The corridor was cloaked in darkness, yet Seraphina felt every stone beneath her palms as if the walls themselves were holding their breath. The cool carving of the pillar biting into her shoulder as the echo of Duke Rothwell's warning of thorns, curling through her chest, settling into the hollow spaces where memory and instinct coiled. S
he could almost see them—waiting to pierce flesh or reputation in the shadows. Her fan, still resting against her skirts, felt suddenly heavy — a token of civility and pretense that no longer belonged in this corridor. She drew in a slow breath, tasting wax, cedar, and something acrid that she could not immediately name. The pulse at her throat was not just hers; it was the echo of every warning her other life had ever given her, and it thrummed like a drumbeat in the quiet.
Then a movement. A sound — soft, deliberate — the faint scrape of boots over marble. Seraphina pressed herself against the shadowed wall, the curve of the pillar biting into her shoulder, her breath shallow. For a heartbeat, she allowed herself the rare luxury of exhaling — a pause in the storm — until a soft, precise step made her pulse spike again.
Marquess Celosia.
He had not stayed in the room like she thought but had slipped out the door nearly unseen. Even in the muted glow of candlelight, his posture was perfect, his gaze assessing and unflinching. He paused a step from her hiding spot, as if sensing her in the darkness, hand brushing the stone of the wall with practiced grace. The Marquess of Celosia so close that the faintest whisper of his presence brushed against her senses like steel on silk. Her pulse stuttered as a shadow fell over her hiding spot.
"Miss Araminta." he said, voice low, careful, a murmur meant only for her, cold and far too close. It was neither a greeting nor an accusation — it was an acknowledgment of the unspoken. The kind of voice that carried command even in a whisper. The single word was clipped, controlled, yet carried the faintest flicker of recognition, a ghost of memory she had thought long buried. Seraphina turned from her hunched spot on the floor as the shadows peeled back to reveal him. He stood only a few paces away, violet eyes fixed on her with unnerving precision. Seraphina's gloved hands clenched at her skirts, her pulse a drumbeat she could almost hear in the quiet corridor.
"Marquess Celosia." she replied evenly, hiding the tremor in her voice. His head inclined slightly, subtle and deliberate but did not step closer. The air between them was taut, as if the corridor itself had contracted around their awareness. Politeness and restraint were armor he wore like a second skin, but she knew better. The soldier beneath the marquess—the one who had taught her to strike with efficiency rather than sentiment—was awake and ready. The quiet strength of him — so absolute, so untouchable — coiled around her like a steel band. She remembered.
A flash of memory, sudden and vivid enough to make her clench her fists, crinkling the fabric of her dress: the courtyard in the first spring of her life.
She had been clumsy with a practice blade, the wooden hilt biting into her palms. James had stood behind her, jaw set, hands patient but firm on hers, guiding her through the motion. "Efficiency, Seraphina," he had said, voice low and intimate.
"You do not have the luxury of hesitation. If you falter, if you hesitate for even a heartbeat, your enemy will see the opening. You strike, you defend, and you move — all in one motion. Nothing wasted. Nothing sentimental." The lessons had been brutal, exacting — and sometimes humiliating — yet they had forged her into someone who could survive, and perhaps even dominate, the dangerous games she now played.
She had rolled her eyes at him then, thinking it arrogance. Now, crouched in the shadows, she felt the lessons like a shield across her chest, every reflex honed by fear and survival. He leaned slightly closer, resting an arm above her on the pillar just enough that the shadow of his presence fell across her face. The candles perched on wall sconces wavered in the velvet blanket of night. Violet eyes, tempered steel under candlelight. "I thought you left to conspire with Lady Rothwell." he mused, a swath of dark hair falling across his forehead as he looked down at her.
"Conspiring in corridors is hardly proper, Marquess Celosia."she answered, her voice steadier than she felt, feeling pinned to the ground by his deep gaze.
"Eavesdropping on conspiracies is hardly safer."
He took a step closer, reaching a hand down with military precision—nothing more than formality in the movement. The air between them tensed like a drawn bowstring. The light caught his profile — the sharp jaw, the silver of his scar, the faint gleam of restraint breaking under the surface. She drew herself up, the smoothness of her glove once again trapped in the hand of a soldier, as he pulled her to her feet. "Then perhaps we are both improper." A long pause. Then — a sound beyond the corridor. The faint click of shoes against marble. Both froze.
The scrape of boots came again, closer now. Seraphina's senses sharpened; she just barely spotted the glint of a dagger hilt beneath a servant's coat. Too deliberate to be accidental. Her body tensed. Someone had targeted the ballroom's quiet corners, and her foresight — the unbidden knowledge that she had once died in this life — made her tremble. "Who's there?" James demanded, his voice carrying like an arrow in a crossbow as he turned.
