Married To Darkness-Chapter 417: Prince Embrez Moor Mansion

The path out of Wyfwood faded into cobbled stone, and the mist receded like a curtain pulled back for a show.

There, rising against the cold blue sky, was the mansion.

Not a ruin. Not a gothic relic.

But a futuristic fortress, gleaming with dark metals and enchanted glass, towers pulsing with soft light, gears turning like it breathed. Strange sigils glowed faintly across the arched spires. Wyfmoor’s shadows ended at its gates.

The group slowed.

Salviana’s brow furrowed.

"This... this doesn’t match the village."

Alaric, atop Soar, exhaled As he pressed a kiss to his wife’s neck. "It doesn’t match anything."

The sleek, obsidian gates creaked open on their own, revealing rows of uniformed guards standing in quiet precision.

Their armor shimmered—lighter than steel, yet regal as if cut from starlight.

Maids in embroidered black and silver lined the sides of the path, poised like dancers, not a wrinkle in sight.

No horns were blown. No messengers sent ahead.

And yet, they were expected.

"Maybe," Salviana whispered to Alaric, "they’ve heard of the bounty. Of our heads."

Alaric didn’t blink. "They have."

Her stomach sank. Why then are they here? To get taken?

Lucius added with a wry smile, "But Prince Embrez adores him. They wrote letters when they were children. Blood doesn’t mean love, but it meant something to them."

Salviana still eyed the glass-like windows reflecting the forest behind them.

"This place feels too... polished. Too perfect."

Before she could say more, a man in silver-laced robes stepped forward with a shallow bow. "The Prince is waiting in the Atrium. Refreshments have been prepared. Baths and rest, should you desire them."

Alaric slid down from Soar and then helped his wife down, he gave the horse a pat then turned to his wife, brushing her windswept hair behind her ear.

His fingers lingered there, warm and firm.

"Relax, my love," he murmured low, just for her.

"I wouldn’t take you into a serpent’s mouth unless I’d already stolen its fangs."

Salviana looked into his eyes, trying to believe him. But in this palace of glass and steel, nothing felt certain.

The gates closed silently behind them, the sound muffled by the sheer hush of the stone-paved courtyard. It was unlike anything Salviana had expected from a place named Wyfmoor.

No fog. No dread. No beasts.

Just beauty.

The mansion towered above them like something stolen from another world—a fusion of royal opulence and futuristic wonder.

Glass-paneled walls refracted sunlight like diamonds, chandeliers sparkled even in daylight, and faintly glowing runes floated across the marble archways, humming a soft, magical resonance.

Water flowed through silver channels embedded in the floor, weaving between their boots like tiny rivers.

Even the air inside smelled of lavender, rosewood, and magic.

Emma gasped, holding Sarah close. "This place... it feels like a dream."

"Or a trap," Jaefel muttered, glancing at the quiet, gliding maids who smiled too perfectly and didn’t blink enough. But he said no more.

Manni touched the edge of a velvet curtain with reverence. "Good gods. I’ve never seen a place like this. And I’ve been to palaces."

Alaric grunted. "It’s very Embrez."

At the top of the spiral staircase that framed the twin golden lion statues, a figure appeared. Tall. Slender. Radiating charm like an aura.

Prince Embrez Velthorne.

He descended with theatrical ease, his cloak sweeping behind him, boots clicking lightly against marble steps.

His coat was a deep sapphire blue embroidered with silver moons, his black curls pinned back with jeweled clasps. And his smile—oh, that smile—burned like sunlight through shadow.

"Alaric!" he exclaimed, voice echoing like bells in the grand hall. "Finally!"

"Alaric!" he cried, spreading his arms and grinning wildly. "Finally!"

Alaric smirked. "You sound surprised I made it."

"I am surprised," Embrez said dramatically, embracing him. "You hardly write, never visit, and marry women without telling me!"

Salviana raised an eyebrow.

Alaric stepped forward, arms wide, grinning. "I thought you’d still be sulking."

"I am still sulking," Embrez said dramatically, wrapping him in a firm, fond hug. "But I had the maids clean the entire east wing anyway. You owe me at least four years of letters."

Then his eyes swept the group, landing on the one woman clinging quietly to Alaric’s arm.

"And this—this must be her." He took a deep breath, pressing a hand to his chest. "The mortal who stole the demon prince’s black heart."

Salviana raised an eyebrow, unimpressed. "Stolen implies he didn’t give it."

Alaric chuckled, but Embrez looked wounded. "And I wasn’t invited to the wedding? My heart breaks anew."

"There was never a wedding," Salviana said sharply, crossing her arms. Her voice held a bitter edge. "Just a lot of running, some bleeding, and a rainstorm."

The hall fell into a soft hush for a beat. Every soul had a different wonder, is the princess angry? Is Alaric in trouble? Finally, the prince Alaric’s neglectful act would soon bite him, Then:

"Well then," Embrez clapped his hands, "we must fix that immediately. A celebration! A Wyfmoor wedding! I’ll have the lights spelled, the halls dressed, and dragons for fireworks!"

Salviana blinked. "You’re joking."

"I’m serious," he said cheerfully. "I’ve waited years to dress for a royal occasion and be smug about it."

The group laughed—except Lucius, who stood oddly stiff at the edge of the staircase, arms crossed.

Then—Embrez’s eyes landed on Jean Goliath.

They laughed—until Embrez’s gaze drifted, and then froze.

He blinked.

Stared.

It had landed on Jean Goliath, Salviana’s lady-in-waiting, who stood slightly behind the group—modest as ever in her plain but travel-worn dress, arms wrapped around herself, curls pinned hastily beneath her hood.

Embrez’s lips parted slightly. His dark eyes widened.

Tilted his head slightly.

The room may as well have stopped breathing.

It was like the entire world paused.

Jean, still catching her breath from the journey, stood with her usual awkward stubbornness—round in the chest, robes stained with bits of forest, bag hanging crooked from hr shoulder.

She’d been mostly quiet, trying to stay out of the spotlight. But now... the spotlight came to her.

"Oh... my stars," Embrez breathed, descending the last few steps with slow reverence. "Alaric... you brought me a gift. A wife, perhaps?"

Jean turned red. "P-pardon?"

Lucius’s entire posture changed, his shoulders tensing and his jaw tightening like iron.

"A wife?" Salviana repeated, trying not to laugh.

"Oh, yes." Embrez moved smoothly, like a man floating across marble. "She’s exquisite. Full of real flesh and fury, not like these hollow-cheeked court ladies. A real lady. A girl who eats. The gods weep. What’s your name?"

"J-Jeanette Goliath," Jean stammered, nearly stepping backward into a suit of armor.

Embrez took her hand and pressed a soft, chivalrous kiss to her knuckles.

"Jean Goliath," he repeated. "A name worthy of song."