The Marquess's private chamber smelled of blood and balm, the sharp tang of iron mingling with burning candles. Seraphina's hands moved with careful precision, adjusting the bandages along James's side. She remained acutely aware of his every breath, the rise and fall of his chest, the tight line of his jaw as he suppressed pain.
A sudden clatter from the main hall startled her. Hurried footsteps echoed across polished floors before the door creaked open.
"Miss Araminata," came the butler's strained voice. He held a folded letter, his other hand gripping the doorframe. "This arrived from His Royal Highness, the First Prince. He requests an audience with the Marquess—and your presence."
Before Seraphina could respond, the butler's eyes flicked toward the stairs. "And... there is more. Your mother and brother have arrived. They did not wait to announce themselves. I fear they have already burst into the foyer."
Seraphina's fingers trembled slightly against the letter. "Here? Now?"
"Indeed, Miss. They seem... impatient."
She exhaled slowly, glancing at James. His sharp eyes met hers with quiet awareness. "I will meet them in the drawing room," she said, steel threading her tone. "Kindly inform them I will join them directly. And... stay nearby."
᯽
Lady Araminata perched on a velvet settee, fingers drumming against an ivory fan, eyes glinting with barely contained fury. Garrick stood beside her, boots striking marble with military precision, cloak clinging to his broad shoulders. "Mother. Garrick. What an unexpected visit," Seraphina said, offering a measured curtsy. "Seraphina."
Her mother's voice dripped with false affection. "You spend far too much time with that... Marquess. One could almost forget you are a lady of your own House."
"The Marquess's recovery cannot be left unattended, nor can the Council's inquiries go unchecked," Seraphina replied smoothly. "As his betrothed, I am simply supporting him as necessary."
Her mother's fan snapped open.
"Betrothed or not, you should be establishing your position properly. The Grand Tournament of Roses is in three weeks—every noble house will present their heirs and alliances. Yet here you sit, tending wounds like a common healer instead of preparing your presentation."
The memory struck Seraphina like lightning. In her past life, she had attended on the Third Prince's arm while the Marquess was at battle, dressed in his colors, a public declaration of favor that had sealed her fate.
The jousts, the poetry competitions, the elaborate gift exchanges—all designed to showcase noble partnerships and political alliances before the entire court. She had been paraded like a prize then, her reputation slowly poisoned by carefully orchestrated whispers during those very festivities. But now... now she understood the game.
"The Tournament," Seraphina said carefully, her mind already racing through possibilities. "Of course. The Marquess's presence would be expected, given his position on the Council."
Lady Araminata's eyes narrowed. "His presence would be noted, yes. But in his current state? The court will see weakness. They will see a man clinging to power through an ambitious woman's machinations." She leaned forward. "And you, my daughter, will be seen as the schemer who attached herself to a falling star."
Garrick's smirk faded slightly. "Mother has a point, Sera. Public perception at the Tournament shapes alliances for the entire season. If the you cannot present properly—"
"Then I shall ensure the Marquess and I can," Seraphina interrupted, her voice firm. Ideas crystallized in her mind—the traditional gift exchanges, the literary salons, the formal promenades. All opportunities to demonstrate unity, strength, and the Marquess's continued political acuity.
Her mother's hands trembled with renewed fury. "You foolish girl! You've stayed here far too long as it is! Do you have any idea what scandal you're causing? Every hour you linger—every whispered rumor—is twisted into court fodder! And now you think you can simply parade him before the Empire's elite? How dare you—"
Her hand shot toward Seraphina, swift as a strike.
The memory slammed into her—another hand, another time. The sting across her cheek in the palace corridor, her mother's voice shrill with rage: "You embarrassed us before the Third Prince! Do you think your foolishness goes unpunished?" The courtiers had watched, silent and judging, as she'd stood there, cheek burning, unable to defend herself.
That had been the beginning of the end, in her first life.
Garrick's hand caught their mother's wrist midair, grip firm and unyielding. "Enough. You will not strike her."
Lady Araminata froze, chest heaving. Then, with a shriek of frustration, she tore herself free and stormed down the corridor. "You will all answer for this! The court will not forgive such insolence!" The echo of her exit left the room heavy with silence.
᯽
Garrick's boots were quieter now as he stepped to Seraphina's side. The storm their mother caused seemed to shrink in comparison to the tension clinging to them. "She's furious," he muttered, his tone low, almost conversational, though edged with warning. "Not at you... not entirely. At the politics, at the way she believes the game should be played."
He paused, jaw tightening. "And I stopped her from striking you because it would have caused a scene that would reflect poorly on our House. Nothing more. Don't mistake necessity for sentiment." The words landed like stones between them—a reminder of the distance that had grown since their childhood. Now his protection came wrapped in strategic calculations.
