His body shook as they tended to him, his mind pulled even deeper into the dreams.
James found himself standing in a memory so old it had the quality of myth—edges softened by time, colors too vivid to be real, everything touched with the golden filter of youth.
He was seventeen. He knew this because his hands were unscarred, his body whole, his face not yet marked by the accumulated violence of decades.
The Imperial Academy spread around him in all its marble and gilt glory—colonnaded walkways, manicured gardens, halls where the kingdom's future leaders learned strategy and statecraft and the careful art of betrayal.
The First Prince stood before him, younger too, face not yet marked by the weight of expectations that came with being crown prince in a kingdom full of vipers. They were in the training yard, both stripped to shirtsleeves despite the autumn chill, wooden practice swords in hand. Around them, other students watched with expressions ranging from curiosity to envy to barely concealed hostility.
"Again," the Prince said, grinning with the easy confidence of someone who'd never been beaten badly enough to fear loss. "You're getting faster, but you're still telegraphing your strikes. I can read them from across the yard."
James reset his stance, aware of the watching eyes, aware that every interaction with the Prince was political theater as much as personal connection.
He was the youngest Celosia son, sent to the Academy more to remove him from his family' until he gained something meaningful from his education. The Prince was the crown prince, whose friendships were currency and whose enmities were career-ending.
They shouldn't have been sparring partners. Shouldn't have been anything to each other. But something in that first week—when James had refused to defer in a strategy debate, had argued his position with logic rather than flattery—had caught the Prince's attention.
"Maybe I'm telegraphing them because I want you to see them coming," James said, circling, looking for openings. "Makes it more impressive when you still can't block them."
The Prince laughed—genuine, unguarded, the kind of laugh that suggested he was just a boy playing at swords rather than a future king learning the arts of war. "Arrogant. I like it. Most people here just tell me what they think I want to hear."
"Most people here want something from you."
"And you don't?"
James considered lying, considered the politic answer, considered all the ways this moment could be leveraged for future advantage. Instead, he told the truth: "Everyone wants something. But I'd rather earn what I want through being useful than through being pleasant."
The Prince's eyes sharpened—intelligence there, calculation, the mind of someone learning to see through courtly facades. "Useful how?"
"However you need." James struck without warning, blade cutting toward the Prince's exposed side. The Prince blocked—barely—and countered with a riposte that James parried with inches to spare. They began to circle in earnest now, testing each other, wood clacking against wood in rhythm. "I'm the youngest son. I inherit nothing. My value is in what I can do, not what I am. So I've spent years learning to do things others can't or won't."
"Such as?"
"Such as being honest when everyone else is lying. Such as winning fights against opponents who should be able to beat me. Such as surviving things that should kill me."
Another exchange of strikes, faster now, both of them breathing hard. "Such as being the kind of ally you can trust because my loyalty is based on mutual benefit rather than obligation."
The Prince caught James's blade in a bind, pressing close, speaking quietly so the watching students couldn't hear: "And what benefit do I provide you?"
"You're going to be king," James said simply. "And when you are, you'll need people who are necessary rather than merely noble. People who can do what needs doing regardless of whether it's pleasant or proper or politically advantageous. I'm offering to be that person. In exchange, you make me necessary enough that my family can't discard me."
A long pause. The Prince's eyes searching James's face for deception, for hidden agendas, for the thousand subtle tells that courtiers learned to mask. Finding instead only brutal honesty—the kind that came from someone who had nothing left to lose and everything to prove.
"You're offering yourself as a tool," the Prince said slowly.
"I'm offering myself as a weapon," James corrected. "Tools break. Weapons endure."
The Prince released the bind, stepped back, lowered his practice sword. Around them, the watching students murmured—interpreting the pause as James's defeat, as the Prince's dismissal. But the Prince was smiling, a different smile than before. Sharper. More calculating. The smile of someone recognizing a valuable piece on the game board.
