Seraphina watched, her sapphire gaze cold and analytical.
She waited until his hand, now trembling violently with genuine exhaustion, was withdrawn, then she collected the parchment. The ink was barely dry, but the contract was legally binding, leveraging obscure Imperial codes that only a former Arch-Mage or a Duke's council would know existed.
The trade was complete. She had gained the political shield of a Consort's title, granting House Silverblood unprecedented legal access to Imperial affairs in the Northern Territories. He had gained the Tidal Net, the most secure, untraceable communications system on the continent, the key to raising his private army.
"The fleet is prepared to withdraw," she announced, her voice precise. "I have dispatched coded orders. By morning, the Empress will receive my report citing a necessary, personal two-week stay at Stonehaven to manage the 'logistical crisis' caused by the unexpected monster incursions you predicted. This satisfies her curiosity while justifying the delay of the formal ceremony."
Alaric, leaning heavily on the table for support, simply nodded. His charade of energy was over. He was spent, sinking deep into the frail body of Prince Alaric, whose very physiology fought against the Arch-Mage's relentless will.
"You will manage this fortress, Consort," he murmured, his voice dry and faint. "You will manage Varrick. You will manage the Empress's spies. And you will manage me. Forty-eight hours. Absolute silence in the tower. No exceptions. If Stonehaven burns, you extinguish the fire."
Seraphina saw the calculated cruelty in his demand. He was placing a crippling burden of responsibility on her for two days while he disappeared into the ruins.
"I understand the terms, Your Highness," she replied, her eyes flashing briefly with irritation at the imposed weakness. "You have bought my cooperation. Now, ensure you survive the price."
Kaelen barely made it to his chamber door. The strength that had allowed him to deliver the final flourish of his intellect was gone, sucked dry by the effort. The instant the heavy oak door slammed shut and the bar was secured, he didn't bother with the cot. He collapsed directly onto the cold stone floor, the suddenness of the relief, the freedom to stop pretending overwhelming his system.
He was not just exhausted; he was in crisis.
The Draconic Blood Magic was not a gentle flow of power. It required the soul of Kaelen to exert its will constantly, physically tearing open the sealed, useless mana channels of Prince Alaric. The fever was a consuming inferno, the constant internal pressure of the raw Draconic seed fighting against the host body's calcified defenses. He was destroying the vessel to weaponize it, and the vessel protested with every ragged, shallow breath.
The last few days had required intermittent but intense bursts of foresight and concentration, especially during the negotiation with Seraphina. Each burst had cost him a piece of his current strength, pushing Alaric's body closer to total failure. He had delayed the cultivation, and now the debt was due.
He stripped down to his thin undergarments, shivering despite the intense fever, and turned his focus inward. The external world vanished. There was only the core, the agonizing, relentless thread of energy that he was forcing through the frozen earth of his circulatory system.
Channel one. Must achieve stability.
His goal was simple: carve out one single, viable mana channel, insulated and secured against Alaric's compromised physiology. A tiny river of power that could sustain itself without the massive expenditure of willpower. If he could stabilize even a whisper of his former might, he could accelerate the remaining process tenfold. If he failed, the internal hemorrhage would be fatal.
He curled into a tight knot, his arms wrapped over his sternum, his teeth gritted so hard his jaw ached.
The next forty-eight hours would not be rest; they would be a surgical campaign against his own body, driven by the pure, cold resolve of the Arch-Mage. He had bought time and power; now he had to pay the physical cost.
Outside the tower, Seraphina moved with the controlled intensity of a true General. She didn't trust the silence. If the Prince was truly ill, the tower should feel merely cold and still. Instead, she could perceive a subtle, magnetic pressure emanating from the ancient stone, a faint, metallic scent that felt like burnt ozone.
She suppressed her curiosity and poured her focus entirely into the immediate logistics of Stonehaven, transforming the ruin into a proper military post.
"Lycus," she commanded, standing before the main map, now freshly updated with Varrick's recent patrol reports, including the battle against the Tier 5 monster. "Ensure the deployment of the remaining anti-Troll ballistae to the eastern ridge path. I want overlapping fire corridors covering the old quarry access point. The Behemoth attack proved the old maps are useless. We operate on Alaric's analysis until proven otherwise."
