Lady Mirabel stiffened, her face softening as she looked at the King while adjusting her fan. "The western provinces have long memories."
Tobias whispered, "Could it—could it be tied to the engagement?" Several councilors' eyes darted toward Seraphina but King Alistair lifted his golden head, his sharp gaze slicing through the room like a blade, each glance a silent command or a veiled threat. A low murmur followed, polite in tone, yet razor-sharp in intent.
"The engagement?" Duke Rothwell's voice was neutral but carried a subtle warning. "The Marquess of Celosia is a soldier. Perhaps too much so to be bound by our counsel and his enemies known as such."
"Or dangerous," Baron Faraday added, voice tight. "To us, at least. Can we afford a match with a man who courts ambush as easily as court intrigue?" Seraphina's pulse quickened. Her mind cataloged every glance, every twitch, every subtle inflection. They doubted him. They doubted her. Their words were veiled tests, but she knew she had to respond with precision. Not a word slipped; not a flicker of fear betrayed her.
Baron Faraday leaned forward, his robes smelled faintly of expensive ink and old political rot.
"Your Majesty," he addressed where the King lounged, but his eyes fixed on Seraphina. "With respect, this entire matter stems from uncertainty. Marquess Celosia may already be dead." A ripple of murmurs. "Given recent… frictions," he continued, "we must consider whether this ambush was orchestrated internally." There it was. The pivot. The opening of the blade.
"You talk in riddles Faraday!" Viscount Varow snapped. He had always hated Seraphina and today he looked almost gleeful. "You believe the future Marchioness arranged for her fiancé's death." Seraphina didn't move. Her breath was precise. Measured. Dangerous.
Duke Rothwell leaned forward, pressing his fingers together and resting his elbows on the circular oak table. "Careful, Varow," he warned. "You speak of treason."
"Do I?" Viscount Varrow countered. "Or am I speaking of the truth? The talks of their engagement are strained! Publicly. If he is dead, the engagement contract is void but the Celosia lands could revert to the Araminata's as her perceived dowry. Convenient, wouldn't you say?""
King Alistair's voice, when it came again, was quiet—but it carried the weight of fire. "The Council," he said, "has grown lax. Let me be clear," the King said, each word spoken with the slow, deliberate certainty of a man who had never questioned his own dominance. "The realm teeters on the brink of forces you do not yet comprehend. While you squabble over engagements and propriety, the shadows that test my throne grow bolder."
Baron Faraday stiffened. Lady Mirabel bowed her head slightly. Even the Duke of Westmark's fingers twitched, betraying unease. The King's gaze swept the table—then stopped on Seraphina, sharp enough to flay.
The chamber's tension thickened, invisible but palpable, a net woven of ambition, caution, and threat. Someone in the court was willing to risk violence to assert a political point, to test loyalty, to unsettle those in positions of influence. The murmurs began, polite in tone but laced with unease. Each councilor considered the implications through their own lens. Baron Faraday muttered under his breath, concern betrayed in the cadence of his voice.
Lady Mirabel adjusted her fan deliberately, masking the tension in her fingers. Tobias, who had a rare streak of curiosity beneath his obedience, leaned forward, whispering a question that immediately drew a glare from the nearest senior councilor.
"Your Marquess resists." King Alistair murmured, closing his eyes as if to measure the weight of a life, "He walks into ambushes meant to test him, to test me." His crystal blue gaze flashed as his eyes opened—a spark of something primal, ancient, and offended. "Do you understand the weight of that, girl?"
Seraphina's skirts pooled around her like molten silk, the weight of fabric a tether to the polished marble beneath her feet. Her back stiffened, a thread of steel woven beneath the silk of her corset, as she shook slightly from standing in a curtsy for what felt like hours. Her hands, lightly clasped before her as she held her gown, shifted almost imperceptibly, the gentle tightening of her fingers betraying the current of tension running beneath her calm exterior.