The figure froze, a low hiss of surprise broke the silence, turning with eyes as black as obsidian. She felt the pulse of the corridor — the air thick with expectation, the shadows coiling around the assailant like they were living things. The man, masked beneath a dark hood, eyes glinting with malice turned his eerily still face towards them, "Ah! Marquess Celosia! Beast of the Battlefield. Step aside," The man hissed, dagger poised at the small of his back, his shadow lunged at them both, moving with a strange sentience.
The shadows around him began to writhe, crawling along the walls like living things. The servant—a slight, unassuming man—extended a hand as he moved forward, and the darkness responded, twisting upward, forming tendrils that slithered toward James. Steel sang in the air as the cloaked figure and James moved. Before she could breathe James spun, stepped aside, and pressing her back behind the pillar she had crouched behind before. The dagger sliced through the space she had occupied a heartbeat ago. Another swing caught and deflected by James's firm hand. The servant's tendrils whipped forward, black and shifting, aiming for her legs, for the floor beneath James. With a swift, devastating motion, he slammed the hilt of his sword into the first hooded attacker, driving him face-first into the marble, dagger clattering as the shadows retreated. His violet eyes glinted—cold, predatory, ruthless.
The stained glass window at the far end shattered inward, shards scattering like frozen stars. A second cloaked figure leapt through, knife glinting, aimed straight at her. James pivoted as his expression shifted, every movement measured, lethal. The dagger sunk into his shoulder, darkening a spot on his lapel, but he pressed forward—parrying, countering, relentless.
Seraphina gasped; fear and awe collided as she watched his precision, the violent beauty of someone whose battlefield moniker—the Mad Dog—was earned in blood and control. Her mind raced as they battled: she had seen those eyes before. Her heart hammered, sweat prickling beneath the fine silk of her bodice. She tasted copper — fear or blood, she could not tell — and smelled the faint trace of iron in the air. This was no longer a game of etiquette. This was survival.
Two other cloaked figures emerged, each masked, each moving with lethal precision. Their intent was unmistakable: every step, every glint of steel promised death or chaos. The Marquess deflected and then moved like lightning. One step, one draw — steel met steel with a ringing clash of death.
The assassins stumbled, struck off balance by James's counter, surprised by the grace and precision of his movements. His eyes widened — the moment of hesitation Seraphina needed. Instinct overriding fear, Seraphina seized a fallen candelabrum from the pillar she hid behind and darted out with a battle cry before she swung. The metal caught the assailant's head, sending the blade clattering to the floor and the man crumpling in a heap.
The final assassin, silent until now, darted forward with a dagger aimed at James's side. James's violet eyes narrowed; a barely perceptible fog of shadow clung around him, swirling like smoke over the floor. He twisted, caught the wrist mid-thrust, and in a motion almost too fast to see, snapped the attacker's elbow int two and slammed him into the wall. The force sent a spray of dust and blood into the flickering candlelight.
The corridor echoed with ragged breaths, the metallic tang of blood, and the thrum of tension that refused to dissipate. The perceived servant was roused from unconsciousness by the clashing steel. Realizing how the fight had turned, he vanished into the dark folds of the corridor, shadows enveloping him as he fled through the broken window into the night. By the time silence fell, the remaining three attackers lay either unconscious or dead.
James lowered his sword slowly, violet eyes scanning the corridor for any remaining threats. A faint shadow fog clung to him still, dissipating slowly as if the darkness itself had recoiled from his control. As if there wasn't a knife protruding from his shoulder James stood among the chaos, hands clasped behind him once more, posture immaculate, every muscle coiled and ready for the next threat. The candlelight caught the steel of his uniform, the edges of his coat sharp and precise, his violet eyes gleaming with cold command, a spray of blood on his arm.
Violet eyes scanned the shadows before settling on her. Her knees weakened slightly, not from fear, but from the recognition that in this every life he had been the unyielding shield that had kept her alive. The Marquess's chest moved up and down as if to catch his breath before straightening his back, a hand smoothing over the blood on his lapel. His hands then clasped behind him, posture immaculate, yet she sensed the coiled power, the readiness to strike or defend at a moment's notice.
"Are you unharmed?" His question was clipped, formal, but beneath it was something she had never heard before: concern, restrained yet sharp. Seraphina straightened, smoothing her skirts as though the whirlwind of violence had not touched her. "Yes." she said softly, masking exhaustion. The silence stretched, heavy, as the corridor seemed to fold around them.
