Lord Alaric Dukker had long since stopped counting the candles not that he neede them. As a Saint, his eyes functioned well beyond the limits of a normal human and so he could see well in the dark.
Still, they burned low and were replaced. Ink dried and was replenished. Papers were signed, sealed, and stacked into neat, merciless towers that only ever seemed to grow. The study within Blackwood Keep was silent save for the scratch of his pen and the distant groan of winter wind crawling along the stone walls like a living thing.
Oakhes was only one knot in a web that had begun to strangle the entire Blackwood region.
The so-called Commercial War had metastasized far beyond shouting merchants and agitated markets. What had once been rivalry had hardened into doctrine. The Trade Union's insistence on Crown Solar dominance, reinforced by conversion taxes designed to bleed foreign trade dry, had provoked the Free Guild into deliberate inflationary countermeasures. Each faction claimed stability. Each produced figures, forecasts, and guarantees.
And each lied.
Alaric leaned back in his chair, rolling tension from his shoulders as his eyes drifted over a memorandum from Aethelburg. The Monetary Stabilization Act—a name so sterile it bordered on mockery—had fractured the Privy Council into quiet camps. Some argued it would preserve the Solar's supremacy. Others feared it would accelerate unrest and push border territories like Blackwood into open revolt.
None of them lived here.
None of them had to watch guards break up food riots sparked by currency fluctuations. While Alaric did his best for his people, the struggle in the region—especially along the border—was very real.
His wife had offered—gently at first, then firmly—to take on some of the burden while he remained in the capital. He had refused every time.
She was carrying new life.
That alone was reason enough.
The mountain of work he buried himself beneath was crushing even for a Saint. Alaric would not allow its weight anywhere near her. Not when her body was already waging a far more important battle. He would not risk strain, stress, or even the slightest fracture of calm.
So he worked.
Saints could operate purely on internal Flow reserves—no food, no rest, no sleep—for roughly three months before degradation began. It was a known biological and metaphysical limit. Saints did not collapse; they eroded.
Alaric had passed seven months.
The fatigue had settled not in his muscles, but in his bones. A deep, ancient ache that no circulation of Flow could quite wash away.
He dipped his pen again and paused as another dispatch caught his eye.
Aethelburg. Privy Council Addendum. 'Restricted Circulation'.
His jaw tightened.
The Twelfth Prince.
Once, the boy had been a footnote. A name mentioned only to complete genealogical records. Too young, too distant, too politically inconvenient to matter. That perception had changed—suddenly, violently. Saints could operate purely on internal Flow reserves—no food, no rest, no sleep—for roughly three months before degradation began.
No explanation was offered. None needed to be.
Alaric had sat in that parliamentary chamber days ago and watched as the other lords shift their posture when the prince's name was spoken. Alliances had recalculated in real time. Factions that had spent decades circling one another now adjusted their strategies as if a new variable had entered the equation—unquantifiable, dangerous.
The prince had moved.
That alone was enough to terrify men who understood power.
No declaration. No overt act. Just a revelation whose nature was being carefully smothered beneath sealed doors and deliberate vagueness. Alaric suspected the truth would never be written in ink.
Some Anomalies announced themselves with the fall of snow.
Others laughed quietly and let the world tilt.
He set the document aside and exhaled slowly.
As if economics and succession were not enough, death had begun stalking the outskirts of Blackhaven.
Four killings. Clean. Precise. No Flow residue detectable by standard means. Victims unremarkable—until one noticed the pattern. Each had been killed at specific times, on specific days and in specific ways.
This was not random. It was a message.
Come.
Whatever that meant. Whoever was responsible was targeting something, or someone...there were so many questions.
Three Saints and one Praetorian stood at the top of the regional hierarchy. The Praetorian was currently incapacitated by circumstances, not that he would let her anyway. Aside that any overt move by a Saint—himself or Eddie—would force the culprit underground, adapting, vanishing. Except one.
Roric.
It was easy to forget what the man truly was. His stoic demeanor, his blunt speech, the way he carried himself like a veteran who had chosen a quiet life—it all disguised the reality.
Roric was the Head of the Blackhaven Branch of the Hunters' Bureau.
The Bureau's central authority resided in the capital, a sprawling citadel of intelligence, enforcement, and sanctioned violence. Beneath it were regional head offices embedded within major territories. Below those, scattered field offices and lone operatives who answered only to sealed writs and higher law.
Blackwood's regional branch was small.
Which made it perfect.
Roric had resisted at first. He always did. He had listened in silence as Alaric laid out the situation, fingers drumming against a mug that had long gone cold.