"Of course," Seraphina said quietly. "How foolish of me to think otherwise."
Garrick's hand lingered near hers, tense but restrained. "Mother always makes a spectacle of what frightens her," he said, voice dropping lower.
"She's terrified of what Celosia represents. The Beast of the Battlefield." His jaw clenched, a muscle ticking. "The man who cost me half my men at Redmere Gate."
The name hung in the air like smoke from a funeral pyre.
"Redmere Gate was five years ago," Seraphina said carefully, watching the way his shoulders tightened, the way his fingers curled into a fist. "The reports said—"
"The reports said what the Council wanted them to say," Garrick cut her off, his voice raw with old fury. "That the tactical retreat was necessary. That the losses were acceptable. That Celosia's strategy saved the eastern front."
He turned to face her fully, gray eyes burning. "Do you know what acceptable losses look like, Sera? Do you know what it sounds like when two hundred men realize they've been abandoned as bait?"
Seraphina's breath caught. She had known Redmere Gate was a turning point in the war, had heard the whispers of Celosia's brilliance in sacrifice, his willingness to make the hard choices. In her past life, she had accepted the narrative the court fed her—that such decisions were the burden of great commanders.
But she had never heard it from someone who'd stood in the blood and ash of those decisions.
"We held the gate for three days," Garrick continued, his voice dropping to something dangerous and broken. "Three days against an enemy force that outnumbered us four to one. Celosia's orders were clear: hold until reinforcements arrived. We were the anvil. He was supposed to be the hammer."
His laugh was bitter, caustic. "The hammer never fell. He withdrew his forces, repositioned for a flanking maneuver that would 'end the campaign decisively.' And we—the ones holding the gate—became expendable pieces in his grand strategy."
"But the maneuver worked," Seraphina said quietly, already knowing how hollow it would sound. "The eastern front—"
"Was secured, yes. At the cost of two hundred men." The number fell from his lips like a prayer, or a curse. "I knew their names, Sera. Every single one. Captain Morrell, who had four daughters waiting for him. Lieutenant Ashford, who'd just married his childhood sweetheart. Sergeant Dane, who used to make us laugh even when we were knee-deep in mud and blood."
His voice cracked before he cleared his throat. "They died believing help was coming. They died thinking their sacrifice meant something beyond a line on Celosia's battle map."
Seraphina's throat tightened. "You survived."
"I survived because Father pulled me out." The words were barely above a whisper. "He saw what Celosia had done—saw the trap we were in. He rode through enemy lines with fifteen men to extract what was left of our company. He saved forty-three of us."
Garrick's hands were shaking now, though his face remained a soldier's mask. "And do you know what the Council said? They reprimanded him. Said he'd jeopardized the greater strategy by acting without orders. That his sentimentality had compromised the campaign."
The pieces were falling into place now—the bitterness, the rage, the way Garrick spoke of their father with such reverence and grief.
"That's why Father lost favor," Seraphina said softly.
"That's why they sent him on increasingly dangerous assignments after that. Punished him for valuing lives over strategy. For choosing loyalty to his men over obedience to generals like Celosia who saw soldiers as resources to be spent."
Garrick's voice hardened. "Three years later, Father died on the front lines, leading a 'reconnaissance mission' that everyone knew was a death sentence. The Council's way of removing an inconvenient conscience."
Seraphina felt the weight of revelation settling over her. In her past life, she had never questioned the official story—General Araminta, died in service to the Empire. She had never known it was execution disguised as honor.
"You've made your opinion of the Marquess abundantly clear since the betrothal was announced," she said, understanding now the depth of his hatred.
"Because I know what he is," Garrick said flatly, gray eyes like winter ice. "A monster dressed in Council robes. A man who calculates acceptable losses over breakfast and sleeps soundly while soldiers die following his orders."
He stepped closer. "Father fought beside men like him—brilliant tacticians who sacrificed their own soldiers like chess pieces. It's what killed him in the end. Not enemy steel, but the machinations of men who valued strategy over lives."
"Men like Celosia," Seraphina said.
"Men exactly like Celosia." Garrick's voice dropped to something deadly quiet. "And now you're binding yourself to him. Now Mother parades you before the Council as his betrothed, as if two hundred graves mean nothing compared to a political alliance."
His hand shot out, gripping her wrist—not harshly, but with desperate intensity. "That's what you're marrying, Sera. That's what you're choosing. A man who will use you just as efficiently as he used my soldiers. A man who will sacrifice you the moment strategy demands it."
Seraphina met his gaze, seeing past the anger to the fear beneath—the terror of watching another person he cared for walk into the jaws of a man he considered a murderer.