Then, unexpectedly, James inclined his head, his gaze not leaving hers. "You handle yourself well for a daughter of the Aramintas. I see no meek bride." She allowed herself a faint smile as the words which echoed her own letter, a scarlet blush unwillingly creeping up her cheeks. "I was raised among thorns. One learns to bleed quietly."
He did not respond immediately, only studied her with the meticulous patience of a commander. It was intimate, dangerous, and achingly inevitable. She felt it in the pull of his gaze, the slow, measured way he studied her, as if weighing not just her words, but the small tremor in her fingers, the barely audible catch in her breath. He reached towards her for a moment and then, as if scorched, clenched a blood soaked hand back to his side. With a subtle shift, he stepped back. "Let this night's distractions remind you of what happens when you fall into carelessness Miss Araminta. "
A shiver ran down her spine. She had refused trust before, had seen the danger beneath his disciplined exterior, that there was a man who could be ruthless, cunning, and unyielding not by nature but by necessity. A man who, if misread, could be as lethal as any blade. He remained silent, the facade of his control slipping over again to become absolute, but the air between them was thick with unspoken truths. She wanted to tell him everything, to strip bare the layers of her mind, to show him the secrets she had buried for lifetimes. But she could not—not yet.
Instead, she let herself drift for a moment, watching him as he crouched to check the pulses of the assailants, a guard running down the corner as the Marquess grabbed him by the shoulder and spoke. A strange, knowing ache curled in her chest, the sensation of finally seeing someone who could matter that she had not cherished before.
Too far away to hear, James shifted to block the guard's view of her as Seraphina pondered a thousand possible futures different from the one she had buried. Some were filled with laughter, some with fire, some with passion, some with quiet heartbreak. The Marquess, appearing to have said something that caused the guard's shoulders to visibly relax, dispatched him and then turned, catching her gaze.
Time seemed to pause, caught in the lantern-lit corridor, and for a heartbeat, the world narrowed to them: the predator, the prey, the unspoken tether between heartbeats. Then the wind shifted, rustling the curtains, brushing against her skin like memory. She knew the night was far from over, that the danger would return, that nothing about this life—this second chance—was simple or safe. He straightened his back, his presence both protective and oppressive, and she met his gaze without flinching. "I informed the Beaumont's guard that I would speak to them in the morning and that it was handled as of now. You should not wander these halls alone," he said, the edge in his tone softened.
"I am not alone Marquess Celosia." she replied, a small, almost imperceptible smile playing at her lips as she looked at him beneath her eyelashes. Seraphina felt the familiar pull of foresight — not specific, not yet — but hints, threads of movement, whispers of events that might bloom into danger. She did not mention the foresight that she feared may now be useless, for this event had never happened in her first life. Bitterly, even she had limits that only he could help navigate.
Realizing with a horrified gasp, she stepped forward and raised a hand, the motion trembling despite her best efforts at composure. Her pulse pounded in her ears, each beat hammering the memory of her first life into sharp, unbearable focus. The dagger, embedded in the Marquess's shoulder, sent a jolt of terror through her like ice water. Her chest tightened, lungs constricting, as if she were breathing through wool. "No." she whispered, her voice brittle, catching in her throat. Not him. Not this life. Not while she was standing here and watching him breath.
The memory pressed against her, vivid, relentless: the letter of his death reporting the blood spreading over his coat, the tension in his jaw as he faltered, the last, silent acknowledgment of her betrayal before he fell. She had listened, powerless, as the man she loved died because of her mistakes, because of her family, because of her own fear and indecision. Every second of this life had been spent trying to right that impossibility — and now, in the dim candlelight, it felt as if history was clawing back, intent on repeating itself.
She clutched at the folds of her skirts, trembling. James's hand twitched at her touch, nearly brushing hers, but she barely noticed. Her mind raced, calculating impossible ways to undo what had already happened — to pull him back from death before it claimed him again. She wanted to check the wound, press her hands to him, to feel that he still breathed, still stood.
The rational part of her screamed to stay composed and not to crack but her lips moved unabided, "You can't—you can't—". He inclined his head slightly at her words, the smallest flicker of a smile, almost imperceptible.
"I am unharmed," he said, though his hand brushed against his own shoulder, checking the angle of pain with the precision of a soldier trained to anticipate threats. A soldier used to seeing death and writing off names like numbers. His calm, unshakable, was infuriating — and terrifying.
But Seraphina could not shake the terror. Her breaths came shallow and fast, as if by sheer panic she could keep the past from bleeding into this reality. "You… you could have died," she whispered, almost to herself, and her voice trembled as her hands latched onto his arm. Her mind conjured all the horrific possibilities she had glimpsed in dreams and foresight: the corridors of blood, the final whisper of his name on her lips, the inevitability of her own failure.
