The walls of the study felt narrower, the gilded panels pressing closer as if they themselves were witnesses to the unraveling threads of the morning. Alexandra's eyes glimmered with unspoken question, yet Seraphina's gaze swept to the windows first, noting the trembling of curtains stirred by a restless wind. The northern road — the ambush on James's escort — and though she had not seen it, she felt the echoes of danger vibrate through the morning sunlight.
She released Alexandra's hand with a quiet flick of movement, though the warmth of the touch lingered longer. "I must be present," she said, voice clipped, precise, hiding the tremor of anticipation and fear that lingered in her throat.
Elara appeared then, moving with her usual, almost invisible grace, her gaze flicking nervously between her mistress and Alexandra. Polished slippers whispered across the marble as she stopped at Seraphina's side. "Shall I prepare the carriage, Miss?" Her voice was low, deferential, yet the faint quiver betrayed her unease.
Elara had always been more than a servant — cautious, clever, and fiercely protective. Howard, stoic as ever, shifted the small bundle of documents in one hand and straightened the crease in his jacket with the other. He gave a crisp bow a step ahead of Elara. "The carriage awaits, Miss." His eyes flicked to Alexandra for a moment, sharp as a blade.
"Lady Rothwell," he added, "you may remain at your leisure, but this matter concerns only Miss Araminta." Howard cleared his throat. "Miss, if I may," he began, his voice precise, "the central road is treacherous at this hour. I insist on adjusting the route." Seraphina raised an eyebrow. "And your alternative?" He inclined his head, eyes flicking toward the garden visible beyond the window.
"We could avoid the central trade road entirely. Take the back passage through Marrow Hill. Less traveled, fewer eyes, less risk of… interruption."
Elara snorted softly, a faint, amused sound that drew Howard's sharp glance. "Do you always imagine the world as a battlefield, Howard? Sometimes, a straight path is the faster, safer option."
Howard's lips pressed into a thin line. "And sometimes a straight path is a trap. I would rather waste time than return with your mistress compromised."
Elara tilted her head, a nervous laugh echoing faintly. "Waste time? I daresay you've never had to dodge a courier with a dagger in your rib, have you?"
Seraphina suppressed a smile, noting how easily her loyal aides could mirror the tension of the household. "Enough," she said, voice calm but carrying the unmistakable authority of command. "We will take Marrow Hill. Howard, your caution is noted. Elara, your observation is noted. I know you are concerned but do not bicker on my account." Elara's face softened into a subtle nod; Howard inclined his head stiffly, but the flicker of humor in his eyes betrayed him.
Alexandra gave a small smile, sharp and teasing, though her hand lingered on the arm of the chair, fingers flexing with a subtle tension. "Very well," she said softly, her gaze meeting Seraphina's briefly. "Be careful." Alexandra lingered, fingers brushing a loose curl of hair, her gaze both warning and empathetic. Then, with the faintest shrug, she rose and swept from the study. Seraphina swallowed, feeling the weight of her own resolve settle across her shoulders like an invisible mantle.
As she left, the study doors burst open. Garrick and their mother entered, both wearing the same expression that had haunted Seraphina since childhood — the combination of authority and expectation that brooked no resistance.
"Seraphina," her mother said, voice sharp as trimmed hedges, eyes narrowing at the desk strewn with letters. "So soon to depart because of a simple letter? Have you considered the propriety of rushing to the Council without consultation? Your engagement… your position… these are not trifles to be handled alone."
Garrick's mouth twisted into a smirk, a mixture of amusement and exasperation. "You're practically running off to play at politics, sister. What, hoping to rescue the Mad Dog of the King yourself?" He leaned lazily against the doorway, but his eyes flicked toward the envelope in her hand, sharp and assessing.
Seraphina's hands tightened around the letters. "I am not 'playing,'" she said evenly, letting the edge of steel in her tone speak louder than her words. "I am attending. The Council has summoned me, and my presence is necessary. Marquess Celosia's absence—" Her lips pressed into a thin line, "…requires it."
Her mother's sigh was a low, musical exhale, but it carried venom beneath the surface. "Requires it? Or you require him? You have learned, no doubt, that danger wears many masks you ridiculous girl." Elara stepped forward subtly, as if shielding her mistress from both mother and brother, but Seraphina waved her hand, maintaining control. "I am aware," she said calmly, but her eyes bored into her mother's.
Lady Araminata wheeled her gaze toward Elara, eyes narrowing into slits. "And you!" she snapped, voice rising. "Do you have any idea what you've done? Giving Seraphina that—that dress for the Summer Gala without my permission? Have you lost all sense of propriety!"
Elara stiffened, lips pressed in a thin line, but her composure did not break. "I—" she began, voice quiet, careful. "It was meant only to complement Miss Seraphina's appearance. I intended no disrespect, Lady Araminta."