Commander Lycus, a seasoned veteran of the Silverblood fleet, merely nodded. He was accustomed to Seraphina's demanding standards, but even he found the pace and the unquestioning adoption of the exiled Prince's tactical insights unsettling.
Seraphina spent the first day not worrying about the Empress, but about Darius. Her network confirmed Prince Darius was already in a controlled, seething rage following the Ironwood Market Correction. He knew his financial plot had been sabotaged, but he lacked the legal leverage to accuse Silverblood directly. He would try again, soon and with greater violence.
I am now married to the man who makes Darius look like a toddler.
She sent immediate coded orders through her own secure courier system to two dozen key Silverblood allies, citing the authority of her new Imperial title to request updated financial reports. She was using Alaric's name to acquire information and political leverage, weaving a secondary safety net around Stonehaven.
As the first day ended, Seraphina felt the familiar rush of strategic success.
She had managed the collapse of the fleet, secured her base, neutralized the immediate threats, and launched the first critical mission of the new alliance. Every action taken was a move she could justify to her father as sound military strategy.
But always, her gaze returned to the tower.
On the morning of the second day, she ordered a perimeter check and demanded the precise temperature of the tower's exterior stone be recorded. The results were inconclusive: the north face was cold, as expected; the south face, however, registered seven degrees warmer than the surrounding walls, defying the weather patterns.
Illness doesn't generate heat like that. Only magic does.
She spent the afternoon reviewing the skeletal medical files Prince Alaric possessed. His condition, "magical crippling," was a lie the court had used to dismiss him.
But what if the body was just that: a weak, frail shell? What if the mind she had partnered with was so immense that it was physically killing the host?
The idea was unnerving. She wasn't managing a man; she was managing a weapon that could misfire at any moment. If this Prince Alaric was truly just a vessel for a mind of that caliber, she was closer to treason than she could possibly imagine.
She sat at the table, running a thumb over the silver signet of her House. She had paid the price. Now, she would ensure the delivery.
Exactly forty-eight hours after sealing the pact, the main door to the tower groaned open.
Seraphina was waiting in the quartermaster's hall, standing in the cold light of the morning. Commander Lycus stood behind her, silently observing.
Alaric emerged. He was visibly thinner than he had been two days prior, his face gaunt, his skin pale and clammy. He was leaning heavily on his cane, moving with the sluggishness of a man recovering from a severe, long illness. He looked less like a Prince and more like a ghost.
But his eyes—those dull brown, previously anxious eyes—held something new. There was almost a flicker of deep blue within… yet she couldn't quite pinpoint it, before it disappeared.
Seraphina dismissed the observation as a glancing reflection. She did not offer a greeting or an inquiry into his health. She went straight to the operational reality.
"I have prepared the relay," she stated, holding up the small, steel-cased data-crystal, the Master Key, that he had negotiated for. "The Tidal Net access has been configured. The target coordinates for High Commander Lysandra's unit, Winter's Hand, are already loaded into the routing protocols."
She stepped forward, forcing Alaric to meet her halfway. The distance between them was now measured in shared political risk and newly signed contracts.
"The first message leaves Stonehaven in one hour," Seraphina confirmed, pressing the cold steel of the crystal into his palm. "This is the moment, Your Highness. I have given you the tool. Prove the value of the mind I married."
Alaric closed his fingers around the crystal. The contact with the cold steel grounded him, the new, fragile channel he had carved out finally ready to accept the external focus. The energy of the Arch-Mage was awake and humming.
He looked into her sapphire eyes, and for the first time, Seraphina saw the ghost of the terrifying strategic power she had allied with.
"The message will not be a request, Consort," Kaelen replied, his voice still low, but carrying a thread of steel that was startlingly devoid of the prince's former weakness. "It will be a command. Lysandra will ride immediately. Stonehaven will have its Shadow Guard within the week."
Seraphina took a single step back, managing the immediate spike of unnerving intensity. Her face remained a mask of professional calculation, but internally, the General acknowledged the truth. She had not acquired a pliable, useless fiancé.
She had acquired a terrifyingly competent commander.