James's gaze softened ever so slightly — a faint shadow of patience, restraint, and surprise — though his body remained poised, controlled. "I am here." he said simply, measured, a tether to reality she desperately needed.
He gently but firmly unlatched her hand and relocated it to his elbow so that he could escort her back. Seraphina's pulse quickened as she glanced at this lethal man's profile who had shown a sliver in his armor. In the darkness, in the tension, in the unspoken danger of proximity, Seraphina allowed herself one small, dangerous truth as she looked into his commanding violet stare for a moment longer than proprietary allowed: that in this world of treachery and shadow, this might be the only thing that felt like love.
As she let the moment consume her, she could feel the foreshadowing tugging at her consciousness—the knowledge that the night would not remain gentle forever, that the shadows always came for those who lingered too long.
❀
The ballroom's music floated faintly down the corridor as James guided her back, arm brushing hers with measured care. He cleared his throat drawing her from her thoughts as they stood at the archway that led back into the ballroom. The tension of their shared danger lingered between them, delicate, perilous, electric. "Miss Araminta," he said, voice low, "I will send you a letter tomorrow. The Beaumonts may require your testimony after my report. My deepest apologies for the unsightly scene you witnessed." She tilted her head, concealing the faint rush of anticipation in her chest and the calm that it brought at seeing him standing firmly. "Marquess, as you know, I am weary of polite lies. If you wish to speak of our engagement, I will respond first."
The candlelight flickered across their faces, illuminating the tension and connection that neither dared fully articulate as the Marquess broke her gaze first with a small nod. The corridor, once silent and expectant, now held the aftermath of chaos, the weight of danger, and the quiet, electric hum of unspoken attraction. In that moment, as he turned his back to her and Seraphina stepped into the ballroom's gaze once again, she realized: she would follow this man into the depths of the court, through treachery and whispers, through shadows that threatened to consume her—because she could and because she must.
❀
Later, alone in his bedchamber, Marquess Celosia sat at his desk, quill in hand and parchment before him. The fading light of a dead candle flickered across the polished oak, illuminating scattered papers, ink bottles, and a dagger carefully sheathed at his side. His shoulder throbbed, but the pain was already familiar—an echo of every strike he had landed, every wound he had inflicted. His curse, subtle and cruel, lingered as a reminder: the agony he dealt to others mirrored back, a shadow upon his own flesh. Even now, he could feel the servant's claws of shadow, the subtle tendrils, the way they had sought to twist the corridor into a cage. Pain and shadow intertwined, and yet he had stood unbroken.
He loosened the heavy coat at his shoulders, letting it slump behind him, and exhaled. The silence of the room pulled tension from his muscles, though not all of it. He could still feel the ghost of the servant's obsidian eyes, the unnatural sway of darkness around him. He closed his eyes and remembered her hands trembling over his shoulder, her peridot eyes wide with terror, the memory of her panic so raw and unguarded that it pulled at something deep within him. Not affection, not yet—but a recognition of bond, of shared danger, of mutual dependence.Her reaction so human and fragile unlike the battlefield lingered in his thoughts like an itch he could not scratch.
He dipped his quill in ink, careful, deliberate, recording the details of the ambush at the Beaumont's. Every observation, every measured word, every shadow of suspicion from the attack last night—intended for the Council. This time he chose to conceal Miss Araminta's interference and his conversation with Duke Rothwell. A smirk graced his lips in the silence; obedient lap dog he was not as much as society and The Council perceived him to be. He penned an additional note on the engagement, formal yet tempered, as if every word could anchor them both against the unpredictable tides of court and conflict. He could still map the terrain of possibility, and perhaps, in these measured strokes of ink, provide the only safeguard for both of them.
To Miss Seraphina Araminta,
You were present for a matter of consequence last night. Know that your attention and courage are recognized. As I head to The Council, I will begin the process of having our engagement formally recognized and sanctioned in the interest of propriety. I write not only as a matter of duty, but to ensure you are informed of both your role and the expectations accompanying it.
You are expected to receive this letter and prepare accordingly. In three days, I will come to your household to discuss our engagement directly. Additionally, anticipate summons to The Council, both as witness and participant in the measures now set in motion.
I trust you are tending to your garden well.
— James Celosia, Commander of Valenfort and Marquess of Celosia.