"You're asking me to stir a nest you don't want rattled," Roric had said.
"I'm asking you to watch," Alaric replied. "Nothing more."
The man had looked at him then— not even as a friend, but as someone measuring the cost behind another's eyes.
"You've been running yourself into the ground," Roric finally muttered. "Seven months without sleep isn't bravery. It's stubbornness."
"Someone has to hold the line."
A long pause.
"…I'll see what I can do," Roric said at last. "Quietly."
"I can always count on you."
Now, alone again, Alaric set his pen down and pressed his fingers to his eyes.
The room smelled faintly of ink and old parchment—and something warmer.
A cup was placed gently beside his hand.
He looked up.
Elara stood there, in a loose, flowing gown of pale ivory silk that caught the candlelight softly. Her hair was unbound, cascading freely down her back. She looked tired.
"Why are you still awake?" he asked quietly. "You should be resting."
She lightly swatted his hand away when he reached for her.
"And you should stop pretending you're made of stone," she replied, unimpressed. "I can't rest knowing you're buried in here."
"I told you," he said gently. "I won't let you—"
"I know," she cut in, softer now. "You're trying to protect me, even though I'm the stronger one."
She stepped closer, placed his hand against her belly without ceremony.
"But you're not alone."
Silence stretched between them before he finally nodded.
"Fine," he murmured. "A little rest."
She smiled—victorious—and took his hand.
Aina was waiting in the main bed room, posture straight, eyes alert. She opened her mouth to speak, then stopped as she took in the scene.
"…If you'll both excuse me," she said smoothly, already turning away.
Alaric couldn't help the quiet chuckle that escaped him.
'Perceptive.'
He changed into softer clothes—dark linen instead of the black-and-red robes of office—and lay beside Elara. She curled against him easily, familiar as breathing.
He wrapped an arm around her, pulling her close.
The world quieted.
After a while, he spoke.
"Elara?"
"What's on your mind?"
"You know me too well." He hummed with a smirk.
"Elias he's… closed himself from us, he's not his usual curious self. I hear he rarely goes to the library anymore. Only training with his sword then back to his room." Alaric said.
"He nearly died," Elara replied. "Children don't always heal cleanly…Aina worries too. But she's proud," Elara said. "And she blames herself for not protecting him."
Alaric sighed. "Roric punished Jamie too. I hear she's been grounded till further notice"
"He still hasn't healed from his wife's death. He loves his daughter fiercely." Elara said.
"Overprotective not unlike yourself."
Elara scoffed, feigning annoyance. Alaric just chuckled.
"They're strong," Alaric murmured. "All of them, just like how we were back then."
"Oh, The legendary Stillsword is feeling sentimental all of a sudden?" she teased.
"I'm at peace anytime I'm with you."
Elara shifted, pressing back against him playfully. "If my presence soothes you, perhaps stop being a workaholic and be with me more."
He smiled into her hair.
"Yes ma'am."
They giggle after which there was quiet save for the low crackle of the hearth and the steady warmth of his presence behind her.
She inhaled slowly.
"Alaric," she said softly.
No response.
She waited a moment, then spoke again, her voice gentler, thoughtful.
"It's almost time," she murmured. "We should start thinking about names, don't you think?"
Silence.
She frowned faintly and turned her head just enough to look back over her shoulder.
Alaric was already asleep.
The tension that so often lived in his posture had melted away completely. His brow was smooth, his breathing deep and even, as though he had fallen into sleep the instant her warmth anchored him. One arm remained draped around her waist, his hand resting against her belly, fingers curved unconsciously—as if he refused to let go, even in rest.
Elara's expression softened.
"…of course," she whispered, equal parts fond and resigned.
She gently adjusted his hand, guiding it more securely over the swell of her stomach, then covered it with her own.
"You never slow down unless your body forces you to," she murmured. "Even saints have their limits."
Her thumb brushed over his knuckles, a quiet promise.
"We'll decide together," she said, though she knew he couldn't hear her. "When you're awake."
Satisfied, Elara settled back against him, letting herself relax at last. Surrounded by his warmth, anchored by his presence, she closed her eyes and allowed sleep to take her too as winter continued outside.
Happy Boxing Day!
Today is a day of reflection, of giving thanks, and of pausing to appreciate what we have. I just want to say thank you—for reading, for caring, for letting this story be part of your life. Your time, your support, and your presence mean more than I can ever express.
May your day be full of warmth, little joys, and the comfort of knowing someone is thinking of you and may God be with you.
With gratitude,
StarboiUltra. 🎁