The morning sun filtered through the tall windows of the Celosia estate's library, casting long rectangles of gold across mahogany shelves and leather-bound volumes. Seraphina stood before a table strewn with correspondence—invitations, acceptances, carefully worded inquiries from various noble houses regarding the Tournament.
Three weeks had seemed like an eternity when Aldric first mandated their attendance. Now, with barely fourteen days remaining, it felt like trying to hold water in cupped hands.
She picked up another letter, this one sealed with the crest of House Beaumont—an offer to sponsor their pavilion at the Tournament grounds. Generous. Suspiciously so, given that House Beaumont had maintained careful neutrality in Council politics for the better part of a decade.
"They want to hedge their bets," James's voice came from the doorway, rough from disuse but steady. He leaned against the frame, fully dressed for the first time since the ambush, though Seraphina could see the careful way he distributed his weight, favoring his left side.
"You should be resting," she said, though without heat. They'd had this argument every day for the past week, and she'd lost it every time.
"I've been resting for nearly two weeks." He moved into the room with measured steps, each one calculated to conceal the lingering pain. "Any more rest and I'll fossilize. Besides, if we're to present a unified front at the Tournament, I should probably participate in the planning rather than leaving it all to you."
Seraphina gestured to the chair across from her. "Then sit, at least. And don't pretend that walking from your chambers didn't cost you."
"I wouldn't dream of it," James replied, but he sat with visible relief, though his posture remained impeccable—the armor of discipline even in private. "Now, show me what we're dealing with."
She spread the letters across the table like cards in a fortune-teller's reading. "Seventeen houses have sent formal acceptances for the Tournament. Eight have offered various forms of support or sponsorship. Three—" she tapped the relevant correspondence "—have inquired about our participation with what I can only describe as poorly concealed skepticism."
"Vultures wondering if the corpse will actually rise," James observed dryly. "Who are the skeptics?"
"Viscount Varrow, unsurprisingly. Baron Faraday. And Lady Mirabel, though her inquiry was more... delicately phrased."
"The same three who were most eager to declare me dead in the Council chamber." James's fingers drummed a slow pattern on the chair arm. "How convenient."
"They're not the only ones watching." Seraphina pulled another letter from the stack—this one sealed in black wax with a silver sigil. "The Third Prince's household has sent formal notice of his attendance. Including a pointed suggestion that he looks forward to 'renewing old acquaintances and forging new alliances.'"
James's expression hardened fractionally. "Of course he does. The Tournament is his natural habitat—all shadow and whisper, every gesture carrying layers of meaning. He'll use it to consolidate support, to test loyalties, to position himself as the sophisticated alternative to Aldric's military directness."
In her past life, Seraphina had watched Ilyas work the Tournament like a master musician playing an instrument. Every conversation had been carefully orchestrated. Every smile had carried calculation. By the end of those three days, he'd secured commitments from half a dozen wavering houses without ever making an explicit promise or threat.
She couldn't let that happen again.
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"Then we need to be equally strategic," Seraphina said, pulling forward a sheet where she'd begun outlining their approach. "The Tournament has five main events where political positioning occurs. The opening joust and parade. The evening salon and poetry competition. The formal gift exchange. The sponsored knight's tournament. And the closing feast."
James leaned forward, studying her notes with the focused attention of a general reviewing battle plans. "You've done your research."
"I've attended before," Seraphina said carefully, not specifying which life that attendance had occurred in. "I know how the rituals work, how information flows through them, where the real negotiations happen beneath the surface pageantry."
"Then walk me through it," James said. "Assume I'm a soldier who understands tactics but not court theater. Where are our key opportunities? Where are we most vulnerable?"
Seraphina appreciated the directness—no pretense of already knowing, no false confidence. Just a request for intelligence to inform strategy.
"The opening parade is pure spectacle," she began, "but spectacle matters. The order of procession, the colors worn, who rides beside whom—all of it gets analyzed and interpreted. Houses make statements about their alliances through coordinated presentation."
"So if we enter separately, or poorly coordinated, it suggests discord," James said.
"Exactly but if we enter together, in complementary colors, with clear symbolic unity..." Seraphina traced a line on her notes. "We demonstrate that your injury hasn't weakened you, that our betrothal is solid, that House Celosia and House Araminta are aligned."
"What colors?" James asked. "The Celosia black and silver?"
"Too stark. Too militaristic for a Tournament that celebrates courtly refinement." Seraphina had thought about this extensively. "I suggest deep purple—your House color but softened—paired with silver and white. It suggests strength tempered with grace. Power that doesn't need to shout."