He set down the quill and exhaled slowly, letting the words settle in the quiet room. He stared down at the last line he had written: I trust you are tending to your garden well and pressed the ink nub hard next to it. A line that was not formality and was surely something even he knew was unusual for himself — an attempt at casual flattery. His hand clenched, the urge to rip the letter blinding before coming again to remember the way her eyes looked. With startling realization for the sister of his enemy, he blinked as a thought floated across his mind: I wonder how she'd look at me when I called her Seraphina Celosia.
The letters would carry his presence in ink where he could not, and perhaps, bridge the gulf between duty and something far more fragile. He paused, raising a hand to his forehead: When. How definitive of himself and a thought quite utseless in his plans or atleast the plans other had for him. It was as if he could feel the collar tightening around his neck. James Celosia did not believe in chance. Every encounter, every gesture, every silence — all of it was weighed, balanced, filed away. And yet, as he had stood in the empty corridor after the Duke's departure, staring at the faint dent of a slipper print in the marble dust, he allowed himself a moment of disbelief.
Miss Seraphina Araminta.
Her name had lingered in the air like perfume and accusation both. He should have reported it, should have called for a servant, should have done anything other than what he did — nothing. He simply stood still, his hand tightening around the hilt at his hip, the echo of her presence haunting the edges of his mind. A flicker of something warmer stirred in his chest as he rose and stood in his bedchambers. Not affection, not yet, but awareness. She was not a child to be protected. She was a partner, potentially, if one could manage someone as unpredictable as her. And he had spent so long controlling everything around him, mastering circumstances, that the notion of someone moving through the world on their own terms, without instruction, without subservience. It was unsettling.
The Duke's words echoed: Control is not enough.
No, it never was.
He sealed the letter, unaware that in doing so, he had already chosen his side. The servant's ability had been formidable; the shadows had sought to bend the world to their master's whim. Yet he had endured. And somewhere deep in him, a strange kinship with the darkness lingered, a whisper of the curse that made him the Beast of the Battlefield. Every wound inflicted, every life taken, exacted its toll—but so long as he controlled the shadow, he could bend it into something useful, something deadly. He turned sharply as one of his men knocked at his door and entered — Captain Dareth, rain-soaked and grim. "Commander," the man said, bowing slightly. "Scouts report movement beyond the gardens. Someone was watching the estate." James's fingers drummed against his sword hilt as he leaned back with ease. "How many?"
Dareth raised two fingers. "Unclear. Two, perhaps three. Armed." James's pulse did not quicken; it never did. "Send the watch to the perimeter. Quietly. No panic." The captain hesitated. "And if they're after you, my lord?" A faint smirk touched his mouth — the ghost of old arrogance. "Then let them try."
The steward stepped in behind as Captain Dareth left, bowing low, carrying a small bundle of documents. His eyes flicked nervously toward the bedchamber window. "My Lord, the Council requests your presence immediately." he said, voice steady but tinged with urgency. James's hand paused over the parchment as he looked down at the freshly sealed letters. "Explain.". "Duke Rothwell wishes for you to advise The Council directly," the steward replied, as James handed over two sealed envelopes—the engagement letter of one from him and one from The Council. "And this… should be delivered to Lady Seraphina Araminta immediately. The Council and the House request it be sent together."
The steward took the envelope, noting the weight of both duty and personal consequence in his fingers. He scanned the steward's face. "She must understand what has occurred, but she must also understand the necessity of our engagement. There is no room for misinterpretation.". He nodded and withdrew quietly, leaving the Marquess alone once. James turned to the door and taking a key, locked it shut with a note of finality.
His violet eyes lingered on his reflection in the tall, ornate mirror nestled in the corner, catching the flicker of candlelight across the polished glass. The bruising of phantom pain traced intricate patterns along his arms, chest, and back, like invisible brushstrokes of suffering left by every strike he had delivered. Each nick, each ache was an echo, a reminder that every blow he had struck had been mirrored in his own flesh. The faint sheen of sweat clung to his skin, highlighting the subtle rise and fall of muscle beneath taut, pale flesh.
He stripped off his uniform with deliberate care, the fabric sliding from his shoulders in a whisper of silk and wool. Beneath, the scars and phantom injuries revealed themselves: a jagged nick along his forearm from parrying the servant's dagger and a gnawing soreness across his shoulder blade from a spinning strike that had mirrored its intended victim's pain. The cut deep into his shoulder, the one that bled darkly along his lapel during the fight, was the dagger he had driven into the man who had lunged for him in the shattered window, its pain rebounding into him as if the air itself carried it.
The dull pulse across his ribs pulsed in tandem with the hand of his own making, each movement a negotiation between pain and control. Thin ribbons of salve traced along bruised flesh, cool and pungent against the burn of phantom injury. Bandages wound tight, concealing the wounds, disguising the torment, every fold of linen an act of meticulous concealment.
