The moment his presence vanished, tension broke like a snapped bowstring. Several Councilors slumped. Baron Faraday pressed a hand to his chest. Lady Mirabel retrieved her fallen fan with trembling fingers.
Varrow rose, looking like he wanted to apologize or beg. James's gaze found him, held him for three heartbeats, then dismissed him with contempt. The Viscount fled, the doors banging shut once again.
In a blur, Seraphina hooked her arm through James's blood-soaked elbow and half-dragged him out, down two corridors toward the physician's office. Her side ached with his weight as they stumbled down the blue carpet, blood and dirt mixing in their footsteps.
James, finally released from the need to project strength, began to collapse.
Seraphina caught him as he fell against the limestone wall, her arms wrapping around his torso, trying to support weight that exceeded her own. He pressed his mud-stained head into her stomach as she caged him against the wall. The smell of blood and sweat suffocated her. She tried to stand to shout for help, but his fingers clutched at her arm to stop her, his breath labored as he raised a shaking hand to point over her shoulder.
General Hale appeared, running. He crossed the corridor in three long strides and crouched by James's other side, slinging his arm around James's waist.
"To think this boy would collapse on you like this," Hale said. "I made the right decision following you two."
Together, they lowered him to the floor. His blood now stained Seraphina's gown, soaking into silk like crimson tide. His eyes fluttered, struggling to focus, finding hers with desperate intensity.
"Did I..." he mumbled, barely coherent. "Did I do it right? Protect you?"
Seraphina felt something crack in her chest—a wall she had built carefully through death and rebirth, suddenly showing fissures. This man, who had just walked back from certain death, who had confronted the Third Prince and entire Council while bleeding out, was asking if he had done enough.
"You did perfectly," she whispered, her hand pressing against his side where blood pulsed hot and urgent. "Now stay with me. Don't you dare die. We are engaged now."
His lips quirked in something that might have been a smile. Then his eyes rolled back, consciousness fleeing, and Seraphina was left kneeling in his blood while servants rushed to fetch a physician and General Hale barked orders.
The physician arrived—an older man with steady hands who immediately began barking orders for clean water, bandages, a stretcher. Seraphina moved aside, letting professionals work, her hands stained crimson, her gown ruined, her heart hammering.
General Hale approached her quietly. "Lady Araminta. You conducted yourself with remarkable composure today. The Marquess is fortunate to have such a capable betrothed."
"The Marquess is a man of honor who deserves better than vultures circling his absence," Seraphina replied steadily. "I merely did what any loyal partner would do."
Hale studied her, then nodded slowly. "Indeed. We will speak again, Miss Araminta. Once the dust has settled. I believe there are alliances that should be formalized. Protections established. His Highness the Third Prince is not a man who forgets those who thwart his plans."
It was warning and offer rolled into one. General Hale was choosing sides. And he was choosing theirs—or rather, choosing against Ilyas.
"I would welcome such conversations, General," Seraphina said, inclining her head.
The stretcher arrived, and James was carefully lifted, his face pale as death, breathing shallow but present. The physician muttered about blood loss and the idiocy of men who rode for hours with mortal wounds.
Seraphina watched them carry him toward the medical wing. She wanted to follow, to stay by his side, but propriety still had weight.
General Hale appeared at her elbow. "He'll survive, Miss Araminta. That stubborn bastard is too mean to die from something as simple as an ambush." The words were gruff, but affection beneath them was unmistakable. "You should clean yourself up. Change your gown. The blood... it's not a good look for court."
Seraphina glanced down at herself—at the crimson staining her hands and dress. "No," she agreed quietly. "I suppose it's not."
Beneath the fear and urgency and desperate hope that James would survive, Seraphina felt something crystallize into certainty.
The Third Prince had shown his hand. The Council's corruption had been exposed. James had survived when he should have died, disrupting plans months or years in the making.
And she—Seraphina Araminta, who had failed so catastrophically in her first life—had just taken her first real step toward changing the future.
The game was not over. Far from it. But for the first time since her rebirth, she felt as though she might actually have a chance to win.
If James survived.
If the Third Prince didn't regroup and strike faster than they could defend.
If her own House didn't betray her to save themselves.
If a thousand other variables aligned in ways she couldn't predict or control.
It was a chance and that was more than she'd had before.