"Alright, James Celosia. Let's see if you can be as useful as you claim."
He extended his hand—not for a handshake, but in the old way, forearm to forearm, the grip warriors used when swearing oaths that went deeper than words. "But understand this: if you become necessary to me, you'll be called upon to do necessary things. Things that will cost you. Pieces of yourself you won't get back."
James gripped the Prince's forearm without hesitation, feeling the strength there, the promise, the beginning of something that would define the next two decades of his life.
"I've been paying that cost since I was eight years old, Your Grace. At least with you, I'll know what I'm buying with the blood."
The memory crystallized, perfect and painful. This moment—this handshake, this oath—had set everything in motion. The campaigns, the battles, the political maneuvering. The slow transformation from a discarded youngest son into the Marquess of Celosia, the Mad Dog, the weapon the First Prince wielded against his enemies.
The Prince's face began to flicker—young, then older, then overlaid with the Third Prince's silver hair and winter eyes. The watching students became corpses from the mountain ambush. The Academy training yard melted into that northern road, into the Council chamber, into the fever-sick room where James's body fought against the curse.
"You made yourself necessary," the Prince said, but his voice was wrong—too many voices layered together, speaking in harmony that hurt to hear. "But what happens when the thing they need you for is dying? When the weapon breaks? When you cost more than you're worth?"
James tried to answer, tried to argue, but his voice was gone. The handshake remained—Prince's hand gripping his forearm, or maybe it was the shadowcaster's hand, or the Duke's, or the curse itself. Something holding him, binding him, refusing to let go even as he felt himself dissolving.
The training yard collapsed into darkness, and James fell through it, still feeling the grip on his forearm, still bound by the oath he'd sworn when he was seventeen and stupid and desperate to matter.
But the fever was pulling him away, dragging him back through time and pain and shadow.
"What are you underneath the necessary?"
He still didn't know the answer.
᯽
"—pulse is stabilizing—"
"—fever broke an hour ago—"
"—miraculous, really, given the severity—"
The voices pulled him up from the void like fishermen hauling in nets that had been dragged through deep water—heavy, tangled, full of strange things pulled from darkness. James's eyes fluttered open to dim candlelight, his vision blurry and uncertain, swimming with afterimages of dreams that felt more real than the room materializing around him.
He was in a bed—massive, four-posted, draped with curtains in deep burgundy that had been pulled back to allow air circulation. Soft sheets, the smell of clean linen and medicinal herbs—lavender, something bitter he didn't recognize, and underneath it all the faint metallic tang of blood that had soaked through bandages and into the mattress. Not the palace physicians' quarters. Somewhere else. Somewhere that felt lived-in rather than merely functional.
His side throbbed with a deep, bone-grinding ache that suggested extensive healing work had been done. Every breath sent small sparks of pain radiating through his ribs—not the sharp agony of active injury but the duller, persistent discomfort of tissue that had been torn and was now grudgingly knitting itself back together.
His mouth tasted like copper and ash and something medicinal that coated his tongue. His body felt like it weighed approximately three tons and was made primarily of lead that had been poured into the rough shape of a man.
But he was alive. And aware. And the hand holding his—warm, real, unmistakably present—proved he wasn't trapped in nightmares anymore.
James turned his head slowly, carefully, every muscle protesting the movement. And there, seated in a chair pulled close to his bedside, was Seraphina Araminta.
James turned his head slowly, carefully, every muscle protesting the movement with small flares of complaint. And there, seated in a chair that had been pulled so close to his bedside it was practically part of the bed itself, was Seraphina Araminta.
She looked devastated. Her hair, usually arranged with courtly precision that spoke of servants' careful attention and hours of preparation, had been pulled back in a simple braid that was coming undone in wisps around her face.
