The courier's hoofbeats faded into darkness.
Seraphina stood at the window. Two riders. Two sealed letters. One carried divorce papers to Empress Eleanor. The other carried lies to Alaric.
Her fire-scars pulsed beneath her sleeves. The weight should have felt heavier. Should have made her shake. Instead, she felt nothing except cold clarity.
That emptiness scared her more than the manipulation did. Not because it was wrong. Because it worked too well.
She pressed her thumb against her wrist where the scars burned warmest. The gesture steadied her. Or maybe it didn't. Hard to tell anymore.
Footsteps behind her. She didn't turn.
Caelan.
He'd stood beside her through all of it. Watched her write that letter, seal it with crimson wax, hand it to the courier with steady hands and cold eyes. Watched the riders disappear into darkness.
"It's done." Her voice came out flat. "By tomorrow night he'll have read it. Believed every word. Started planning our reunion."
"Seraphina." Not a question. Just her name.
"Don't." She pressed her palm against cold glass. "Don't ask me if I'm okay. Don't ask how I feel about lying to him. I did what needed doing."
"I wasn't going to ask any of that."
She turned. He stood in the doorway watching her with storm-gray eyes that saw too much. The mask he wore for everyone else was gone. He'd left it outside her door.
"Then what?"
"I was going to ask if you wanted company, or if you needed to be alone."
The offer hit harder than judgment would have. She studied him. Dark circles under his eyes from nights he couldn't sleep. Hair disheveled. Shoulders carrying tension with nowhere to put it.
He looked broken.
"Company." The word came rougher than intended. "I don't want to be alone right now."
He crossed the room, didn't touch her, just stood close enough that she could feel his warmth.
They stood like that for long moments, both staring out at Flamekeep's walls, at wards humming protection they'd paid for in blood and sacrifice.
"Do you feel it?" She asked quietly. "The silence. It's so loud I can't think sometimes."
"Every moment." His voice carried the same exhaustion. "Feels wrong. Like I forgot how to breathe."
"Does it get easier?"
"I don't know yet. Only been a few days."
A few days since Whitehall. Since the Flame of Sacrifice took their bond and ten years of her life.
"I keep reaching for you." The confession escaped before she could stop it. "Every morning. Every time something happens. Every breath. I reach for that golden thread and find nothing."
His voice came quiet. "Same. Keep reaching and there's nothing."
Her throat tightened. "I don't know how to do this. How to be close to you without the bond showing me what you're feeling. How to trust without that connection telling me your truth."
"We figure it out." He turned to face her. Made her look at him. "Together. Without shortcuts. Without magical connection telling us what the other person needs."
"What if we can't?"
"Then we fail trying. We don't give up." His hand found hers deliberately.
Warmth spread through her fingers. Choice, not magic.
"I wrote him the most devoted letter." Her voice went hollow. "Told him I ached for his touch. Dreamed of our children. Every word calculated for maximum impact."
"I know. I watched you write it."
"And I felt nothing. No guilt. Just cold analysis of how to break him." She paused. "What does that make me?"
He squeezed her hand. "Strategic, not a monster."
"How do you know?"
"Because monsters don't question themselves." His thumb brushed across her knuckles. "You're asking. You're still human."
She wanted to believe that. The wanting itself felt calculated. Even her doubt had become a tool she wielded.
"What happens after?" The question came out barely audible. "After Alaric discovers the divorce. After I destroy him publicly. What happens to me?"
Caelan's expression shifted, fierce energy rising.
"You live. You stop performing for survival and start choosing your performances." He said it with certainty. "And I'll be there while you figure it out."
"Why?"
"Because I choose to be." He pulled her closer until she could see gold flecks in his eyes. "Not because of a bond. Not because of duty. Because I choose you. All of you. Including the parts you're scared of."
Her vision blurred. She blinked hard against the wetness.
"I'm terrified." The confession came out before she could stop it. "Terrified that without the bond, you'll see me clearly. All manipulation and strategy. Nothing underneath."
"Then you don't know me at all." His hands cupped her face with careful deliberation. "I've seen you without masks. I've seen you cry reading your mother's letter. I've seen you grieve civilians you'll never meet. I've seen you scared and real."
"Those could have been performances."
"Maybe. But I don't think so." He said it simply. "Bond or no bond, I know when you're calculating and when you're not."
Part of her wanted to argue. To prove him wrong. To maintain the safety of believing everyone could be fooled. But she was tired of performing for him.
She wrapped her arms around his neck.
He held her back. Steady. Present.
Eventually Caelan pulled back. "You should eat. When's the last time you had a meal?"
She couldn't remember.
"Come on." He offered his hand. "Kitchen's probably got something warm."
The kitchen smelled like bread and herbs. Someone had left soup on the hearth. He ladled two bowls while she sat at the heavy wooden table.
He set a bowl in front of her and raised an eyebrow when she didn't pick up the spoon.
"Can't scheme on an empty stomach." Small smile there.
They ate quietly. The soup was hot. She barely tasted it.
"What did you think of me when we first met?" She asked quietly.
"Wasted potential." He considered seriously. "Smart and strategic. Playing a role too small for you."
"And now?"
"Now I think you're exactly who you were meant to be." His eyes met hers. "You're choosing your roles now. There's a difference."
"I'm still manipulating people."
"For reasons that matter to you. Not because someone forced you into it." He reached across the table. "I'm here while you figure it out."
"Even if I make wrong choices?"
"I'll tell you when you're going too far. But I won't leave."
She threaded her fingers through his.
