

Princess Genevieve stood by the window, the last rays of daylight catching in her dark hair, making the faint gold threads in her gown shimmer like dying embers. But it wasn’t the dress or the way she held herself — stiff, proud — that struck Alaric.

It was her eyes.

Wide and shining, a delicate tremor in her lower lashes.

But she wouldn’t cry.

Not yet.

"Alaric," she breathed, her voice breaking the silence, "you have to fight for me."

He blinked once. "What?"

Her fists curled at her sides. "The marriage — the deal they made with Tackeros — you have to stop it!"

Alaric’s lips thinned into a line. "Genevieve..."

"I’m to marry the second prince of Tackeros." Her voice cracked, but her shoulders remained straight. "A man I do not love. A man I do not know."

He said nothing.

"You have to stop it," she whispered again, and this time the words wavered, more plea than demand.

Alaric inhaled slowly. "Genevieve, this isn’t something I can undo."

"You’re Alaric!" she snapped, and the way she said his name — like it was a weapon, a sharp blade meant to cut through his cold exterior — made his spine stiffen. "You’re the demon prince, the third prince of Wyfn-Garde. They fear you — the council, the lords, even the king. If you tell them you want me—"

His head snapped up. "What?"

Her chin lifted defiantly, but a tear finally slipped from the corner of her eye. "If you tell them you love me — that you’ve always loved me — they’ll have no choice but to break the arrangement. Say you want me, Alaric. Please."

Silence.

It wasn’t soft.

It was sharp.

A silence that cut through the room like a blade slicing through silk.

"You know I can’t do that," he finally said, his voice low.

"You can," she insisted. "You could."

"No, Genevieve," his jaw tightened. "I’m married. I’m in love with Salviana."

Her face crumbled, but her voice rose, desperate now. "But I love you, Alaric! I’ve always loved you!"

His heart gave a painful lurch — not from love, not from longing — but from the sheer weight of her words. The rawness. The misery etched into every broken syllable.

He pressed his lips together. "Genevieve, you’re my cousin."

She flinched.

And then the storm broke.

"Don’t say it like that!" she hissed, tears slipping freely now. "As if that’s ever stopped anyone in royal bloodlines. As if it matters when I—" her voice broke again, "—when I’ve spent years waiting for you."

Alaric’s chest ached with something bitter — something like guilt.

He closed his eyes for half a second. "This marriage isn’t about you, Genevieve. It’s about the kingdom. If Wyfn-Garde refuses the deal, we go to war with Tackeros. And we would lose."

"I don’t care."

"You should." His voice darkened. "Because it’s not just your life at stake — it’s the lives of everyone in this kingdom."

She took a step forward. "Then lie."

His eyes snapped to hers.

"Tell them you want me, and the deal will crumble. Tackeros would never stand against you — they fear you more than they fear war."

Alaric shook his head slowly. "No."

Genevieve let out a shuddering breath. "Why not?"

"Because I am married. Because I love Salviana."

Her face twisted, a sob caught in her throat. "You love her? That woman who—who—"

Alaric’s gaze turned lethal.

"Don’t," he said quietly, voice like ice. "Do not speak ill of my wife."

Genevieve’s chest heaved. "She stole you from me."

"No," Alaric said simply. "I was never yours."

Her mouth fell open — and then she laughed bitterly, a broken sound that echoed in the quiet office.

"I waited for you," she whispered, her voice hoarse. "I rejected suitors — men who would have given me a happy life — because I thought... I thought you—"

Alaric looked away. His throat felt tight.

He wished he could tell her she was wrong.

He wished he could ease the pain twisting her features.

But there was no gentle way to tell someone their love had always been one-sided.

"You should have let yourself fall in love with someone else, Genevieve," he said softly. "You should have married someone who could love you back."

Her tears fell harder now. "I hate you."

The words struck harder than he expected.

He bit the inside of his cheek, tasting the sharp tang of blood.

"I’m sorry," he whispered.

Genevieve’s chin trembled, but she didn’t answer.

She stared at him — this man she had loved for years, this prince who would never love her back — and then, with a final tear-streaked glare, she spun on her heel and stormed out of the office.

The door slammed shut behind her.

And Alaric stood alone, the echo of her words still ringing in the empty room:

"I hate you."

But it was the apology he’d never spoken — the one lodged in his throat — that hurt him the most:

"I wish I could have loved you back."