Her gown was rumpled beyond the point where any amount of smoothing could restore it, creased from hours—days?—of sitting in the same position. Dark circles shadowed her red-rimmed eyes, the kind of circles that came from tears and sleeplessness and prolonged stress that ground away at composure until nothing remained but exhaustion. Her face was pale, bloodless, almost translucent in the candlelight.
But she was there. Real. Not a corpse, not a ghost. Her hand, littered with small scrapes, clasped his with gentle but unmistakable firmness, as though she'd been holding it for a long time and had no intention of letting go. As though his hand was an anchor and she'd been adrift and was finally, finally back on solid ground.
For a long moment, James simply stared at her, his mind struggling to reconcile the fever-dream terrors with this quiet reality. The Council hadn't destroyed her. The Third Prince hadn't claimed her. She hadn't given up on him, hadn't abandoned him to die alone. She was here, in his estate, at his bedside, holding his hand with a tenderness that made something in his chest—something he'd kept locked away for years behind layers of necessity and function and careful emotional distance—threaten to crack open like ice over a river in spring.
"You're awake," she said softly, and the relief in her voice was so profound, so utterly transparent, it made his throat tighten with emotion he didn't have names for. "Thank the dragons, you're awake. You're actually awake and coherent and—" Her voice broke slightly, and she took a shuddering breath. "I thought— The physicians said— You've been unconscious for so long—"
James tried to speak, found his throat too dry, and managed only a rough croak that sounded like something that had been dragged over gravel and left in the sun to desiccate. Seraphina immediately reached for a cup on the bedside table, her movements careful, practiced, as though she'd been doing this before—lifting water to lips that couldn't manage the task themselves.
She slipped one hand behind his head, supporting him with surprising strength as she lifted the cup to his lips with the other.
"Slowly," she cautioned, her voice still rough with emotion but steadying toward something like her usual composure. "The physician said you need to take everything slowly for a while. Your body has been through..." She trailed off, setting the cup aside, her free hand returning immediately to his as though drawn by magnetic force.
"Your body has been through enough."
"Where—" His voice was a rasp, barely recognizable as his own. He swallowed and tried again. "Where am I?"
"Your estate," Seraphina replied, her thumb beginning to trace small circles on the back of his hand—an unconscious gesture that suggested she'd been doing it for a while, before she pulled her hand awayt.
"The physicians treated you at the palace initially, stabilized you enough to move. But once they determined you could survive the carriage ride, I had you brought here. It seemed..."
She paused, choosing words carefully.
"Safer. More private. Less subject to unexpected visits from Council members who might want to assess your condition personally."
Safer. More private. She was protecting him from palace scrutiny, from the vultures who would circle if they knew exactly how weakened he was, from the political enemies who would capitalize on his vulnerability. Smart. Tactically sound. The kind of decision that required understanding not just the medical situation but the political minefield surrounding it.
"The physicians," James said carefully, watching her face, reading the micro-expressions that flickered across her features. "What did they tell you? About my wounds?"
Seraphina's expression flickered—something complicated passing across her face like shadows of birds flying overhead. Concern. Anger. A flash of something that might have been fear or might have been calculation.
"They told me you fought brilliantly. That you triggered an avalanche to save your men. That you rode for twelve hours while bleeding and somehow survived what should have killed you three times over." She paused, her grip on his hand tightening slightly, almost painfully.
"They also told me, rather forcefully, that I had no business being in the room during your examination. The head physician had me physically removed. Locked the door. Refused to let me back in even when you—"
She stopped abruptly, her jaw clenching, and James saw tears threatening at the corners of her eyes.
"Even when I what?" he prompted gently.
"Even when you started convulsing," she finished, her voice barely above a whisper. "Even when I could hear you screaming—though the physician said later you were unconscious, that it wasn't true screaming, just your body reacting to the treatment. Even when I thought you were dying and I was standing in a hallway listening to it happen and couldn't do anything, couldn't even be there—"
Her voice broke completely, and she turned her face away, but not before James saw tears spill over. She was still holding his hand, gripping it like a lifeline, her whole body shaking with the aftermath of fear that had been held at bay for too long.