The dark fog lingered, curling at his heels, brushing against the walls, drifting like a living mist that knew the nature of his curse. Its presence was subtle yet insistent, a reminder that the violence he wrought left its mark both on others and within himself. Each wound shimmered faintly in the dim light, the edges of pain almost tangible, as if the darkness itself recoiled in recognition or perhaps wary, of the violence mirrored in flesh. He was both healer and executioner, his own body the ledger of the fight, the cruel tally of lives he had spared from death only to borrow their pain.
James moved to the small basin at the edge of the chamber, water sloshing softly against the porcelain as he dipped a cloth. Every motion was meticulous, deliberate. He cleaned each phantom wound with slow precision, the damp fabric tracing the line of bruised muscle and nicked skin. A thin ribbon of salve followed, cooling the sting of each echoing strike.
Bandages wrapped tight, securing the treated flesh, every turn of cloth measured to disguise the extent of the injuries, to maintain the illusion of invulnerability. No one could know. The curse, the price of every strike he had landed, was a private torment—an invisible chain of pain that bound him to his own ruthless skill. To reveal it would be to show weakness, vulnerability, exposure. And James Celosia, Commander of Valenfort, Beast of the Battlefield, Mad Dog, bore that burden alone, silently, and with unflinching control.
He reached down and splashed water across his face, hair dripping with droplets of water as he composed himself. He stepped back from the basin, hands lingering briefly over the bandaged areas, fingers flexing as if testing the limits of the healed flesh. The shadows quivered at the edges of the room, but he did not flinch.
Even in solitude, the curse whispered, reminding him of the cost of his strength, of the invisible agony that accompanied every measure of lethal precision. Turning, James looked once more toward the windows as a pale sunlight touched the desolate garden, as if to recognize that Miss Seraphina Araminta would be smiling, unaware — or perhaps far too aware — of the threads tightening around them both.
❀
Dawn came like a confession. Sunlight crept reluctantly through the tall windows of the chamber, pooling across the polished oak floor and warming the tapestry-strewn walls with gold. Seraphina lay half-awake, one arm flung across her chest, her mind a restless storm. The echoes of the previous night's gala clung to her senses like smoke: the laughter, the music, the weight of velvet against skin, the way James had appeared in that corridor as though he were conjured from the shadows themselves.
It was absurd, she thought wryly, that she could be lying in sheets of silk, her short hair cascaded across the pillow, while the adrenaline of near-battle lingered in her veins. And yet, she relished the clarity it brought. She had learned, early, that danger sharpened the mind more keenly than comfort ever could.
She rolled onto her back, eyes tracing the gilded ceiling. James had said she was "efficient" during her first life. Efficient. A word heavy with understatement and yet layered with the acknowledgment she craved — though she would never admit it aloud. She would not survive by efficiency alone. She would survive because she had learned to anticipate, to manipulate, to use every advantage, every shadow, every whispered distraction.
She remembered the strange, suspended hours of her first life: moments she wished she could capture, fold into her pocket and keep forever. She could not change what had been, but she could savor what now existed. Every second counted. Every glance, every whispered word, every shiver of wind against bare skin. Time felt like it could be held in her hands, even as it slipped away. Elara entered as Seraphina shifted out of bed and onto her feet, stretching as Elara threw the curtains and tied them neatly back with practice grace.
"How was the Summer Gala, Miss?" She asked, gently prodding Seraphina along to dress her slowly, methodically — silk corset, sapphire gown, gloves smooth as lies. Her reflection in the mirror looked collected, unbothered, exactly what the world expected of Seraphina Araminta.
"It was an uneventful evening though I did have the chance to speak to Marquess Celosia" she responded as Elara arranged her hair in a neat updo. Beneath the calm as Elara left to retrieve breakfast, her thoughts betrayed her as she thought back to the evening prior. He must have been watching me, she thought, remembering the split second of his startled gaze as he rounded the corner and loomed over her like a shadow. Her chest fluttered. There had been something in his eyes that she could not yet name—formality, concern, something darker, heavier.
Sunlight filtered through the tall windows of the Araminta estate, falling like liquid gold across the polished floors. Seraphina sat at the breakfast table, her hands now bare, clasped together as she studied the patterns of sunlight that traced along the marble.
The previous night's ballroom still clung to her — the soft rustle of skirts, the disciplined presence of James, the sharp edges of her brother's insolence. Elara entered with tea, curtsied, and whispered that the Marquess of Celosia had departed the palace grounds before dawn — summoned to a council meeting.
Of course he had.