James considered this, his tactical mind clearly translating courtly symbolism into terms he understood. "And the joust itself? I assume I'm expected to participate."
"You're expected to sponsor a knight," Seraphina corrected. "Direct participation would be... unwise, given your condition. But choosing the right knight to bear your colors, making that choice publicly, demonstrating your continued influence over martial excellence—that carries its own weight."
"Who do you suggest?"
"Captain Dareth," Seraphina said immediately, and felt her throat tighten unexpectedly at the name.
In her first life, he hadn't been Captain Dareth. He'd been Vice Commander Dareth—James's second-in-command, his most trusted officer, his friend. She remembered his laugh, rough and genuine, so different from the calculated mirth of courtiers. Remembered the way he'd looked at her with quiet approval when she'd finally started standing up to her mother's machinations. Remembered—
Remembered the spray of blood across rain-soaked cobblestones. The axe descending. His head separated from his body in brutal, mechanical hacks while she'd screamed, unable to help, unable to do anything but watch as the man who'd tried to deliver news of James's death was slaughtered before her eyes.
"He's loyal, skilled, and well-regarded among the military faction," she continued, forcing her voice to remain steady. "His success reflects on you. His loyalty demonstrates that your own soldiers remain committed despite the ambush."
James nodded slowly, and if he noticed the slight tremor in her hands as she shuffled papers, he was kind enough not to mention it. "Good choice. Dareth's got the skill and the political sense not to say anything stupid if someone tries to bait him into making statements about my condition or the Council's investigation."
"He's also not yet your vice commander," Seraphina added, seizing on the tactical discussion to ground herself. "Promoting him publicly at the Tournament—sponsoring him as your champion—could serve double duty. It demonstrates your continued authority to make command decisions while also rewarding loyalty in a way the military faction will recognize and respect."
"Two moves at once," James observed approvingly. "I'm beginning to see why Aldric was so concerned about underestimating you."
They worked through the rest of the schedule—the salon where poetry and music would be performed, the gift exchange where alliances were cemented through carefully chosen tokens, the closing feast where seating arrangements would speak volumes about who held favor and who had fallen from grace.
With each element, Seraphina provided context and James translated it into tactical terms, until they had what amounted to a battle plan for navigating three days of concentrated political theater.
"This is more complex than half the military campaigns I've planned," James said finally, a note of grudging respect in his voice. "I can see why you were concerned about attending unprepared."
"The Tournament destroys reputations more efficiently than any army," Seraphina replied. "And unlike a battle, there's no retreat. Once you're committed to attending, withdrawal is admission of defeat."
A thought seemed to occur to James, his brow furrowing slightly. "Though speaking of your House's potential concerns—should I be worried about scandal? You've been staying at the estate for nearly two weeks now. I assume your mother has... opinions about the propriety of that."
"My mother has many opinions," Seraphina replied, "but scandal isn't among them. Not officially, at least."
"Because...?" James prompted.
"Because the First Prince formally appointed me to oversee your recovery." Seraphina retrieved one of the letters from earlier in the week—official palace stationery, bearing Aldric's personal seal.
"He sent this three days after your return. Apparently, he was concerned about leaving you to the mercy of palace physicians and decided having your betrothed attend you was both practically useful and symbolically significant."
James took the letter, scanning its contents with the focused attention he gave all official correspondence. A faint smile touched his lips.
"Aldric thinks of everything."
"He's also politically brilliant," Seraphina observed. "By making it an official appointment rather than just me staying of my own volition, he's transformed what could have been a scandal into a demonstration of propriety. I'm not some lovesick girl hovering inappropriately. I'm a formally designated caretaker fulfilling a duty assigned by the crown prince himself."
"Which means," James said slowly, following the implications, "that anyone who suggests impropriety is implicitly criticizing Aldric's judgment."
"Exactly." Seraphina took the letter back, filing it carefully with the other important correspondence. "Your friend is better at court politics than he lets on. He understands that perception management is as important as military strategy."
"He learned it the hard way," James said quietly, some old shadow crossing his face. "Watching the Third Prince manipulate court opinion while Aldric was off winning battles. He came back from his first campaign to find half the Council convinced he was a bloodthirsty warmonger because Ilyas had spent six months carefully seeding that narrative in his absence."
"What did he do?" Seraphina asked, genuinely curious. The history of the princes' rivalry was one she'd only seen from the Third Prince's perspective in her first life—filtered through propaganda and carefully constructed lies.