"He was protecting me," James said quietly. "And you."
"From what?" Seraphina's voice was sharp, snapping back toward him, anger mixing with confusion and residual fear.
"From seeing wounds? I'm not some delicate flower who faints at the sight of blood, James. I could have helped, could have—"
James studied her face, weighing how much to reveal, how much she'd already guessed. She was intelligent, observant, politically astute. She'd seen the pattern of his wounds, heard the physicians' urgent whispers. She knew something was wrong beyond ordinary battle damage.
But did she need to know about the curse? About the vulnerability that could get him killed if word spread? About the fact that the wrong person with the right magic could neutralize him completely?
"From information that could be weaponized," James interrupted, choosing each word carefully, weighing how much to reveal, how much she'd already guessed.
"The ambush wasn't random, Miss Araminata. It was coordinated, well-funded, and specifically designed to kill me using methods that would make it look like I'd simply been overwhelmed by superior numbers. Someone with significant resources wants me dead. And if certain details about my injuries became known..."
"The Third Prince," Seraphina said immediately, and there was no question in her tone. Just certainty. Then she swallowed and composed herself, leaning her arms on the ledge of the bed, "Call me Seraphina. Like you did when you called me by name in The Council's chambers."
James managed a slight smile despite everything before coughing. "That obvious? Ultimately, the head physichian is trying to contain the information, limit who knows about my vulnerability."
"And I'm a liability," Seraphina said, her voice flat. "My House is neutral, politically flexible. I could sell that information to the highest bidder."
"Could you?"
Their eyes met, and the question hung between them with the weight of everything unspoken—trust offered tentatively, like a hand extended across a chasm. Seraphina had sat at his bedside for days. Had fought to get into the room when he was convulsing. Had brought him to his estate rather than leaving him in the palace where her family's political flexibility could be better served by his death.
"No," she said finally, her voice carrying absolute conviction. "I couldn't. I wouldn't even if I could. Whatever you think about my House, James, whatever doubts you have about our loyalty or our spine—"
The bitterness in her voice suggested her own frustrations with her mother's political cowardice "—you should know that I don't sell information about people who've bled defending me."
"The Third Prince," James said quietly. It wasn't a question but what distracted him for a moment was how naturally she called his name.
"Was sitting in the King's throne when you collapsed in the Council chamber," Seraphina confirmed, her voice hardening.
"Looking disappointed. As though you'd spoiled something he'd been looking forward to. As though your survival was personally inconvenient."
"Bold."
"Arrogant," Seraphina corrected sharply. "There's a difference. Bold implies he'd calculated the risks. Arrogant means he didn't think there would be consequences even if you survived."
James felt something warm and complicated in his chest at that—her immediate understanding, her clear-eyed assessment of political reality, her obvious anger on his behalf. She wasn't naive. Wasn't blind to the dangers surrounding them both. She saw the game being played and had chosen her side accordingly, chosen it so thoroughly she'd spent days at his bedside despite physicians' orders and political risk.
"How long have you been here?" he asked, changing the subject before his exhausted mind could dwell too long on what her presence meant, what it might cost her.
Seraphina's eyes flickered away briefly, a tell so subtle he almost missed it—the kind of evasion that suggested the answer was more complicated than a simple duration of time.
"Two days since you collapsed in the Council chamber. Three days total since the ambush."
That wasn't what he'd asked, and they both knew it. But before he could press the question, she continued: "The physicians weren't certain you would wake. The infection from your side wound was extensive. Combined with the blood loss and exhaustion and the fact that you rode twelve hours through hostile territory while essentially bleeding to death..."
She trailed off, and when she continued, her voice was tighter, rougher. "They prepared me for the possibility that you might not recover. That you'd simply... fade. That one fever dream would be deeper than the last until you didn't come back at all."