Her mother's hand shot out, fingers wagging like a conductor's baton before they latched onto Elara's chin. "No disrespect? You've undermined my authority in front of the entire court! You dare—". Howard stilled as Seraphina's temper flared, hotter and sharper than the morning sunlight.
She moved in front of Elara, tearing away her mother's grip, body tense, eyes blazing. "Mother! Enough!" Her voice cut through the storm of accusation, precise, deliberate. "Elara has served this household faithfully for years. She does not deserve your venom for a trivial matter of clothing. I will not have her berated in my presence!" Garrick's smirk faltered for a brief moment, just enough that Seraphina caught the faint flush rising to his cheeks — there was something in his gaze directed at Elara.
Her mother turned her fury back toward her, lips pressed in a tight line, nostrils flaring. "You take her side over your own family?" she hissed. "You are too young to understand duty!"
"I understand duty perfectly," Seraphina shot back, voice low but unyielding, "and my duty is to the people I trust, not to the whims of those who would make loyalty a weapon. Elara is one of the few who has never deceived me, never sought to use me. I will not allow you to punish her for your temper." The study fell silent.
Elara's shoulders eased slightly, though a flicker of tension lingered. Howard, standing near the door, adjusted his grip on the bundle of documents but made no move, knowing better than to intervene when Seraphina was in command.
Garrick finally spoke, voice teasing but carrying a subtle warmth beneath the humor. "Sera it seems you've grown fiercer than I remember and I daresay, Elara has endured worse than I ever did at mother's hands.". Elara gave a small, almost imperceptible smile, though her eyes remained on Seraphina, loyal and grateful.
Seraphina straightened, gathering her letters. "Enough. The Council awaits. Howard, see to the carriage. Elara, ready the horses. We leave immediately."
Garrick laughed softly, the sound hollow in the quiet study. "Always the dramatist. Very well, sister. Go then, and may the Council survive your scrutiny." He gave a mock bow, stepping aside.
Her mother's gaze lingered a moment longer, sharp and assessing, before she finally nodded. "See that you do not disgrace yourself… or the family." Then, without waiting for response, she swept from the room, Garrick following with his lazy, measured steps, leaving Seraphina in the silence of the study, the weight of expectation now mingled with the urgency of her mission.
Elara exhaled softly beside her. Seraphina folded the letters carefully and tucked them into the folds of her skirts. She moved to the window, lifting the curtain slightly, letting the pale light of dawn illuminate the garden. Dew clung to the petals of the roses, each thorn glistening with promise and threat alike. Her reflection in the long windowpane at the landing caught her attention.
She barely recognized the woman before her: auburn hair swept into a tight braid, the sharp line of her jaw accentuated by the morning light, and the faintest tension at her shoulders suggesting readiness, vigilance, and resolve. Seraphina's hand went to her bodice instinctively, a gesture that betrayed years of habit. The Seraphina of the first life would have been startled, uncertain, vulnerable.
This Seraphina carried something heavier: the knowledge of death and betrayal, the burned edges of memory, and the flickering, unreliable foresight that sometimes gave glimpses of what might be, what could be, and what should never be repeated.
Elara's presence beside her was quiet, yet grounding. "The carriage is ready," she murmured, voice low enough not to betray alarm. Seraphina nodded, folding the letter carefully. Every inch of the estate could now be a potential trap; she would not allow herself the luxury of being unprepared.
Servants scurried past, curtseying, murmuring in hushed tones, unaware that their mistress's mind was far from the trivialities of breakfast or perfumed letters. She descended the stairs into the marble hall with deliberate calm, her skirts rustling faintly against the polished floor.
The carriage awaited, silver and silent, wheels gleaming, horses pawing at the ground in impatience. Howard opened the door with precision, bowing low as she entered, while Elara moved to settle into the carriage, hands folded neatly in her lap yet alert, eyes scanning the courtyard as though predators might emerge from the shadows. Seraphina climbed in with smooth efficiency, ignoring the flutter of nerves that threatened her composure.
❀
The ride to the Council chambers was tense. She reviewed lists of council members, recalling the faintest recollections from her first life, noting the positions of power, the rivalries, the grudges that spanned decades. Names that had once been innocuous now carried weight. Alliances she had not noticed before shimmered faintly in her awareness, the edges of foresight revealing the subtle patterns that ordinary eyes could never perceive.
At the back of her mind was Marquess Celosia, the knowledge of an ambush that was completely absent from any of her prior knowledge. She willed herself not to imagine him sprawled across the dust road, blood drained from him, though the knowledge hung heavy like a wet blanket over a fire.
Her memory flickered then, a painful tug: a face she had once known, a conversation erased, a maneuver she had believed she would remember now only half-formed. Her pulse quickened as the instability of her recollection became apparent. Time itself seemed to bend, and she realized that the events of this life were not entirely predictable. Even her foresight, honed through dreams of her past existence, was fraying at the edges. Choices that had once been certain now appeared malleable, mutable.