Her shoulders, poised yet unyielding, traced the line of a bow drawn taut, and the slight lift of her chin caught the torchlight, casting a shadow that sharpened the angles of her face. Her eyes lowered to the polished marble rose and met the King's gaze with the precision of a blade's edge.
"Yes, Your Majesty."
"Yet," he added, voice low but carrying, "here you stand, betrothed to a man who flirts with death like you do courtiers. The Marquess of Celosia—his future uncertain—and you… you would tie your loyalty to him, to a soldier who courts ruin as easily as you might a dance?"
His eyes narrowed, glacial blue sharpened to ice, and for a heartbeat Seraphina felt the weight of history press against her as if the King knew just how aware she was of the Marquess's ruin.
He leaned slightly forward, the movement deliberate, predatory, a subtle sway like a great wing shifting in the hall. "A soldier who follows orders, who walks into traps he is aware of without hesitation for the Crown—and you…you would make yourself his shield, his voice, his witness?"
Seraphina's breath remained steady, each inhale measured as if drawing strength from the weight of the chamber itself. Her hands rested lightly at her sides, fingers brushing the folds of her skirts. She lifted her gaze to meet the King's, unflinching.
"Your Majesty," she said, her voice calm but carrying a quiet steel, "The Marquess of Celosia serves this kingdom with courage and clarity that I lack. His actions are his own, but the consequences touch all who bear the weight of duty. I will stand where duty demands."
Her words hung in the air, precise as any blade. The chamber remained silent, even the murmurs of the Council restrained, as though the very walls were listening. She did not tremble. She had chosen her spine even if it meant the King may break her in half.
A faint ripple passed over the King's face—almost imperceptible, a shadow of something like respect buried beneath centuries of command. His glacial eyes, sharp as chisels, lingered on her. There was a pause, thick enough to feel like stone settling. Then, almost quietly, a hint of a smile curved his lips—tight, measured, and dangerous.
"You speak boldly, girl," King Alistair growled, voice like an untamed storm, "Boldly enough to see a man walk into fire and call it clarity. Bold enough to stake your house on a soldier whose path may be ruined. I would have thought caution was the first etiquette lesson of survival at court."
Seraphina's lips pressed into a line of deliberate neutrality, her heart roaring in her ears at the dangers of challenging the Crown. Politically speaking, House Araminata had already shown they questioned their loyalty to him with support of the Third Prince.
No one but Duke Rothwell with a small glint of approval in his eye, dared meet Seraphina's eyes now; to challenge the King—even subtly—was to invite scrutiny, perhaps wrath, that few could endure. The faint rustle of silk, the scraping of chairs, the almost imperceptible intake of breath were amplified in the chamber's tense hush.
❀
King Alastair inclined his head just enough, a shadow of admiration passing across his expression. "So," he murmured, his voice carrying the threat of both fire and frost, "you would tie yourself to him, to the Marquess of Celosia, while the shadows of his enemies stir and the Council murmurs in fear?"
Seraphina's pulse quickened, but only imperceptibly. "Yes, Your Majesty," she replied evenly, voice steady, eyes locked on the frozen floor. "And I would do so knowing what duty demands."
Another breathless pause as the King shifted his weight, his feet grounding themself in the floor with a note of finality, "And what of your House's interest in the Third Prince? Would your loyalty not have to shift instead to my Heir?"
A faint clink of a quill dropped from one of the scribes. A whisper of silk as Lady Mirabel shifted her weight. Baron Faraday's hands twitched, the table rattling slightly. Tobias swallowed audibly as every eye in the chamber was drawn to Seraphina.
Her first-life memories stirred unbidden: the Third Prince, the schemer whispered about in corridors, whose ambitions had always been subtle but lethal, had relied on her House once before—Araminata.
Rumors suggested that he had subtly sown seeds of doubt regarding the First Prince within her House, planting suggestions that loyalty to the Crown was secondary to the preservation of the Araminata legacy—or perhaps, even more dangerous, that their allegiance might shift to those who promised power or protection.