They'd prepared her for his death. Told her it was likely, perhaps even inevitable given the severity of the curse and the wounds and the sheer accumulated damage to a body that had been pushed far beyond reasonable limits. And she'd sat here anyway, holding his hand, refusing to accept that outcome, maintaining a vigil that had clearly cost her sleep and composure and possibly her standing with her own House.
James felt those carefully constructed walls—the ones he'd spent over twenty years building, the defenses that kept him separate from anyone who might become a vulnerability—crack a little further, fissures spreading through foundations that had seemed unshakeable.
He'd spent decades learning not to need anyone, not to depend on comfort or softness or the kind of loyalty that came without calculation or immediate benefit. It was safer that way. Cleaner. A weapon didn't need emotional entanglements. A necessary tool didn't require affection.
But he'd collapsed in front of her. Had let himself fall, unconscious and bleeding and utterly defenseless, trusting—without even realizing he was doing it, without making any conscious decision—that she would be there. That she wouldn't use his weakness against him, wouldn't sell the information to his enemies, wouldn't abandon him to the political wolves when he was no longer useful or powerful or capable of protecting himself.
And she hadn't.
"You stayed," he said quietly, and the words carried more weight than their simplicity suggested. They carried acknowledgment. Recognition. The beginnings of something that might be trust, offered tentatively from someone who'd spent his adult life believing trust was a luxury he couldn't afford.
Seraphina's expression softened, her thumb tracing small circles on the back of his hand—an unconscious gesture that suggested she'd been doing it for a while, finding comfort in the repetitive motion. "Where else would I be?"
"Anywhere," James replied honestly, his voice rough with exhaustion and something deeper, something that scraped against his throat like broken glass. "The Council would have understood if you'd returned to your family's estate. Court would have excused you—grieving betrothed, traumatized by violence, needing time to recover. Protocol doesn't demand that a betrothed..."
He trailed off, trying to find words for what she'd done, for the vigil she'd kept. "You could have left. Politically, practically, you should have left."
"I could have," Seraphina agreed, her green eyes meeting his with unwavering steadiness that suggested she'd thought about this, had made a conscious choice and committed to it fully. "I chose not to. My decisions are my own."
The simplicity of it—the absolute certainty in her voice, the lack of any caveat or political calculation—made something inside James's carefully constructed defenses almost crumble completely. This woman, whose House had questionable loyalties and whose position was precarious at best, whose father played both sides against the middle, who should have been protecting her own political future rather than maintaining vigil over a man whose survival complicated more plans than it supported—she had chosen to stay. Because when he'd fallen, she'd caught him. Because she'd decided his life mattered more than her convenience.
"Why?" The question emerged before he could stop it, vulnerable in a way he hadn't allowed himself to be since childhood, since he was eight years old learning that needing people was the fastest path to disappointment and that making yourself necessary meant never requiring necessity from others.
"You barely know me. Our engagement is political convenience. You could have—"
"Because you rode nearly through the night, wounded and bleeding and possibly dying, to defend me," Seraphina interrupted, her voice carrying quiet steel beneath the gentleness, conviction that had clearly been tested and refined during her days-long vigil.
"Because you collapsed in front of me, and in that moment—conscious decision or not—you trusted me. You let yourself fall believing I would catch you. Whether you meant to or not."
Her grip on his hand tightened, and James saw something fierce in her expression, something that suggested she'd been thinking about this for three days or maybe longer, turning it over in her mind while he fought through fever dreams, arriving at conclusions that had the weight of certainty behind them.
"When someone offers that kind of trust, even unconsciously, even accidentally, the only honorable response is to prove worthy of it," she continued. "You showed me who you are when you rode through that ambush to protect the capital, to protect me. The least I could do was show you who I am by refusing to leave when you needed someone to stay."
James stared at her, something in his chest tightening and loosening simultaneously, pain and relief mixing into an emotion he didn't have names for. He'd made himself necessary through blood and skill and unwavering service.