Tea steamed before her, the porcelain delicate in her hands, yet her mind was far from the fragrant brew. Every whispered warning of Duke Rothwell, every subtle glance of James, replayed in meticulous detail. The world seemed a chessboard, and she the lone player, moving pieces whose positions she had not fully foreseen. She could feel the weight of possibility pressing down, like the first frost of winter across the fields beyond the estate.
A servant appeared, silent and unobtrusive, delivering letters. Seraphina's eyes scanned them with careful precision, noting subtle discrepancies in handwriting, wax seals slightly irregular — signs of messages that could bear threat or manipulation.
Her thoughts flicked to James. She had seen him in motion, commanding, lethal, perfectly measured. And yet, there was something fragile, almost human, in the way he had glanced at her once the danger had passed. It was a look that spoke of restraint, of unspoken truths, of danger she could not yet name.
She felt the foresight stir, faintly, as if tugging at her sleeve: shadows gathering, an unknown hand moving across the board of her life. She poured herself more tea, the cup warm in her fingers, trying to ground herself in the normalcy of morning. Yet the sense of threat remained, a ghostly echo of the Duke's words: "Some thorns cut deeper than you imagine."
Outside the window, a crow perched atop the iron gates, its eyes like black beads, and Seraphina thought of the dagger that had flashed in the corridor last night. Symbol or omen? Perhaps both. The crow tilted its head as if studying her, a silent witness to her calculated survival. She rose from the table, moving toward her desk where letters awaited.
Each one was a test, a subtle probe from allies and enemies alike. The sun caught the edges of the stationary, illuminating delicate motifs of roses and thorns, and she realized the symbolism was not lost on her: beauty paired with danger, civility paired with lethal precision. She inhaled, tasting the stale air that carried hints of cold tea, distant smoke, and something intangible—something that made her chest tighten with anticipation.
Last night's overheard conversation replayed again and again. The Council. Valenfort. Engagement. Each word was a blade turned over in her mind. James was not only a commander; he was being maneuvered like a pawn. If the Duke's warning was true, then her own life was tangled in that same noose.
❀
Later Seraphina made her way to the study with Elara in tow—a room she had learned to claim as her own sanctuary within the sprawling halls of the house where her mother and Garrick rarely tread. The door closed behind her with a soft click. As she descended into the depth of the study in order to gather her thoughts,she remembered the message Elara had delivered to her last night that Lady Rothwell would be visiting.
There she found Alexandra waiting, eyes bright with questions as she lounged on one of the leather chairs. "You vanished last night," she said, tone teasing but careful. "Rumor says you and the Marquess shared a moonlit corridor." Seraphina smiled faintly as Elara placed a small plate of sweets on the table in front of Lady Rothwell. "Rumor is a poet, not a historian.". Alexandra arched her brow. "Poets sometimes tell the deeper truth."
"Well we are to be engaged...supposedly" Seraphina murmured feinting ignorance, glancing discretely to see Alexandra lean forward. Lady Alexandra, known by society as Duke Rothwell's daughter or Lady Rothwell, was the queen of high society and though they had known each other since childhood—Serphina knew that gossip would always come first.
Alexandra rested her chin in her hand, blonde curls cascading down her back as a small smile gathered on her lips and raised her eyebrow. "This is news to me. I thought you wished to break the engagement? Surely your brother would want you to atleast."
"I've been… attending to matters that require discretion," Seraphina replied, folding her hands before her, her tone carefully neutral. "It is necessary, for the good of the House, that I remain vigilant."
Alexandra inclined her head, accepting the answer at face value, though Seraphina knew her friend well enough to detect the flicker of suspicion. "You've seen him at the ball," Alexandra said softly, a knowing edge to her voice. "The Marquess."
Seraphina's lips curved in a faint, controlled smile but allowed her eyes to glimmer with genuineness. "Of course. I would not survive long in these halls without observation." The lie hung lightly in the air, delicate yet imperceptible to anyone who did not know her as intimately as Alexandra. But some things—even to those we trust implicitly—must remain locked away. James, his strategies, his movements, the precise angles of his mind… that knowledge was hers alone. Not even Alexandra could be entrusted with it.
Alexandra's gaze sharpened, though she did not press. "Be careful," she murmured, almost a whisper. "You've changed. I see it." Seraphina turned from her, answering with silence, the smallest of flushes creeping across the back of her neck. She let her fingers brush along the polished surface of the desk, the papers and ledgers arranged meticulously as if in waiting for her mind's commands.
Her gaze fell to the ledger that detailed the evening's guest list, the positions of nobles, and the subtle hierarchies that dictated who moved where, and to what effect. Everything was mapped, charted, and susceptible to manipulation. Everything.
