The silence in the Royal Court following Seraphina's dramatic, destructive gambit was not merely quiet; it was agonizing and profound. It was a vacuum of power where the established rules of the Empire had momentarily dissolved, replaced by a single, terrifying question echoing in every nobleman's mind: Did the desperate, disgraced woman just speak the truth about a planned military coup?
Kaelen remained seated on the obsidian throne, his magnificent figure rigid with internal conflict. His sharp, sapphire gaze swept from Seraphina's soot-stained face to the dying, hissing flames that consumed the Duke's ledger. The air in the Grand Hall was thick with the acrid scent of burnt leather and the heavier scent of raw, undisguised political terror. Kaelen knew, instinctively and intellectually, that Alderton was a viper—an opponent far too ambitious and powerful to be trustworthy. Yet, the thought of abandoning every principle of security and trusting Seraphina Vancroft—the confessed poisoner who had just physically assaulted him and conspiratorially fled with his enemy—felt like swallowing the Dragon's Claw poison itself. The core of his conflict was a binary choice: trust what he knew to be true, or trust the political necessity of a complete lie.
He lifted his hand, a gesture of absolute command, and the two Imperial Guards flanking Seraphina instantly froze, their swords half-drawn, awaiting the final, simple command to seize her and end the spectacle. The fate of the Vancroft House and, more importantly, the stability of the Empire, hung on the direction of his index finger. He refused to look at the Duke; he refused to look at the assembly. His eyes remained locked on Seraphina, reading her stance, searching for the tell-tale flicker of fear or deception that would justify his ingrained hatred. He found only fierce, desperate clarity—the kind of focus he recognized from his own most perilous strategic moments.
"Dr. Marius," Kaelen finally grated out, the name cutting through the silence like a dagger on a whetstone. The command was the first concrete sign that her ploy had succeeded. "You will submit to an immediate, full inspection of your private laboratory and quarters by the Royal Apothecary Master, Lord Elms. You will cooperate fully, providing a complete, detailed inventory of every known substance you have administered to me over the last five years, dating back to your original appointment."
Dr. Marius, a portly man whose perpetually sympathetic frown had been a trusted fixture in the Prince's private court for years, instantly looked wounded and profoundly betrayed. He clutched dramatically at his silk vest. "Your Highness! My loyalty is beyond question! This... this woman is resorting to wild fabrication and desperate, theatrical ploys to save her own neck from the scaffold she so richly deserves! This is an insult to my profession and your late father's memory!"
Kaelen ignored him entirely, the subtle tremor of outrage in the physician's voice serving as its own damning evidence. A truly innocent man, Kaelen calculated, would be shocked, not defensive. The command had been given; the machinery of Imperial inspection was now in motion.
Kaelen shifted on the throne, the weight of the Empire heavy on his shoulders, the movement betraying the immense, profound struggle happening within the most strategic mind in the Empire. "Lady Vancroft, you have earned yourself a temporary reprieve. But do not mistake this for freedom or absolution. The Court recognizes the gravity of your claims, but not the legitimacy of your actions. You are still condemned."
His eyes narrowed to cold, sapphire slits, boring into her soul. "You are now under my direct, personal custody. You will reside in the chambers directly across from my own—the most secure confinement available. I will not trust a single guard to watch you; my Shadow Guard will monitor every shadow, and I will monitor every breath. If I find any evidence—any trace of continued deceit, collusion with the Duke, or failure to prove your extraordinary claim regarding Dr. Marius—your execution will be public, and it will be immediate. Do you understand the terms of your parole?"
"Agreed," Seraphina said instantly, the word snapping out with a fierce clarity that defied her exhaustion. She had secured her proximity and the necessary time to expose the final traitor. "But I have one demand, Your Highness."
The sheer effrontery of the word echoed through the Grand Hall. A demand. From a fugitive on the brink of execution who had just destroyed the very evidence she claimed would save him.
"A demand?" Kaelen's voice dropped to a dangerously low, resonant tone, carrying the promise of swift violence. His hand subtly tightened on the scepter. "You stand before the throne as a confessed traitor, an assailant, and a thief who has just destroyed evidence. You have exhausted your right to demand anything, save for a priest before your execution."
"A necessity, then," Seraphina countered, unwavering. She used Kaelen's own political language against him. "The Duke of Alderton is not a fool. If he believes you are investigating the physician, he will simply dispose of Dr. Marius and destroy the last, crucial evidence—the antidote—that can save your life. He will activate the coup immediately. Alderton must believe that my theatrical display was merely the final, desperate, delusional act of a cornered criminal who tried to frame her greatest rival to save her family's name. I require an outward, public sign of your absolute disdain for my person and my House."
Kaelen studied her, the cold, calculating political animal in him recognizing the ruthless, brilliant logic of her argument. A glint of perverse, dangerous interest sparked in his eyes. He realized the public humiliation was the perfect smokescreen.
"And what calculated public insult do you propose will satisfy the Duke's need for complacency, Lady Seraphina, while providing me the means to keep you securely shackled?" he asked, the shift in his tone moving from juror to a grudging, highly suspicious strategic partner.
Seraphina took a deep breath. This was the final, and most personally humiliating, part of her plan—the move that would turn her temporary reprieve into an absolute political invisibility cloak.
"You will publicly announce that I have been sentenced to seven days of marriage preparation. A contract marriage," Seraphina stated, her jaw set, refusing to allow any personal embarrassment or fear to show. "A final, humiliating gesture before my inevitable execution. You will sign the marriage contract, claim my familial assets under Imperial law, and then announce my execution immediately afterward—perhaps even before the sun sets on our wedding day. Marrying the villainess, then destroying her politically and literally, will be the ultimate display of your power, contempt for my House, and the absolute destruction of my political legacy. The sheer absurdity and humiliation of the decree will be so distracting that it will make the Duke completely complacent. He will be watching the palace seamstresses, not his physician."
The court erupted. The low murmurs instantly swelled into a cacophony of shocked gasps and outright outrage. Marrying a known, condemned traitor, even for a few hours, was an unprecedented political absurdity, a move that would rewrite centuries of Imperial protocol.
Kaelen himself was stunned. His mind, which processed political data at lightning speed, momentarily seized up. The concept of a contract marriage with the woman who poisoned him, then destroying her publicly, was a profound, bizarre strategic move that defied all custom and decency. It was repulsive. It was politically baffling. And it was, he realized with a chilling clarity, the perfect, inescapable prison that would make her claims entirely believable to his enemies.
"A contract marriage," Kaelen repeated, the words rolling over his tongue, testing the bitter, metallic flavor of the proposal. The idea settled into his mind, evolving from absurdity to tactical necessity. "It is humiliating. It is illogical. It will be the most talked-about decree in a century, likely leading to several resignations and numerous nervous breakdowns among my closest staff."
He leaned back on the throne, the final, difficult decision made. The cold, ruthless logic of politics had won over personal vengeance. "Very well, Seraphina. You have bought your shield of ridicule. You are granted your week of preparation. I shall instruct the Imperial Scribes to prepare the contract forthwith. But understand this," Kaelen finished, his voice regaining its terrifying command, the threat clear beneath the surface. "You will be my bride in name, my prisoner in fact. I shall ensure this week is the most miserable, uncomfortable, and agonizingly awkward week of your short, remaining life."
The Imperial Guards finally moved, but not to seize her for the dungeon. They moved to escort her, their swords still drawn, to her new confinement: the opulent, yet inescapable, bridal chambers directly across the hall from the Prince's own bedroom. Seraphina had won her time, but she had traded the certainty of the axe for the constant, suffocating proximity of the man who longed to wield it.