"He stopped trusting other people to manage his reputation," James replied. "Started paying attention to the social currents, the whispered conversations, the subtle ways power moved through court circles. He's still not as naturally gifted at it as Ilyas—Aldric's too honest, too direct—but he's learned to recognize when he's being manipulated and how to counter it."
"By appointing me to care for you, he's countering several narratives at once," Seraphina said, seeing the strategy more clearly now. "He's demonstrating trust in me, which makes it harder for the Third Prince to paint me as a spy. He's showing concern for your welfare, which reinforces the bond between you. And he's establishing precedent for Crown authority over Council affairs—if he can assign caretakers to Council members, it's a subtle assertion of hierarchical power."
"Three moves at once," James observed. "Aldric's gotten better at this game than I realized."
"He's had a good teacher," Seraphina said, meeting James's eyes. "You've been advising him for years. Helping him understand strategy. Some of that tactical thinking has clearly transferred to political maneuvering."
James was quiet for a moment, his expression thoughtful. "I never considered myself particularly skilled at politics. That have shown to be more your arena than mine."
"You underestimate yourself," Seraphina said. "Strategy is strategy, whether it's applied to battlefields or council chambers. The principles are the same—understand your terrain, know your enemy's weaknesses, position your forces for maximum advantage, and never commit to a course of action without considering the consequences three moves ahead." She paused. "You do all of that instinctively. You just do it with soldiers instead of courtiers."
"And now I'm learning to do it with engagement announcements and Tournament presentations," James said wryly. "The evolution of my strategic repertoire continues."
"Think of it as expanding your tactical options," Seraphina suggested. "A good commander uses every weapon at his disposal. You're simply adding social manipulation and symbolic gesture to your arsenal alongside cavalry charges and siege tactics."
"When you phrase it that way, it sounds almost reasonable," James admitted. He shifted in his chair, and Seraphina caught the slight wince he tried to suppress—his injuries reminding him they weren't fully healed yet.
"I'll need Elara." She said carefully.
James looked up from the notes, his expression questioning but not dismissive. "Your maid?"
"More than that." Seraphina chose her words with precision. "Elara has been with me since I was fifteen. She understands court protocol better than most nobles, she's discreet, and she knows how to manage the practical details that make or break a presentation like this."
She met his eyes. "The clothing, the accessories, the timing of entrances and exits—these aren't trivial matters at the Tournament. They're weapons, and Elara knows how to wield them."
"You want her brought here," James said. Not a question, but a statement—understanding the request and its implications.
"Yes." Seraphina straightened slightly, preparing her argument. "I know it's an imposition. My mother won't release her willingly, and having her here will require—"
"Send for her," James interrupted, his voice carrying the finality of a command decision. "Today, if possible."
Seraphina blinked, surprised by the immediate acquiescence. "You don't object?"
"Why would I?" James's fingers resumed their slow pattern on the chair arm—the gesture she'd learned meant he was thinking through implications.
"You're right that presentation matters at the Tournament. If you need specific support to manage that presentation effectively, it would be tactical foolishness for me to deny the request out of some misplaced concern about household protocols."
He leaned back slightly, and something in his expression shifted—a subtle softening around the eyes that she'd begun to recognize as his version of warmth.
"Besides," he added, his voice dropping slightly, "you've spent two weeks managing my recovery, my correspondence, and my political affairs. The least I can do is ensure you have the resources you need to prepare for an event that will be as much an ordeal for you as it will be for me."
The consideration in his words—the acknowledgment that this would be difficult for her, not just tactically complex but personally taxing—settled into Seraphina's chest with unexpected weight.
In her first life, James had been competent but distant, always calculating three moves ahead but rarely considering the human cost of those moves. This version of him—wounded, more open, willing to show concern for her comfort rather than just her utility—was both familiar and entirely new.
"Thank you," she said quietly.
"Don't thank me yet," James replied with a faint smile. "Your mother will almost certainly see this as a declaration of war. House Araminta losing its most competent servant to House Celosia? She'll interpret it as you choosing sides."
"I chose sides when I stayed at your bedside instead of returning home," Seraphina said. "Mother is simply slow to accept what's already happened."
James's smile widened slightly, and for a moment she saw not the Commander of Valenfort or the Beast of the Battlefield, but simply a man who found her company... pleasant. The realization made her pulse quicken in a way that had nothing to do with political strategy.
