They worked through the afternoon—slowly, steadily—until the sun had traveled from bright white to molten gold. The library, with its high windows and deep shelves, warmed with the amber hush that accompanied late day. At some point a servant had appeared with tea and small cakes, which both of them consumed absently while debating the relative merits of various diplomatic gift strategies.
"The traditional approach is to give something valuable but generic," Seraphina said, reaching for her third cake before she even realized it. "A fine horse, jewelry, a rare book. It demonstrates wealth without revealing anything personal about the relationship."
"But?" James prompted, recognizing the implicit critique in her tone.
"It's dull and forgettable." She dusted crumbs delicately from her fingers. "Anyone can give a fine horse. What leaves a lasting impression is specificity—a gift that reflects attention, knowledge. Something that says: we see you clearly enough to offer what you actually desire."
James hummed thoughtfully. "Strategic gift-giving." His mouth tilted in a faint grin. "Very well. But I'll need your help distinguishing between 'appropriately attentive' and 'inadvertently scandalous.' I assume the line is thin."
"Thread-thin," Seraphina confirmed. "Too personal, and it implies impropriety. Too impersonal, and it implies neglect. Court politics lives in the spaces between those extremes."
James sighed with theatrical despair. "Battlefields are so much easier. Stand here, swing there, don't die. Straightforward. This requires divination."
She laughed—genuinely, involuntarily. The sound startled them both. "I'm certain some courtiers would argue battlefield tactics are equally complex."
"They'd be wrong," James said solemnly. "Battlefields follow principles. Court politics follows… whims and grudges. And someone's grandmother's taste in lily arrangements."
"Not entirely untrue," Seraphina admitted, amusement lingering at the edges of her voice. "But it's precisely because the rules are maddening that I think we can succeed. You understand overarching strategy. I understand the miniature mechanisms. When combined, they form something effective."
"Complementary strengths," James murmured, nodding slowly. "Like cavalry and infantry—covering the angles the other cannot."
"Exactly."
He considered this, violet eyes warm. "I'm beginning to suspect this betrothal might be the most tactically sound decision I've made in years."
"The Beast of the Battlefield offering praise," Seraphina said lightly. "I shall mark the day."
"The Beast of the Battlefield recognizes a good alliance," James countered. "And you, Miss Araminta, are proving to be an excellent ally."
Not wife. Not fiancée. Ally.
The word landed with far more weight than romance ever could.
"Then as your ally," Seraphina said, "I should mention one complication we haven't discussed."
James's attention sharpened immediately as if he was on edge. "What complication?"
"The poetry competition." She held out a letter sealed in the Tournament committee's insignia. "Traditionally, betrothed pairs participate together. One composes; the other presents. It's meant to demonstrate artistic harmony."
James stared. "Ah. That is… unfortunate."
"Your reputation isn't exactly grounded in artistic pursuits," Seraphina said gently.
"My reputation is built on killing people efficiently," James replied. "Poetry is not part of that skillset."
"Then we cultivate it," Seraphina said briskly. "Or we craft the illusion of it. The goal is not brilliance—it's competence. And partnership."
James narrowed his eyes. "Define competence."
"Not embarrassing."
"Well." He leaned back. "That's encouraging."
"But in truth," she continued, "most entries will be mechanical things—ghostwritten by hired poets. If we produce something honest instead of ornamental fluff, it will stand out."
James stared at the blank parchment, brow furrowed. "You want honesty. In poetry. Spoken before the entire court."
"I want us," Seraphina clarified. "Our reality. Two people brought together by circumstance, choosing to make something functional—and perhaps even admirable—out of necessity."
James considered this far more seriously than she'd expected. "That's… workable."
"Workable?" she repeated, feigning offense.
"A high compliment," he said, trying not to smile. "I excel at brutal truths, not flowery metaphors."
"Then we won't use metaphors," she said. "We'll use clarity."
He leaned forward, bracing his forearms on the table. The exhaustion he'd been masking for hours slipped through the cracks—subtle, but unmistakable.
Seraphina softened. "We should stop here for today. You need rest."
James looked ready to argue, but his injury spoke louder than pride. "…Fine," he conceded. "But we're having dinner together in the dining room. If we're to present as unified, we should practice shared presence outside of strategy."
"That's reasonable," Seraphina said. "Surprisingly so."
"I have my moments," he murmured—and didn't rise. The quiet that followed was companionable, fragile, strangely intimate. Then, softly:
"Thank you," James said. "For all of this. The planning. The… patience. For staying."The last word was weighted—far more than gratitude.
"You're welcome," Seraphina replied. "Truly. Though I think we passed the point of formal gratitude some time ago."
"When?" he asked.
She hesitated, then answered honestly. "When you collapsed in the corridor and still tried to refuse the contract marriage. When you told me I wasn't defined by my mother. When you chose partnership over convenience."
Her gaze met his. "When you made it clear that my worth to you wasn't conditional."
James exhaled slowly, the walls around him lowering a fraction.
"My entire life," he said quietly, "has been about being useful enough not to discard. But you stayed when I was nothing but a burden. You chose this partnership even when there was no tactical benefit."
His eyes met hers—open, unguarded in a way that made her stomach tilt.
"So yes. This stopped being obligation for me too."
She breathed out. "We'll figure out what it becomes."
His violet eyes lingered on her, the air between them warming, tightening.
"That kind of selflessness," he murmured, "offering me an escape route even though you didn't want me to take it… is rare at court."
He left before she could formulate a reply—quiet footsteps fading into the dim corridor—leaving her with scattered letters and an unfamiliar glow tightening beneath her ribs.
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