In that life, the Third Prince had won the subtle game of influence, bending minor houses like Araminata to his will, securing whispers of allegiance while the First Prince, bold and direct, relied on his generals—the one being Marquess Celosia—to command loyalty through action rather than intrigue. Support of the Third Prince, even indirect, had already marked her family as politically malleable in his life, a convenient tool for those wishing to test the Crown's reach and patience.
She exhaled quietly, mind assembling the pieces: her House's current cautious support of the Third Prince had been predictable. A single misstep could be construed as treachery, yet their loyalty was pragmatic, not absolute. Her betrothed, Marquess Celosia, and the First Prince had forged trust in blood and strategy—an unshakable bond born in the field and tempered by danger. That bond, even now absent in his person, was a leverage the Council could not comprehend fully, yet one she intended to wield.
They had ridden together at the vanguard, planned sieges over smoldering ruins, and trusted one another with secrets that could topple kingdoms if revealed. Even in his absence, that bond radiated through every decision, every maneuver she had seen Celosia make, and she knew the Council could not fully perceive its magnitude.
They saw him as a single commander, a missing piece on a chessboard of titles and allegiances—but she knew the deeper truth: his alliance with the First Prince was a force unto itself, a strategic leverage that could shift loyalties, rally armies, or expose conspiracies.
It was a trust that survived absence, that transcended the rigid hierarchies of nobility and the petty schemes of courtiers. And Seraphina, with her House tied to the Third Prince's subtle machinations, understood the precarious tightrope she now walked: her voice, her presence, her judgment could become the instrument by which that bond exerted influence, guiding the Council's perception even while Celosia himself remained unseen.
She intended to wield it carefully, deliberately—an invisible blade in the chamber, reminding them all that power was not only in the presence of men with swords, but also in the understanding of the loyalties that could not be bought, coerced, or ignored.
Every Councilor in the room knew of these tensions, though none would speak it outright except the King. The slightest glance could carry the weight of accusation; every hesitation, a hint of treachery. Seraphina could feel their eyes on her, weighing her words, reading her posture, calculating the loyalty of her heart, even as she outwardly remained composed.
One wrong move, one imperceptible quiver of muscle or intonation, and the whispers of her House's divided allegiance could become swords aimed directly at her throat.
❀
She inhaled slowly, forcing calm over the surge of blood and caution. The Third Prince was not in the chamber, but his shadow lingered nonetheless, entwined with every scrutiny, every measured glance. Her defiance had to be perfect—not reckless, but daring enough to assert authority without inviting ruin. Every syllable, every breath had to be as deliberate as any battlefield maneuver.
To falter now would betray not just her House, but confirm every doubt the Crown, the Council, and the whispered ambitions of the Third Prince already nurtured–possibly even roping in the Marquess, a fierce supporter of the First Prince.
Yet before she could respond further, a faint clatter at the back of the chamber drew the King's attention. Tobias had dropped a stack of papers; the Duke of Westmark flinched slightly as if sensing an insult. The tension in the room thickened, an invisible pressure tightening around them all. Seraphina recognized it instantly — the external threat was not only physical but psychological.
Someone intended to unsettle the Council, to manipulate fear into compliance, to test the resolve of those in power. The King's gaze flicked from the distraction back to Seraphina, and the tension shifted subtly—his attention now narrowing on the matter that truly demanded it.
"Enough of shadows and whispers," he said, his tone slicing through the chamber like a drawn blade. "I shall leave you all to prove yourself useful for once regarding the Marquess Celosia matter."
With a deliberate slowness, he rose from the golden chair, each movement measured, commanding. The torches along the walls flickered as if stirred by the motion of some unseen wind, and the frescoes of dragons overhead seemed to shift in anticipation.
Then, without a backward glance, he turned fully and strode from the chamber. The doors banged shut behind him, the echo lingering like a challenge carved in stone.
