The scent of salt and candlewax still lingered in the air when Seraphina opened her eyes. Alaric was beside her, sound asleep, one arm heavy across her waist. His mouth hung slightly open, and his breathing was deep and slow.
She moved carefully, inching his arm off her and slipping out of bed without waking him. Her body was stiff, her fingers slow as she opened the drawer and pulled out a small glass vial. No hesitation. She uncorked it and drank. The bitterness of the contraceptive tonic burned her throat.
She stood up, naked, and faced the mirror.
The reflection staring back at her looked pale, cold. But not broken.
Bruises traced her skin - faint marks at her collarbone, her thighs, and one just beneath her breast. She remembered how his mouth had lingered there. Her jaw tightened.
She had allowed it. That was the plan. A necessary step. Let him think she was his again. Let him believe he had won. The more convincing the illusion, the more unguarded he would be when the truth arrived - when the divorce papers struck like a blade across his carefully built world. Give him what he wanted. Let him believe she was his again. But her body hadn't followed the plan entirely. It had responded. Flushed. Ached.
Even now, her limbs felt sore, her skin too sensitive. Her chest still rose with the echo of breathlessness. That night, her body had acted on instinct - not loyalty. Not affection. But she understood why. She had loved him once. In her first life, she had devoted herself to Alaric. Trusted him. Believed in him. Her body remembered that. Remembered years of intimacy and shared whispers in the dark. That kind of memory didn't vanish overnight.
But love was no longer the truth.
His sins had burned it away. What he had done - to her, to her family - could not be undone. It could not be forgiven.
And she hated that her body still echoed old feelings it no longer had any right to keep.
She turned away and walked to the washbasin. She didn't scrub to clean. She scrubbed to erase every trace of him. Every place he'd touched. Every kiss he'd pressed into her skin. She washed until her body stung, until her thoughts felt sharp again.
She dried off, dressed in silence, and lit a candle on the small desk. No tears came.
Instead, she picked up the sealed envelope she'd prepared the night before. It bore no name. Only a wax seal pressed with a spiral of thorns.
The message was unmistakable.
It was for Caelan.
It was time.
She left the room before Alaric stirred.
The palace halls were still wrapped in pre-dawn quiet. A lone maid passed her, eyes downcast. The girl tensed when she recognized Seraphina - not out of guilt, but from knowing. Whispers had already started.
Let them whisper.
Let them believe the lie - that Alaric had won her back. She could use that.
She headed for the scriptorium. Lyria would be there already, waiting to finalize her schedule for the D'Lorien estate. Everything needed to appear aboveboard - tradition, mourning, family duty. The empire wanted the appearance of harmony.
She'd give them the image they craved.
But she was done pretending inside it.
There were more steps to take. More threads to tighten. Lyria would not only finalize the appointments, she would help set in motion the layered communications hidden within them - cover letters for merchant routes, estate ledger corrections, temple donations. All of it coded.
Seraphina sat across from her and gave the briefest nod. Lyria passed her a bundle wrapped in a patterned scarf.
"From our old friend at the archives," Lyria said quietly. "It's all there."
Seraphina slipped the bundle into her satchel.
---
Across the city, Caelan Vorenthal stood at a long table, reviewing troop placements. Scrolls were scattered across the surface. The knock that came was soft, deliberate.
He opened the door himself.
A messenger offered a single envelope. Plain, marked only by the thorned spiral.
Caelan dismissed the aides in the room with a silent nod. Then opened the message.
He read it once.
Then dropped it into the hearth.
The flames consumed it quickly.
He turned back to the map and gave a single order to his steward:
"Ready the channels. Bring the black-coded satchels. We start this week."
No more waiting.
By sundown, two trusted couriers were enroute to discreet allies - former Wardens, exiled House retainers, and one foreign liaison whose loyalty Seraphina had bought with truth instead of coin.
---
Alaric woke alone.
He stretched lazily, a smug smile curling at his mouth. The memory of the night before played vividly in his mind. Her body. Her warmth. The way she had responded.