He'd survived by being too valuable to discard, too dangerous to betray, too useful to lose. But this—this quiet loyalty that asked for nothing in return, that existed simply because she'd chosen it, that was based on character rather than calculation—was entirely foreign territory.
He gave a small laugh, face pressed into the pillow as he looked up at her, "I guess it's true that the roses of Araminata bloomed early."
Dangerous territory.
The kind that could destroy him far more thoroughly than any ambush or curse or political betrayal if he let himself believe in it and was proven wrong. His eyes were already growing heavy again, exhaustion pulling at him with the inexorable weight of a body that had burned through all its reserves and was running on nothing but stubborn will.
The brief surge of consciousness was fading as his body demanded more rest, more time to heal tissue that had been torn and cursed and pushed far beyond reasonable limits.
Despite every tactical instinct screaming that vulnerability was weakness, that trust was liability, that letting someone see you broken was invitation for betrayal—despite all of that, despite twenty years of learning to need no one, James found himself asking if she would remain a constant.
"I'm not going anywhere," she said, and her voice was unshakeable, carrying the weight of a vow "Sleep. I'll be here when you wake. And the time after that. And every time after that until you're well enough to physically throw me out yourself—and given your current condition, that might be months."
The attempt at humor landed perfectly—a lightness that acknowledged the weight of the moment without diminishing it, that offered comfort without condescension. James felt his lips curve in something that might have been a smile, might have been the beginning of trust, might have been the first crack in armor he'd worn so long it had fused to his skin.
"Might take a while," he managed, his voice fading even as he spoke.
"I have more time than you know," Seraphina replied simply, and squeezed his hand once more, the pressure steady and real and present.
"The kingdom can survive without its Beast for a few more days. The wars can wait. The politics can wait. Let someone else hold the line for once. Let me hold the line for you."
Her other hand brushed across his forehead, fingers pushing back his sweat-dampened hair with infinite gentleness, smoothing back black strands that had fallen across his face. The touch was careful, reverent almost, as though he were something precious rather than a broken weapon slowly being hammered back into usefulness.
Yet behind it, her fingers shook with an unsettling anxiety -- as if he was glass that her touch would split in half. The words settled into his bones, cautious permission he'd never given himself.
As darkness claimed him again—softer this time, warmer, without nightmares or falling or curse-thorns driving into his flesh—the last thing he registered was the warmth of her hand in his and the absolute certainty that this time, when he woke, she would still be there.
He had spent twenty years learning not to need anyone. Twenty years building walls and maintaining distance and ensuring that he was always the strong one, always the protector, always the one who could be counted on but never needed to count on others in return. And in a single moment of weakness—or perhaps strength, he couldn't quite tell the difference anymore—he had let those walls crack. Had shown her exactly how fragile he was beneath the armor. Had trusted her to see him broken and not use it against him.
It was the most terrifying thing he'd done in a life defined by charging into impossible battles and surviving through stubbornness and skill.As sleep claimed him fully, pulling him down into darkness that finally, finally contained nothing but rest, James found himself thinking that perhaps—just perhaps—some risks were worth taking.
Even for a man who had made himself necessary by never needing anyone at all.
᯽
In the hallway outside, the head physichian stood with his back against the door, arms crossed over his chest, expression carved from exhaustion and professional satisfaction in equal measure. He raised a wizen hand to rub at hte exhaustion beneath his eyes, a blood soaked towel tucked into his front pocket. A younger physician approached tentatively, carefully, as one approached a guard dog that might bite.
"Sir, the Council is sending messengers every few hours asking for updates on the Marquess's condition. Viscount Varrow has demanded a personal audience. The Third Prince's secretary has made three separate inquiries. What should I tell them?"
The head physician's jaw tightened, tendons standing out in his neck, his whole posture radiating protective fury barely held in check.