A collective exhale swept through the Council, mingled with the shuffle of papers, the faint creak of wood, and the subtle tightening of grips on pens and fans. Seraphina's pulse throbbed in rhythm with the void he left behind—a vacuum of authority, expectation, and unspoken danger.
The chamber seemed smaller, heavier, each councilor acutely aware that for the moment, all focus rested on the Marquess, the engagement, and the consequences that awaited missteps. At the center of it all was Seraphina, defiant, calculating, aware that the eyes of some of the most powerful people in the kingdom were upon her.
❀
As the last flicker of dragon-fire dimmed from the fresco, Viscount Varrow slammed both palms on the table. "I call for a vote," he barked. "We declare the Marquess dead as it would matter none, not even within House Celosia's succession as he is the youngest son. His command must be reassigned before the southern front collapses."
A ripple of shock tore across the chamber. Too fast. Too eager.
General Hale rose immediately. "You would kill him with ink before his blood is even found?".
Viscount Varrow squared his shoulders, the red edges of his breastcoat shimmering beneath the lights"Stability demands—".
"Stability?" General Hale snapped, running a thick hand through the spikes of his hair grown white with age. "Or an opportunity to strip the Celosia line of its influence?" General Hale's voice rumbled from deep in his chest. "Only five of us, the Blades' inner circle, were summoned today—for a Marquess' disappearance, no less. What are you after Varrow?"
Viscount Varrow flinched, his jaw rising defiantly in the air like a sword being unsheathed as he recovered quickly. "A leader who cannot be found is no leader at all." Seraphina shifted her skirts, steepling her fingers together as she glared at him.
"You speak your thoughts truthfully now that His Majesty has left." she said, voice calm, deliberate, carrying just enough steel to ripple through the murmurs. "If the King has left the room to test your mettle, then it falls to you to act with competence rather than suspicion."
Her green eyes flicked to Varrow again, the man's bluster wilting under her gaze. "Accusations without proof accomplish nothing. Rumors do not win wars, and fear does not secure loyalty."
She felt the shift before she saw it: a tightening of the air, a pulling of focus toward her. Viscount Varrow's eyes hardened. "You—Miss Araminata—speak with remarkable confidence for someone whose betrothed lies either in rebellion or in ruin."
He leaned forward, voice a knife wrapped in silk. " Tell us girl, could you truly place your House in jeopardy for the man whose blade serves the first prince, when your blood lies in bed with the third?" His eyes glittered with challenge, a subtle taunt aimed to draw her into the chamber's labyrinth of suspicion.
Lady Mirabel, not to be outdone, adjusted her fan with deliberate slowness. "After all," she purred, "one cannot ignore history. Engagements fail. Loyalties shift. Betrayal… is easier than one expects." Her gaze lingered on Seraphina with thinly veiled calculation, aware of the whispered rumors surrounding her trepidation for the engagement. Seraphina's pulse ticked faster.
She had betrayed the Marquess once—no one here knew the full measure of that betrayal in this life, yet their insinuations grazed the truth, threatening to expose it. She tilted her chin just enough to meet Mirabel's stare, lips pressed into a line of careful neutrality. Every micro-expression could be a weapon; every reaction, a key to survival.
The air of the chamber pressed down, the weight of the unknown—the King she had never met, the Council whose summoning was unfamiliar, and the unshakable knowledge of the ambush waiting for Marquess Celosia—made the moment feel like a precipice. She knew that she would have to bend The Council's will, dominate them so they could not question her again if she wished to do anything for the Marquess while he was missing.
Seraphina locked eyes with Lady Mirabel's and Viscount Varrows in icy precision, every bit the potential bride of a soldier. "My betrothed does not need my sanction to act, and my House does not bend to speculation. Save your theatrics for the King," she said, soft enough to intrigue, sharp enough to wound.
"He left us here not because he doubts his Marquess, but because he wishes to see who among you truly serves the realm rather than your ambition. Should you wish to test me," she let a faint, sharp edge creep into her voice as her eyes burned with a rage, "know that I will act with precision, and I will act alone if necessary."