They finished eating and cleaned up. Small actions. Routine.
When they left the kitchen, the corridor felt darker. Everyone else asleep.
He walked her back to her chambers and stopped at her door.
"Will you be able to sleep?"
"Probably not."
"Want company?"
"To sleep," he clarified. "Just presence."
She nodded.
They went inside. She changed behind the screen while he banked the fire. When she emerged, he'd claimed the chair.
"The bed's big enough."
He looked at her. "You sure?"
"I don't want to wake up alone."
He joined her. Stayed on his side. Her hand found his in darkness.
"Thank you for staying."
His thumb brushed her knuckles. "Not going anywhere."
They lay holding hands across the space. Eventually exhaustion won. She slept through the night for the first time since Whitehall.
NEXT EVENING - NORTHERN MINES
Alaric had been checking for correspondence obsessively. Three days since he'd sent that letter. Three days of silence that tightened his chest. Fear that he'd pushed too hard, that the intimacy he'd described so vividly had been his alone.
The mine foreman droned on about production quotas. Alaric wasn't listening, his attention drifting to the door, waiting for the courier.
"Lord Vessant?"
He blinked. Focused. "Continue."
The foreman had barely started the next report when footsteps sounded in the corridor outside. Quick and purposeful.
The door opened. A messenger in riding leathers stood there. Dust-covered and exhausted.
"Express courier from the capital, my lord."
Alaric dismissed the foreman with a wave. Didn't care that he'd left mid-sentence. Didn't care about the curious look the man gave him on his way out.
All that mattered was the sealed parchment the messenger held.
D'Lorien crest. Crimson wax.
His hands shook taking it.
"That's all. You're dismissed."
The messenger bowed and left.
Alaric stared at the letter. Three days of waiting. Three days of wondering if he'd destroyed whatever fragile connection they'd been building.
He broke the seal and unfolded the parchment with fingers that trembled slightly. The ink was fresh enough he could still smell it.
The first line made his breath catch.
He read standing by the window, then sitting at his desk, then standing again because his legs wouldn't stay still.
She'd written back. The words tightened his chest and warmed him through. She'd been thinking about that night too. Recognizing what they'd shared. The rawness of her honesty was nothing like the careful distance she'd maintained for months.
And she'd mentioned children. Mentioned wanting to carry his child.
His throat went tight, vision blurring slightly.
By the time he finished reading for the third time, he'd made his decision.
He needed to get back to her, needed to hold her and show her he meant every word, start building the future she'd finally admitted she wanted.
He packed quickly. Essential items only. Left instructions for the mine foreman to handle the remaining inspections.
The diamond necklace went into his saddlebag, wrapped in silk. Northern stones that glittered when light hit them.
He'd fasten it around her throat himself, feel her skin warm beneath his fingers, see her eyes soft with the devotion she'd finally confessed.
And then he'd worship her properly. The way he had that night. The way she'd admitted she wanted him to again.
His body heated at the thought, at the memory of her responding to him without the walls she usually kept between them.
By mid-morning he was on the road, pushing his horse hard, changing mounts at coaching stations.
Two days to D'Lorien estate. Maybe less if he rode through part of the night.
Two days until he held his wife again. The wife who finally wanted him back.
FLAMEKEEP - DAWN
Seraphina woke to find Caelan still beside her, his hand still holding hers. Morning light lit his face.
He'd stayed.
She watched him briefly. Then slipped from bed. Work waiting.
Her fire-scars pulsed warm beneath her skin. Present and steady since Whitehall, since the sacrifice that took their bond and ten years of her life, but gave her power in return.
The study called.
Documents spread across the desk. Divorce petition. Evidence logs. Everything documented.
Empress Eleanor would receive it by mid-morning.
She drafted talking points. Facts, not emotions.
Point one: Forced marriage under false pretenses.
Point two: Assassination conspiracy traced to Vessant.
Point three: Attempted murder of the Flamebearer.
Airtight.
The door opened. Caelan stood there, hair disheveled.
"How long have you been up?"
"Hour maybe." Long enough to organize her thoughts. Long enough to verify every detail.
He read over her shoulder. "She'll appreciate this."
"She'll grant provisional separation immediately. Alaric will be ordered to stay away."
"And when he ignores it?"
"He'll come expecting his devoted wife." Her voice went flat. "Instead he finds imperial guards."
"Complete humiliation."
"Public collapse." She smiled, no warmth in it. "He made me perform devotion while he violated me. Every letter, every word, every confession was strategic. And he believed it all."
"The necklace."
"Northern diamonds. He'll try to give them to me in front of witnesses." She tapped the divorce petition. "While I stand here holding this."
"That's brutal."
"That's the point."
She'd built the trap carefully. Deceptive letters. Strategic performances. Cold calculation disguised as devotion. Now she waited for him to walk into what she'd constructed from his own delusions.
ON THE ROAD NORTH
Alaric touched the letter in his coat pocket. Still there. Still real.
Two days until D'Lorien estate. Two days until he held her again.
The diamond necklace sat wrapped in his saddlebag. Northern stones for the devoted wife waiting for him. The woman who finally understood what he'd been offering all along.
His horse's hooves ate up miles. Mountain passes became rolling hills. Hills became farmland he recognized.
Almost home. Almost to her.
He urged the horse faster.
Two timelines.
Same moment.
Different realities.
One person riding toward a fantasy built on lies.
One person fortified behind truth and strategy and chosen loyalty.
The collision was inevitable.
The question wasn't if they'd meet.
The question was who'd be left standing when the fire finished burning.