[Deduction: 400 MP | Current Balance: 1,545 MP]
At his feet, Shadow didn't growl or whimper. Instead, the wolf's physical form began to blur, turning into a wispy, ink-like smoke that flowed toward Alaric's feet. Within seconds, the wolf was gone. Only Alaric's own shadow remained on the stone floor, though it appeared unnaturally dark—and as he turned, the shadow seemed to flicker with a pair of molten amber eyes before settling into stillness.
Alaric felt the Vigilance boost click into place. He could "feel" the hallway outside through Shadow's senses, perceiving the subtle vibrations of a guard's boots three doors down.
"Perfect," he whispered, watching his own shadow flicker against the stone wall.
[Notification: Extension protocols must be purchased for each summon category. Purchasing Umbral Indwelling for 'Blood Scouts' will apply the effect to all current and future units within that specific class.]
"Good," he muttered.
He moved through the corridors of the Tower of the Hand. The surge in his attributes had sharpened his senses to a next level. As Sansa's personal guard, he bypassed the outer sentries with a sharp, respectful nod.
When the door to her chambers clicked shut, the room was bathed in the warm, flickering glow of the hearth. Sansa stood by the fire, her regal poise momentarily slipping when she saw the g set of his jaw.
"Alaric?" she whispered, her voice trembling. "What is it? You look as though you've seen a ghost."
"Sansa, sit," Alaric said. His voice was a low, vibrant rumble that brooked no argument.
"Why are you speaking like this?" she asked, her heart beginning to hammer against her ribs like a trapped bird. She retreated to the edge of the large feather mattress, her eyes wide with a growing, cold apprehension.
She hadn't seen him speak in such a serious tone in her lifetime... either he is normal or teasing not serious with her..
Alaric pulled a heavy wooden chair close to the bed. He sat down and took her small, warm hand in his own grip. He could feel her pulse racing, a frantic staccato against his palm.
"I have wanted to tell you this for a long time," he began, his expression hardening into a mask of intense gravity. "But the road was long, and the Queen's eyes were always upon us. Here, in this place, the truth is the only armor we have left."
Sansa leaned in, her breath hitching as the weight of his words pressed in on her. "You're frightening me, Alaric," she murmured, her blue eyes searching his face for any trace of the familiar, comforting confidence he usually wore.
Alaric's grip tightened on Sansa's hand. The heat of his palm was the only thing keeping her anchored as his words began to tear the world away from her.
"Do you remember Winterfell, Sansa? That night Bran fell from the Broken Tower?"
She gave a slow, hesitant nod. A faint shiver traced through her eyes. "He was climbing... he lost his footing because of the ice," she whispered, holding onto the story like a shield.
"No," Alaric said. The word was sharp, final. "He didn't slip. He was pushed."
He didn't give her time to process it. "Bran saw something he wasn't meant to see. He found the Queen and Ser Jaime together in that tower. Together as no brother and sister should ever be."
The blood left Sansa's face, leaving her skin as pale as the stone walls around them. In the dim, flickering lantern light, she looked fragile, like glass about to crack. "Together? You mean—"
"I mean the King has been a fool for seventeen years," Alaric rasped, a dark, bitter ghost of a smile touching his mouth. "Joffrey, Myrcella, Tommen—none of them are Robert's blood. They're bastards, born of incest."
Sansa sat there, paralyzed, drawing in sharp, panicked breaths. The world she'd built out of songs and chivalry was rotting right in front of her.
"I'm the one who silenced Bran," Alaric said, his voice turning cold and flat. "I made him swear to keep quiet. If the truth had broken out at Winterfell, the King would have started a war right there in our courtyard, and many would have died."
In truth, Alaric had no way of knowing how the situation would have spiraled had Cersei and Jaime been caught or killed. At the time, he wasn't yet strong enough to handle the fallout, let alone influence the chaos that would have followed.
Sansa's fingers bunched into the heavy velvet of her gown. "Why tell me? Why now?"
"Because... The Lannisters know I was there. They know I'm the one variable they can't buy. The Queen wants me dead, Sansa. I could be poisoned at dinner or find a blade in my ribs in some dark alley tomorrow. I am probably on top of Cersei Lannister hit list."
Sansa went quiet—a heavy, suffocating silence—before the shaking started. "This is too much," she stammered, her voice thin and bordering on hysteria. "You have to leave. I'll go to my father, I'll beg him to send you back North. You have to go before anything happens...!"
She tried to scramble up, her movements frantic, but Alaric caught her by the arm and forced her back down.
"Stop. Just listen," he commanded. He waited for her breathing to level out, his dark eyes locked onto hers. "Do you actually know where I come from, Sansa? Do you know the history of the house that fostered me?"
Sansa blinked, the terror momentarily giving way to a dazed confusion. "I... yes," she said, her voice shaking. "You were from a small family. A fallen house. My father took you in because he felt sorry for you... didn't he?"
Alaric moved with a heavy, deliberate grace, sliding from the chair to the edge of the mattress. He didn't ask for permission; he simply hooked an arm around Sansa's waist and hauled her flush against him.