He felt in control again. He was utterly convinced she had come back to him - not just physically, but emotionally. Her reactions, her moans, the way her body had yielded - it all fed into the delusion he built for himself. In his mind, it was real. Genuine. She hadn't fought him. She hadn't said no. She had let him touch her, had responded with heat and rhythm and breathless surrender. To him, that meant victory.
He thought she was happy. He believed she wanted him again, not out of obligation, but desire. He felt the old spark had reignited. And he was smug with it. Smug that he still had it - still had the skill, the charm, the control to satisfy her like no one else could.
He even took it as a good sign that she let him be sweet on her in public. Let him whisper in her ear. Let him hold her hand at court. To him, that was proof. Not a performance. Not a ploy. But confirmation that everything was returning to how it once was.
She hadn't said much, but her reactions had been enough. Enough to believe she was his again. Enough to think he had time to pull her closer. Make it permanent.
He dressed slowly, humming to himself.
---
Later that morning, he found Evelyne seated in the solar, a book open in her lap, though she hadn't turned the page in some time.
"We need to keep our distance," he said, not as a suggestion, but as a quiet directive - a decision already made. His tone carried confidence, not caution, like he assumed her agreement was a given.
She didn't look up. "Oh?"
He gave a small laugh, smug and self-satisfied. "She's warming to me again. Last night… it felt like before. Real. Like she wanted it. I want to be careful give it room to grow. If we're too close, she might pull away."
Evelyne turned a page without reading the words. "And you think one night is all it takes?"
"It's not just one night," Alaric said. "I know her. I know how she used to feel. That part of her isn't gone just buried. She'll come back to it. I'll make sure she does."
Evelyne forced a smile, lips tight. "And while she's 'remembering,' I'm supposed to disappear?"
"Only for a little while," he added, shrugging. "Let her think she's choosing. Let her feel safe. Whether you wait or not doesn't change anything, I have to keep her close right now. You and I don't have labels, Evelyne. You've always understood that."
She didn't respond, but inside, Evelyne's stomach twisted. She had always known she wasn't first. But hearing it, watching him speak about Seraphina with real desire in his voice, made it harder to bear. He wasn't faking it. Not this time. He was caught up in the idea of Seraphina again. And Evelyne hated it.
She didn't let it show. She had always played the part he needed, compliant, clever, available. But in that moment, her silence was armor. Because the way he spoke about Seraphina with intent, with longing, made her feel small. And she would never show him that.
Her grip on the book tightened until her knuckles turned white.
Alaric didn't notice.
Alaric felt grounded. Steady. Like the pieces were finally clicking into place.
He didn't she Seraphina took a vial in the drawer. Or the sealed courier dispatch was handed off at the kitchens before dawn. Or the coded conversation Lyria had with a recently returned courtier, a man with old vendettas and sharp ink. He had noticed Seraphina seemed quiet in the morning, her touch cooler, her words fewer. He even told Evelyne that for a moment, something had felt off. But he brushed it off quickly. Convinced himself he was overthinking it. She had responded to him, hadn't she? She had let him back into her bed. Into her body. Into her routine. That was all the reassurance he needed. In his mind, Seraphina was still his lovely Seraphina, proud, but loyal. Fierce, but his.
He didn't recognize the lavender oil Seraphina had worn, the one she only used when preparing for war.
That afternoon, Alaric was in rare form.
He hovered near Seraphina like a man proud of his possession. He tucked a loose strand of her hair behind her ear in front of the court. He brushed his lips across her knuckles during breakfast, slow and theatrical, as servants watched. He summoned musicians to play her favorite harp piece in the atrium - one she hadn't listened to in years. He even arranged for her favorite rose tea, served in the porcelain cup she'd once mentioned liking, to be delivered to her during a quiet moment in the gardens.
At court, he stood just a little too close. Let his hand rest a moment longer on her lower back. Whispered things in her ear - nothing vulgar, just the sort of sweet nothings he thought a loving husband might say.
Compliments about her dress, her voice, and the way she walked. Once, he kissed her neck while they stood near the western balcony - slow, deliberate, and far too intimate for public company. It wasn't just affection; it was ownership.