Marquess Celosia remained the constant denominator. He had always been the center around which her world revolved, the anchor even when their fates had torn them apart. In her first life, she had betrayed him. She had allowed her mother's manipulations, her brothers' ambitions, and the fragile pride of her House to dictate her hand. She had loved him desperately, and it's ruin had been her undoing. Now, she would not make the same mistake. Not again.
She thought of him now, alone, after his meeting with Duke Rothwell. There had been no tremor, no falter. Just the measured control of a man accustomed to command, and yet… she had briefly seen it. A fraction of tension in his jaw, the faintest tightening at the corner of his eyes—a detail no one else would notice, but one she had committed to memory. Duke Rothwell had been careful with his words, but he had underestimated the depth of James's vigilance. Or perhaps he had chosen to test him. In any case, Seraphina recognized an opportunity where most would see only threat.
A faint rap at the door drew her attention, shaking her from her thoughts as Alexandra turned, raising a small cookie to her lips to conceal an intrigued expression. Seraphina did not startle; startle was for the naive and instead closed the ledger she had been glancing over. "Enter," she called, voice calm and precise.
A messenger — dust-streaked, armor dented — stumbled through as Elara opened the door for him, carrying a scroll sealed with the royal crest. Their families' butler, Howard Stuart, stepped inside as well, carrying a small bundle of documents and snatching the scroll from the messenger. He bowed low. "Miss, I have news and letters."
Her brows lifted, and Alexandra straightened in her chair, curiosity sharpening her expression. Seraphina turned, her silhouette drenched in the golden rays streaming through the window. "What is it?"
Howard's hands stilled as he handed her two items: a scroll sealed with the royal crest and an envelope marked with Marquess Celosia's personal seal. "There has been an ambush on the northern road. The Marquess's escort was attacked. Details are incomplete, but his intervention was witnessed."
Seraphina froze. Alexandra's hand found hers as she sprung to her feet, blonde curls bouncing as if burnt, squeezing hard. "Breathe," she whispered. But Seraphina could not. Her lungs refused. Her world narrowed to the sound of her own heart.
Her hand shook as she broke the seal of the first scroll, reading the carefully detailed report: The Council's demand for their engagement to be solidified or broken, her summoning, and the note that James himself had fought to protect the remaining escort. Each word pressed on her chest, heavy with both relief and dread. Her vision blurred over the last words as she glanced down at The Council's letter, but their meaning cut through with brutal clarity. The engagement will not wait. And beneath it, in a second, unfamiliar hand with the words nearly scratched out—Nor will your enemies.
Then she picked up the second black wax pressed with the Celosia crest: a sword crossed over a panther's face. The paper felt impossibly heavy in her hands. She hesitated only once before breaking it. The parchment unfolded, his handwriting sharp and deliberate, each line an assertion of power—and warning. Her eyes skimmed the formalities, the duty, the careful phrasing meant to bind her as much as inform her about their engagement.
Her heart quickened as she saw the quiet bud of tenderness: I trust you are tending to your garden well. A carefully concealed moving of his heart, a line of flattery, and an innuendo of how she had caught his attention all shown in a desperate ink blot beside his words. She clutched the letter in her hand as a whirlwind of fear, relief, and—dangerously—something like longing coursed through her veins.
The steward swallowed. "The Marquess of Celosia was seen fighting. The rest—unclear." He glanced towards Alexandra before clearing his throat, "Duke Rothwell has called an emergency council that the Marquess was to attend.". Seraphina turned toward the sunlight streaming through the high windows.
For the briefest instant, the reflection on the marble floor was crimson. "Then," she murmured, voice steady though her hands faltered as she gripped the desk ledge for a desperate plead for strength. She knew that he was strong, had seen it herself, after all one is not called Mad Dog or Beast of the Battlefield for no reason— yet she knew that last night had injured him.
However, she could not let that fear show for the wolves waited in the wings for the simplest of missteps, "I must be present as I shall become his fiance and the wife of the greatest commander on our contient. Whatever game they've begun, I will not sit idly by."
Seraphina pressed her fingers into the desk, the ledgers beneath scattering to the ground, as she gathered her thoughts. She needed to be brave, she needed to make sure life did not repeat herself, and most of all she had to grow untouchable---even if that meant by sword and by dollar.
Seraphina could not be weak, after all Marques Celosia had agreed with ehr that she was not a meek bride. She straightened, smoothing the creases from her gown and turning to face Howard and Alexandra with her head held high and a storm in her eyes. "The Council and the King must learn," she said her voice grim, more to herself than to anyone else, "that the Mad Dog of the King and the Beast of the Battlefield is not the only one who bites."
❀