One afternoon, a small boy approached.
His mother tried stopping him.
The child stared up.
“Are you the Beast?”
Alaric crouched.
“Yes.”
“Do you eat people?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
Alaric glanced at Elara.
“Apparently it complicates dinner invitations.”
Elara laughed.
The boy did too.
The city slowly changed.
Not everyone accepted him.
Some never did.
That mattered less with time.
Alaric became Prince again without becoming less Beast.
The first royal portrait after his return created scandal.
The painter asked whether he should make Alaric appear more human.
Elara nearly threw him out.
Alaric answered calmly.
“Paint what stands before you.”
The portrait showed him exactly as he was.
Huge.
Horned.
Amber-eyed.
One claw resting beside the royal sword.
Elara stood beside him in green.
Not touching.
But close.
The painting became more famous than any flattering lie could have.
The question of marriage remained.
The court became obsessed.
Elara found it exhausting.
At dinner one night, Alaric watched her attack a roasted chicken with more aggression than necessary.
“What did the chicken do?”
“Asked when we’re marrying.”
He laughed.
“The chicken?”
“Everyone else has.”
“Fair.”
She looked at him.
“You aren’t asking.”
“No.”
“Why?”
“You know.”
“Say it.”
Alaric put down his cup.
“Because until the curse is no longer part of the decision, I will never know whether yes means you want me or whether you believe you are responsible for fixing me.”
Elara stared.
He continued.
“And I refuse to spend my life wondering.”
Her anger disappeared.
“Annoyingly reasonable.”
“I have practiced.”
“So what do we do?”
“Live.”
“For how long?”
“As long as it takes.”
She smiled.
It took two years.
Not because Elara needed two years to decide whether she loved him.
She knew far sooner.
She needed two years to separate love from prophecy.
Curse from desire.
Duty from choice.
They traveled.
Visited the western valleys.
Rebuilt villages damaged by the Wyrm’s escape.
Created treaties with mountain clans Seraphine had treated as enemies.
Alaric discovered he was better at negotiation than most nobles because his presence made everyone unusually honest.
Elara discovered controlling the storm was not something she wanted.
She could still feel weather.
Sometimes influence it slightly.
But after freeing the Wyrm, she refused binding rites.
Rain came when rain came.
People adjusted.
That became part of her philosophy too.
Not everything powerful needed ownership.
On the second anniversary of Seraphine’s fall, Elara walked into Alaric’s chamber.
He was reading beside the fire.
“You’re wearing shoes.”
He looked down.
“Yes?”
“Good.”
“That sounds threatening.”
“It is.”
She handed him a coat.
“Put this on.”
“Why?”
“We’re going somewhere.”
“Where?”
“You ask too many questions.”
He stared at her.
She smiled.
Thirty minutes later they stood on the cliff where everyone once believed he died.
Wind moved through the grass.
The sea spread below.
Alaric went quiet.
“I haven’t been here since.”
“I know.”
Elara walked toward the edge.
Not too close.
She turned.
“My mother met you here.”
“Yes.”