A calculated move after he'd noticed the way a few younger lords had looked at Seraphina that morning, admiration not quite hidden. The kind of look he used to enjoy receiving on her behalf. But not now.
Now it felt like a threat to what he believed he had reclaimed. The neck kiss was his signal - to them, to her, to the court, that she was his. That he had won. Then, with a confident smile, he leaned in and kissed her full on the mouth, deep and lingering, the kind of kiss meant to brand her in front of witnesses. He probed with his tongue, possessive and without hesitation.
It was a performance. And he was proud of the show. Public devotion made strategic. He even caught the glance of a few younger lords nearby, saw the way their expressions tightened, their eyes darting away. One of them turned red with embarrassment, and another clamped his mouth shut mid-conversation. Alaric smirked. Let them look. Let them know. Seraphina was his.
He basked in the moment, riding high on the illusion of victory. In his mind, everything was back in place, just like before. She had returned to his side, to his bed, to his arm in public. She smiled when he touched her. Let him whisper in her ear. Let him claim her mouth in front of others. She wasn't fighting him, so she must have forgiven him. That's what he told himself.
Seraphina, meanwhile, had been startled by the suddenness of the kiss. Her mind reeled even as her smile held. She hated it, hated the way he clung to her, as if she were a trophy to parade. Inside, her stomach turned, but she stayed still. Let the moment play out. Because the timing was close. She was almost finished with the divorce petition. Everything was nearly in place. A little more time, and she would submit it to the monarchs.
She breathed slowly, eyes fixed on a neutral corner of the room.
She could endure a little longer.
To the onlookers, they looked like a reconciled couple. A sovereign wife and her devoted duke.
Seraphina smiled.
Soft.
Measured.
Then excused herself.
She needed air. And time. Because if she stayed near him a moment longer, she might not be able to hide the revulsion on her face. Her smile had started to falter, and the pressure behind her eyes throbbed like a warning. She made her way to the nearest lavatory, locking the door behind her with trembling fingers. There, alone, she finally let her expression drop. Her stomach turned. Her hands braced the basin as she forced her breathing to steady.
It was too much, his mouth on hers, the smug warmth in his eyes, the way he acted like nothing had ever broken. She rinsed her face with cold water, again and again, until her pulse slowed. She couldn't afford to shatter. Not yet.
At lunch, she recalled that he even leaned close and whispered, "I'll stay in your room tonight."
She almost choked on her wine, the surprise flaring in her throat.
But she swallowed it down. Smiled at him. Played her part.
Then she placed her hand lightly over his. Her smile was warm, almost apologetic. "I'd love that," she said gently. "Truly. But I've already arranged to leave tomorrow. The commemoration for my parents is approaching, and there are rituals and preparations I need to oversee at the D'Lorien estate. The stewards have written to say the temple candles haven't been ordered, and the gardens still need tending before the priests arrive. It's just one of those things only I can handle."
She gave a small sigh, letting her fingers linger on his. "It wouldn't feel right if I didn't go myself."
And once there, she would begin the paperwork.
Quietly. Safely. In the shadows of her ancestral hall.
Alaric hadn't liked it. But tradition left him no argument.
He offered to accompany her.
She placed a hand gently on his forearm, eyes soft. "I wish you could. Truly. But the court still needs you here, Alaric. You've been managing so much, and your presence keeps everything steady. The estate will be fine."
Alaric hesitated, clearly torn between duty and his desire to remain close to her. But her words soothed him, stroked the pride he liked to carry. She saw the nod form even before it fully reached his lips.
"If you're sure," he said, voice almost reluctant.
"I'm sure," she replied warmly. "It's just a few weeks. I'll be back before the leaves start to fall."
Eventually, he agreed.
In his mind, they would spend the night together before she left - one more intimate moment to solidify what he believed was returning. He convinced himself she wanted it too. That her warmth in public, her smile, her softness, all of it meant she had come back to him. That one more night would be the quiet confirmation of their reunion.
She told him she'd return in a month.
She had no intention of coming back unchanged.