"Tell them he's recovering from wounds sustained in combat against a coordinated ambush. Nothing more. Nothing about the curse. Nothing about the mirroring pattern. Nothing about shadow magic or vulnerability or anything that could be used against him by people who smile while sharpening knives."
"But surely the First Prince should—"
"Has already been informed privately, through channels that ensure absolute discretion." the head physichian's expression was unreadable, carved from stone and professional ethics and something that might have been personal loyalty if you looked closely enough.
"As has Miss Araminta, though she doesn't yet fully realize what she witnessed in those first moments. The Marquess has enemies who would pay fortunes—literal fortunes in gold and land and political favor—to know his weakness. We will not be the ones to sell that information, regardless of who asks, regardless of rank or title or threat."
"And if the Council demands access? They have authority to—"
"Then they'll have to go through me first." The head physician's voice carried the weight of absolute conviction, the kind that came from a man who'd made his decision and would face any consequence rather than betray it.
"Some things are worth more than political favor or career advancement. The Marquess has served this kingdom for over twenty years. He's bled on a dozen battlefields while Council members argued about which wine to serve at state dinners. The least I can do is protect him when he cannot protect himself."
The younger physician shifted uncomfortably. "The rumors are already spreading, sir. They're saying that he's vulnerable in ways we can't heal."
"Rumors are not confirmation." the head physichian's voice was sharp as a scalpel.
"Let them speculate. Let them whisper. As long as no one can prove anything, as long as the details remain vague and uncertain, the tactical value of the information is diminished. It's the difference between knowing a fortress has a weakness and knowing exactly which wall is compromised."
He leaned forward, almost nose to nose with the younger physichian, "I trusted you to have my back in that bedchamber turned medical room but if you speak a word..." his eyes flashed with malice, "I will smother you until your name is wiped from the medical books."
The young physician shuddered, Looks like the Marquess isn't the only mad dog in this house.
The head physician turned to go, then paused, looking back at the closed door where Seraphina kept her vigil, where James slept his healing sleep, where two people who should have been political strangers were slowly becoming something that might be called allies, or friends, or something more dangerous than either.
"And God help anyone who tries to harm him while that woman stands guard," the physician said, something like admiration coloring his exhaustion.
"I've seen battlefield nurses with less determination in their eyes. She may come from a House of cowards and fence-sitters, but there's nothing cowardly about the way she looked at me when I tried to remove her from his bedside."
"She loves him," the younger physician observed.
"Perhaps. Or perhaps she simply decided he was worth protecting and committed to that decision with the same intensity he commits to his battles."
The head physician shook his head.
"Either way, I pity the fool who underestimates her. She sat through three days of uncertainty without breaking, without leaving, without compromising her vigil even when we told her he was dying. That kind of loyalty..." He trailed off, searching for words. "That kind of loyalty is as rare as the curse that nearly killed him. And considerably more dangerous to those who might threaten its object."
The younger physician considered this. "Do you think they'll survive what's coming? The Marquess and Miss Araminta? The political forces arrayed against them?"
"I think," the head physician said slowly, "that anyone betting against the Mad Dog surviving the impossible is a fool who hasn't been paying attention to the last twenty years. And I think anyone assuming Miss Araminta is just another political ornament is in for a very unpleasant surprise."
He straightened, rolling his shoulders, preparing to face the inevitable stream of demands and inquiries and veiled threats that came with protecting a patient the entire capital wanted information about. "Now come. We have a Council full of vultures to disappoint and a Prince to update. And if we're very lucky, the Marquess will sleep long enough that we can establish proper barriers before the real fighting starts."
They walked down the corridor together, leaving the door guarded by servants who'd been given very specific instructions about who was and was not permitted entry.
Behind that door, in the quiet sanctuary of the Marquess's private chambers, two people who'd been shaped by necessity and survival and the careful performance of roles they'd never chosen began the slow, uncertain process of becoming something neither had expected.
Something that might, against all odds and political logic, be real.