Duke Rothwell's voice cut through the tension, measured and calm. "Let us not speak in shadows and accusations. The ambush's magical signature is foreign, external. Suggesting internal conspiracy is premature." His eyes flicked briefly to Seraphina—not in accusation, but in observation.
He was testing her, measuring her ability to navigate threats without faltering. She caught the faintest nuance in his glance, and a thought flickered through her mind: loyalty like Rothwell's was a tether in shadow—never fully revealed, always weighing intentions against risk. She could not trust him but perhaps he could be an ally only as far as the unseen currents of the Council allowed.
Viscount Varrow's hand drummed again against the table as his lips turned down in disgust. "You would not deny your loyalty if evidence—real or circumstantial—suggested compromise?"
He leaned in, scooting his chair close to her with a voice lowered so that only she could hear. "Or would you shield him? Protect the Marquess at the expense of truth?"
The question pressed down like a boulder on her chest. To deny loyalty to James now after her conversation with the King would be political suicide; to speak too freely risked hinting at knowledge of shadows, of the ambush, of truths she could never reveal. Yet silence could be taken as guilt. The Council had no intention of letting her exist as neutral.
❀
Lady Mirabel's fan clicked softly, the faintest sound but sharp as a blade.
"And what of your house, Lady Seraphina? House Araminta is minor and yet you speak as boldly as a Duke's daughter. Could you not see how etiquette is the lifeblood of court; even minor houses survive or fall by observing it. Do you imagine your tongue can defy custom without consequence?"
Her words were honey-laced poison, implying that the small, influential House Araminta could easily tip the balance—if the wrong choice were made.
"You place yourself in his shadow, girl," Lady Mirabel leaned forward, each word carrying the full force of the rumors of high society. "Yet the question is not his safety, nor even his loyalty… it is yours. Can you endure the consequences of this bond? Can your House survive what the world will inevitably demand of you?"
Seraphina's mind worked in quiet calculation. Her family had survived by walking the knife's edge before—mediators, pawns, subtle players in games far larger than their size. She could act or she could guide. The Council sought to test her, to force her into revealing instinct, judgment, or fear. Varrow's voice rose again, slamming a fist onto the table whose impact echoed, as he stood and stalked over to Seraphina with rage.
"The Marquess may already be dead. Would you stand against the Crown? Against The Council? Against your own future, to shield the man you made a ghost?"
Every syllable was a wedge, prying open the cracks in her resolve. She could feel her first-life betrayal like a phantom hand pressing against her chest, threatening to force her into submission. Yet she drew in a measured breath, shoulders squared, voice calm, almost rehearsed.
"My loyalty," she said evenly, "lies with what is right and necessary. Not with speculation, fear, or rumor. I act to preserve life and House alike." Gasps. Whispers. Seraphina didn't blink. Didn't breathe.
"Remeber the words of His Majesty! Insinuation without evidence—"" Duke Rothwell said sharply, rising from his chair, his voice like a gavel.
But Varrow, trembling with misplaced bravado, lunged out of his chair, his hands reaching towards Seraphina with a murderous intent.
He wasn't aiming to wound. He was aiming to strike her across the face—a slap meant to humiliate, to diminish, to remind her she was "only" a woman surrounded by powerful people who believed themselves the kingdom's spine.
Time slowed for a heartbeat. Seraphina's eyes flicked to him, measuring, calculating. Every muscle coiled, a hand rising to protect her face as she glared at him, the other rising to reach for his wrist.
Then, without warning, the doors at the far end of the hall—normally heavy, immovable—shuddered under some invisible force. They banged open with a crash that silenced even the whispering scribes. Varrow's swing froze midair, his fingers trembling, suspended in humiliation, as all attention snapped to the intruder.
A draft swept through, extinguishing a row of torches and leaving half the chamber in shadows. Every eye turned, breaths held, and for a heartbeat the entire Council froze.