"I know what he is," she said quietly. "Better than you think."
Garrick's grip tightened. "Then why? Why not break the betrothal? Why not flee while you still can?"
Because I've already died once due to the hands of men who smiled and called it politics, she wanted to say. Because I know the games now, and I know the only way to survive is to play them better than my enemies.
But she couldn't tell him that.
"Because running won't save me," she said instead. "It will only make me a target. You should understand that better than anyone, brother. You've spent five years on the front lines. You know there's no safe position on a battlefield. Only strategic ones."
Something flickered in Garrick's eyes—recognition, perhaps, or the bitter acknowledgment that his sister had learned lessons he'd hoped to shield her from.
"You sound like him," he said, releasing her wrist. "Like Celosia. Like all of them."
"No," Seraphina said, steel entering her voice. "I sound like someone who refuses to be a chess piece. There's a difference."
"Father believed in duty," Seraphina said carefully.
"Father was a fool," Garrick replied, voice hard as flint. "He believed loyalty would be rewarded. He believed the Crown valued honor over expedience and he died alone in the mud while men like Celosia were celebrated as heroes."
He stepped closer. "That's what you're binding yourself to, Sera. A man cut from the same cloth as the ones who let Father bleed out."
Seraphina's chest tightened. In her past life, she had never understood the depth of Garrick's bitterness, had never seen past his cruel words to the grief beneath. Now she saw it clearly—her brother was a man haunted by failure, by the inability to save the one person who had mattered most. "And yet you didn't object when Mother arranged the betrothal," she said softly.
Garrick's jaw worked, a muscle twitching. "Because objecting would have accomplished nothing except to give Mother ammunition against both of us. Better to let you walk into the viper's nest with your eyes open than to fight a battle already lost." He paused. "Though I see now you have no intention of walking meekly into anything."
"No," Seraphina said. "I don't." A silence fell between them, heavy with unspoken memory—of a childhood before wars and politics had carved them into opposing pieces on their mother's board. Of a brother who had once been kind before duty taught him cruelty.
"The Tournament of Roses—it's not just about appearances," Seraphina said, breaking the silence. "It's about demonstrating alliances through traditional courtship rituals. The exchange of favor tokens, the sponsorship of knights in the joust, the poetry dedications in the evening salons."
Garrick's expression flickered—something between grudging respect and suspicion. "You're planning to use it to bolster Celosia's reputation."
"I'm planning to control the narrative," Seraphina corrected. "If the Marquess and I present a unified front, if we participate in the proper rituals with grace and strategy, we can demonstrate strength, not desperation."
"Clever," Garrick said, though the word carried no warmth. "Father would have appreciated the strategy, even if he'd have hated the necessity of it." His voice roughened. "He always said the greatest battles were won before swords were drawn—in the courts and councils, not on the field."
Seraphina's throat tightened. "He taught you that?"
"Among other things." Garrick's gaze grew distant, lost in memory. "Before he learned that clever strategy meant nothing when your allies decide you're expendable."
He refocused on her, jaw set. "The Tournament will put you directly in the Third Prince's line of sight. He'll be measuring every move you make and Celosia's enemies will be circling like carrion birds."
"I know," Seraphina said quietly. She wanted to tell him that she'd already lived through this once, that she knew exactly how the Third Prince operated, how he'd weaponize every gesture and word. But she couldn't. "That's why preparation is essential."
Garrick studied her for a long moment, and for just a heartbeat, she saw a flash of the brother he'd once been—the one who'd taught her to ride, who'd smuggled sweets from the kitchen when Mother wasn't looking, who'd read her stories of knights and dragons until she fell asleep. Then his expression hardened again, the soldier's mask sliding back into place.
"Then be careful which pieces you move first," he said finally, voice clipped and formal once more—the voice of obligation, not affection. "The Third Prince will be watching."
He already was Seraphina thought, remembering how he had used the Tournament against her before. But this time, I know his moves before he makes them.
"Always," she said aloud, matching his formality. The easy familiarity they'd once shared was gone, replaced by the careful dance of political allies who happened to share blood.
Garrick gave a curt nod, already turning away. "I should return to my regiment after I escort mother back."
"Of course." Seraphina kept her voice neutral, professional. "Safe travels, brother." He paused at the threshold, not quite looking back.
"Try not to get yourself killed before the Tournament. It would be... inconvenient." The words were meant to sound callous, but Seraphina heard the thread of genuine concern beneath them—thin and frayed, but still there. A remnant of what they'd once been to each other.
"I'll do my best," she replied softly.
Then he was gone, and she was alone again with her plans and her memories—of two brothers, in two lives, both ultimately lost to the machinery of empire.
᯽