---
Later that afternoon, once lunch had ended and Alaric returned to court, she met with Lyria one last time. Final documents were tucked into coded bindings. Temple offerings doubled as courier satchels. A simple hairpin tucked in her bun held a cipher for Thalion's steward - a quiet test of his loyalty.
---
All day, Alaric thought about her. Her skin. Her sounds. The way her body had moved under him, fluid, receptive, yielding. He replayed it in his mind, letting every detail stretch out and sink in. He imagined her waiting for him again, just like that night. Remembered the way her breath hitched, the arch of her back, the heat of her skin. He felt his arousal rise just thinking about it.
He'd already tucked another performance tonic into his coat pocket, just in case. Tonight had to be better than the last, longer, deeper, more confirming. He was going to give her a night she wouldn't forget, something to carry with her during their month apart. In his mind, it would seal everything. Remind her who he was. What they were. He wanted her to ache for him when she was gone. To think of him in the candlelight. To crave his touch while lying alone in her childhood bed. He was going to give her something unforgettable.
He wanted to make her tremble again, to coax more of those involuntary sounds from her. He imagined how he'd strip her slow, kiss her hard, make her beg without words. He wanted to leave her breathless, wanted her to look at him like she once had. Like he was her world.
And he was distracted all afternoon because of it. During court, he missed half of a financial proposal presented by a lesser noble. He nodded at a steward without hearing the question. When Evelyne passed him a notice to review, he waved it away, muttering something about tomorrow. Everything else could wait.
Tonight, he thought. Tonight she's mine again.
As soon as the court ended, he rushed to her room.
His stride was quick, almost boyish with anticipation. Every step fed the excitement building in his chest. Tonight, he thought, would be the perfect sendoff - one more night to remind her of everything they were. One more chance to make her stay linger. He pictured her waiting for him, maybe wrapped in that soft crimson robe she used to wear, maybe lit by candlelight, smiling when he walked in.
But when he opened the door, his smile fell.
She was gone.
A note sat on the table.
"I've departed early for the D'Lorien estate. An urgent matter in preparation for the commemoration required my presence."
He froze.
The bed hadn't been touched.
His fantasy was shattered. No parting kiss. No final night together. No chance to mark her again before she left.
She hadn't even waited for sunset.
Disappointment hit him hard, sharp, bitter. He stared at the note for several long moments, rereading it like it might change. She was already gone. And he hadn't even seen her off.
What made it worse, what turned his frustration into a low simmering rage, was that he had already taken the tonics. Not just one. He had prepared for this. A performance booster, to keep his stamina unshaken, and another meant to keep him hard all night long. He had wanted to impress her, to make her remember every detail before she left. Instead, he was standing alone, blood burning pointlessly through his veins, arousal mounting for a woman who was no longer there.
He sat down hard on the edge of the bed, the silence of the room crawling up his spine. For the first time in days, the confidence slipped. She hadn't even said goodbye. She hadn't even left a real reason. Just a note and an empty room.
His fingers clenched around the fabric of the bedspread.
Was she avoiding him? Had she lied about how she felt? Was she slipping through his fingers again?
He stared at the door, pulse ticking in his jaw. Maybe it was nothing. Maybe she just needed time. But what if it was more?
What if she was playing him?
His mind raced with possibilities, each one darker than the last. Maybe she was slipping away again. Maybe the warmth in her eyes was all an act.
He stood, restless, pacing the room. The fire of the tonic still burned in his blood, feeding his frustration. He glanced toward the window.
The D'Lorien estate wasn't far. Just an hour's carriage ride. He could go tonight. Spend the night with her, return before the next court session. No one would even question it.
He half imagined it already, arriving at the estate, surprising her, showing her how serious he was. How much he missed her. Maybe she'd welcome him. Maybe she needed a little nudge. Maybe this distance was a mistake.
But he hesitated.
Would it push her too far?
His eyes narrowed.
He hadn't decided.
Not yet.
But the thought sat heavy and sharp in his chest.
Maybe he would go.
Maybe he wouldn't.
But either way, she would remember who she belonged to.