Her hands rested lightly on the edges of her skirts, but she could feel the faint tremor of anticipation. They arrived without incident, though the atmosphere around The Council was thick with expectation. The Council's outer chamber loomed before her: tall columns, polished marble, and the scent of ink, parchment, and power.
The attendants, servants, and minor nobles moved with mechanical precision, yet Seraphina sensed the undercurrent of tension—the subtle shifts in posture, the glances darting sideways, the barely perceptible narrowing of eyes that signaled assessment and calculation.
Servants whispered, guards stationed themselves at doors and windows, and courtiers moved with their usual carefully choreographed pretensions. Seraphina's pulse remained steady, yet she felt the familiar sting of being observed. This was a theater of intellect, where words were weapons and gestures bore meaning as precise as any blade.
As she made her way down the hallway lined with pillars, she counted the shadows they stretched as if to calm herself. Then she noticed a single shadow—wrong, too dense, thicker than light should allow—stretched along the far wall like an ink spill creeping across the floor. Seraphina's breath caught as it slithered up one of the stone columns, defying the torchlight entirely. A silhouette she had seen days earlier flowing from the assassin's cloak as he seeked to kill her and the Marquess.
Then it happened—quiet as a hiss: The shadow turned its head toward her. No eyes. No face. Just a tilt, like an animal scenting blood. Seraphina's spine locked: the shadows were still watching her. She paused, the corridor suddenly empty as a whisper slithered across the marble, neither sound nor air: Found you. The shadow snapped back into place as the thick steel doors to The Council opened with a muted echo.
❀
The Council met in a hall of marble and carved stone, paintings depicting the kingdom's history curling across the ceiling like smoke. Marble frescoes and mosaics of dragons spiraled across the ceiling, a history of kings and conquest curling like smoke.
At the far end, King Alistair IV's chair dominated, gold and carved stone radiating authority and the heavy handed weight of a tyrant. Even seated, his presence pressed down like the shadow of a storm, blue eyes sharp and calculating, lips tight in disdain as he glared down at her.
"Miss Seraphina Araminata has entered," a chamber scribe intoned, voice flat, leaving her name hanging in the air.
The Council chambers were a living organism, ruled by tradition, ambition, and rivalry. Twelve councilors comprised the core, each balancing loyalty to the King with personal ambition. The streets whisper that outside of their formalities lay the Inner Circle of Blades: the five most powerful members of the faction. Some sought influence through charm, others through whispered threats or carefully placed spies. Every gesture, phrase, and glance carried meaning far beyond words; a single glare could shift an entire alliance.
Seraphina stepped forward, skirts whispering over marble, and the Councilors' gazes converged like knives drawn without ceremony. The King's gaze fell upon her briefly, the faintest flicker of curiosity hidden behind layers of protocol. Seraphina's posture was impeccable, yet her mind remained a maelstrom, each step, each breath, each flick of the eye calculated.
She had always wondered how much of the dragon legend was truth—and how much was political myth polished over centuries. But as she looked at him now, her breath stalled for half a second. His pupils narrowed. Just slightly. Almost imperceptible. Almost. A ripple moved through the fresco behind him.
The fresco—The First Covenant—spanned the entire back wall: dragons in spirals of red, gold, and obsidian, wings outstretched over kneeling kings. Normally still, the painted flames along their throats shimmered with a thin pulse of light. Seraphina swept into a grand curtsy, the feeling of sweat dripping down her neck as the King's eyes bore into her.
King Alistair IV of Vaelstrine commanded the room with his presence before he even spoke. Tall, lean, and impossibly poised, he was swathed in a coat of midnight blue so dark it seemed to swallow the torchlight, yet threaded through with molten gold that shimmered like veins of living fire. His hair was the same pale blond as the ancient frescoes—sun-kissed, almost white, slipping over his collar like strands of a lion's mane befitting his nickname: The Gilded Tyrant.
His skin bore the faint, iridescent sheen common among the royal line—rumored to be a mark left by dragonfire generations ago. His face was carved with angular precision, as if the line of his jaw and cheekbones had been designed to command awe, while a subtle scar climbed the right side of his neck, hidden beneath the fur lining of his coat—a whisper of violence tamed by regality.
But it was his eyes that held her still: bright, glacial, inhumanly blue, with pupils that seemed tighter than normal, sharpened to slits in moments where emotion pierced through political restraint. The kind of eyes that legends whispered could reflect flame. Over his heart, stitched in threads of gold, a stylized dragon bore its wings aloft and jaws open in eternal roar: not a decoration, but a sovereign declaration, a herald of power both ancestral and immediate. To stand before him was to stand before a living myth.
❀