Detention at the Naval Fleet Academy was not what Liam expected.
There were no cells. No bars. No isolation.
Instead, Liam and Seraphine stood alone in a circular training chamber suspended near the Academy's inner ring. Transparent walls revealed the slow rotation of the station and the distant drift of warships beyond. The floor was a reactive alloy mat, etched with shifting sigils that responded to movement, intent, and stress.
The door sealed behind them with a soft *thrum*.
"Well," Seraphine said lightly, folding her arms, "I suppose this is what rebellion earns."
Liam exhaled. "They said the cadets would recover."
"They will," she replied. "Eventually. Their pride may take longer."
A ripple of light crossed the room.
Dean Aurelion emerged—not walking, but *phasing* into presence as though reality had simply remembered they were supposed to be there.
"You are fortunate," the Dean said calmly. "Had the injuries been permanent, your punishment would not involve conversation."
Seraphine inclined her head. "Understood, Dean."
Aurelion's gaze shifted to Liam. "You are both here because I intervened."
The Dean gestured, and two practice batons materialized in the air before dropping neatly into their hands.
"Detention, in this Academy," Aurelion said, "is correction, not confinement."
The sigils beneath their feet ignited.
"Begin."
The floor surged upward without warning.
Liam barely had time to shift his stance before Seraphine was moving—fast, precise, her dual talents harmonizing into a fluid strike aimed at his shoulder. He blocked instinctively, the impact vibrating through his arms.
"Again," Aurelion commanded.
They moved.
Not sparring. *Learning.*
Aurelion adjusted gravity in sharp increments, forcing balance under pressure. The Dean interrupted strikes mid-motion, correcting posture, redirecting force with a touch of air or light.
"Hand-to-hand combat," Aurelion said as Liam and Seraphine circled each other, "is politics at its most honest. Position. Timing. Intention."
Seraphine feinted left, then swept low. Liam countered, adapting faster than he realized.
"Liam," the Dean continued, "you default to protection. Seraphine, you default to control. Together, you compensate."
A sudden shift—Aurelion froze them in place with a raised hand.
"Enough."
The batons dissolved.
The sigils dimmed.
Aurelion turned, and the room responded, forming three floating holographic crests between them—interlocking spheres marked **SOVEREIGNTY**, **ALLIANCE**, and **INDEPENDENCE**.
"Now," the Dean said, "we speak of consequences."
The crest of Sovereignty flared.
"Option one: Seraphine accepts the arranged marriage. Stability is achieved. Fleets align. The Navy gains resources. You, Princess, lose autonomy."
Seraphine's jaw tightened.
The second crest ignited.
"Option two: Alliance by choice. A strategic bond—*not* marriage—between yourself and another power. Politically viable. Personally tolerable. Temporarily unstable."
Then the third.
"Option three: Independence."
The word hung heavy.
"You refuse all bindings," Aurelion said. "You remain cadets. You rise by merit alone. This option is the most dangerous."
Liam felt the weight of it.
"The Senate will resist," Aurelion continued. "Your enemies will test you. And your bond—" the Dean's gaze flicked briefly to their hands "—will be scrutinized."
Seraphine looked at Liam. "Bond?"
Aurelion did not answer.
Instead, the Dean folded their hands behind their back.
"I will leave you," Aurelion said, "for thirty minutes. Decide which path best serves the Navy… your people… and yourselves."
The room's lights softened.
The Dean vanished.
Silence reclaimed the chamber.
Seraphine sat on the edge of the platform, staring at the holographic crests. "I've spent my entire life being told what serves everyone else."
Liam sat beside her. Close, but not touching.
"What do *you* want?" he asked.
She smiled faintly. "That's the problem. For the first time, I'm allowed to choose."
He nodded. "Whatever you decide, I won't be the reason you lose your freedom."
She turned to him then, really looked at him again.
"And if," she asked quietly, "what I want aligns with what the Navy needs?"
The stars outside continued their slow, endless dance.
Thirty minutes suddenly felt very short—
—and infinitely important.