"I'll send a formal request," James said, already reaching for fresh parchment. "Citing the Tournament preparations and the need for appropriate household support for my betrothed. Phrased as a temporary loan of services, with appropriate compensation to House Araminta for the inconvenience."
"That's..." Seraphina struggled for words. "More diplomatic than necessary."
"Your mother responds to formality and financial consideration," James said pragmatically, his pen already moving across the page in precise, economical strokes.
"This gives her both, along with a face-saving narrative. She can tell her peers that House Celosia required additional household expertise for the Tournament preparations, and that she graciously provided it—for appropriate remuneration, of course."
He glanced up, and there was something almost playful in his violet eyes. "I may not understand poetry competitions and gift exchanges, but I do understand how to negotiate with hostile parties. Your mother is simply another adversary to be managed."
"A particularly vicious one," Seraphina warned.
"I've faced worse." James returned his attention to the letter, adding a few more lines with careful precision. "Besides, she can hardly refuse a formal request from a Marquess without insulting House Celosia. And given that her political position is already precarious—supporting the Third Prince's faction while her daughter is betrothed to me—she can't afford additional enemies."
Seraphina watched him work, noting the efficiency of his movements, the way he constructed the letter to leave Lady Araminta no room for graceful refusal while still maintaining all the proper courtesies. It was a masterclass in written strategy, each sentence serving multiple purposes.
"You're enjoying this," she observed.
"Possibly." James didn't look up, but she caught the faint curve of his lips. "Your mother has been a persistent source of complications. It's satisfying to turn those complications to our advantage."
Our advantage. Not his advantage, or House Celosia's advantage. Ours. Small, but with the potential to grow into something larger if properly tended.
James finished the letter with a flourish, sealed it with the Celosia crest, and set it aside. "I'll have it delivered within the hour. With appropriate escort, so your mother understands the request carries weight."
"She'll be furious," Seraphina said.
"Let her be furious at me rather than you." James met her eyes, and his expression was serious now, the playfulness faded. "You've absorbed enough of your family's anger. It's time someone else stood between you and that particular storm."
The words hit harder than Seraphina expected—not because they were romantic or flowery, but because they were practical and genuine. James wasn't offering protection out of sentiment or obligation. He was offering it because he'd observed her situation, recognized the dynamics at play, and made a tactical decision to intervene.
But underneath the tactics, there was something else. A recognition that she deserved better than to be caught between her mother's ambitions and the court's machinations. That she had value beyond her utility as a political pawn.
"I'm not fragile," Seraphina said, though without heat. "I can manage my mother."
"I know you can," James replied. "That's not the point. The point is that you shouldn't have to. Not alone, and not without support." He paused, and when he spoke again, his voice carried an unexpected gentleness.
"You've been standing alone for a long time, Seraphina. Against your family, against the court's expectations, against whatever memories haunt you when you think I'm not watching."
Seraphina's breath caught. He'd noticed more than she'd realized—the moments when her composure slipped, when some trigger from her past life surfaced in an expression or a tremor she couldn't quite suppress.
"I don't ask what those memories are," James continued, his gaze steady and knowing. "Everyone carries scars from their past. But I can offer you this: while we're preparing for the Tournament, while we're navigating this political minefield together, you don't have to stand alone. Use my household, my resources, my position—whatever you need to give yourself the best chance of survival."
"That's..." Seraphina struggled with the unexpected kindness of it. "Generous."
"It's practical," James corrected, though his tone suggested it was more than that. "We're stronger together than we are separately. That's not sentiment—it's tactical reality. But it also means ensuring you have what you need to be strong. Including your maid, if that's what helps."
Seraphina felt something shift in her chest—a wall cracking, or perhaps a door opening that she'd kept locked for far too long. In her first life, she'd faced everything alone. Had been isolated by her mother's manipulations, abandoned by her brother's distance, used by the Third Prince's faction without ever having anyone truly in her corner.
Now James was offering exactly that—not out of love or even affection necessarily, but out of respect and strategic partnership. And somehow, that was more valuable than any romantic declaration could have been.
"Then I accept," she said quietly. "And I'll try to be worthy of that trust."
Seraphina set down her pen, the scratch of it against parchment falling silent. She folded her hands atop the scattered correspondence, her expression carefully composed—the mask she'd learned to wear when approaching dangerous topics.
"You already are," James said simply, as though it were a fact rather than an opinion. "Now, shall we continue with the planning? I believe you were about to explain the poetry competition, and I'm curious how badly I'm going to embarrass myself in that particular arena."
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