For the next hour, they talked—or rather, Aldric questioned and James answered, with Seraphina occasionally interjecting observations. The conversation ranged across James's recent Council activities, his positioning on various faction disputes, the enemies he'd made and the allies he'd cultivated.
James spoke with characteristic economy, each answer carefully measured. He did not volunteer information unnecessarily, but neither did he withhold what was relevant. It was a masterclass in controlled disclosure—giving Aldric what he needed while maintaining boundaries around what he chose to keep private.
Aldric listened with focused intensity, occasionally making notes in a small leather-bound book. The two men had developed a shorthand over years of partnership—slight gestures that conveyed agreement, raised eyebrows that indicated concern, silences that spoke as loudly as words.
In her past life, she had never witnessed this level of trust between powerful men. The Third Prince had surrounded himself with sycophants and spies, not friends. There had been no room for genuine loyalty in his faction, only calculated allegiance.
Watching Aldric and James now, she saw what she had missed before—that true power didn't come solely from fear or manipulation. It also came from bonds forged in shared purpose and tested in fire.
Eventually, Aldric sat back, his notes complete. "The picture is clearer now. You've positioned yourself between three competing factions. Any one of them might benefit from your removal."
"Or from my weakening," James said quietly. "Dead, I become a symbol. Wounded..." A pause. "Merely an obstacle to be circumvented."
"Unless," Seraphina said carefully, "the goal was never to kill you, but to create conditions that would force you to reveal your true allegiances."
Both men turned to look at her. James's expression remained neutral, but she saw the minute shift in his posture—interest, perhaps, or acknowledgment that she'd touched on something significant.
"Explain," Aldric said.
She chose her words with care. "The assassination attempt was public enough to be noticed, but clumsy enough to fail. It forced the Marquess to retreat here, away from the Council, away from his network. And it forced him to reveal who he trusts—who he allows close during vulnerability."
James was very still, his gaze on her thoughtful. Then, softly: "It would also reveal my enemies. Those who moved too quickly, who showed their hands while I was presumed weakened."
"It makes strategic sense," James continued, fingers resuming their slow pattern on the chair arm. "The attack served multiple purposes simultaneously." He looked at Aldric. "The question is: who benefits most from such information?"
A heavy silence fell. Seraphina could see both men's minds working, following threads of implication, testing theories.
Finally, Aldric spoke. "There is another matter. The Grand Tournament of Roses."
James's expression didn't change, but Seraphina felt the shift in the room's atmosphere—a subtle tensing, an awareness that they had reached the true purpose of this visit.
"I had not planned to attend," James said simply.
"I know," Aldric replied. "Which is precisely why you must."
Seraphina felt her pulse quicken. This was the opening she needed.
"Your Highness," she said carefully, "I had raised this very matter with the Marquess earlier. The Tournament presents both risk and opportunity."
Aldric turned his full attention to her. "You anticipated my concerns."
"I anticipated that absence would be interpreted as weakness. And that your enemies—the Marquess's enemies—would use that weakness to undermine his position on the Council."
She glanced at James, seeing the faint nod of encouragement. "But strategic presence, properly managed, could turn that liability into an advantage."
"How?" Aldric's question was sharp, direct.
"The Tournament is more than spectacle," Seraphina explained. "It's a display of alliance and political strength, conducted through traditional courtship rituals. The exchange of favor tokens before the joust, the sponsorship of knights, the literary salon, the gift exchanges—all of these are opportunities to demonstrate unity, refinement, and continued influence."
In her past life, she had participated in these rituals as the Third Prince's companion, watching as he used each gesture to build his network, to reward allies and subtly threaten enemies. She had been naive then, thinking the poetry and the pageantry were merely celebration. She hadn't understood that every token exchanged was a statement of allegiance, every sponsored knight a declaration of patronage.
But she understood now.
"You've studied the Tournament's politics," Aldric observed.
"She's right, Aldric," James said quietly. "If I stay here, hidden away like an invalid, the whispers will grow. But if I appear at the Tournament, properly presented, engaged in the traditional rituals..."
He smiled faintly. "Then I remind everyone exactly why I hold my position on the Council." A gleam took to his violet eyes. "Much less why I'm the Beast of the Battlefield, Commander of Valenfort."
Aldric's gaze moved between them, reassessing, recalculating. "This would require careful choreography. Every gesture analyzed, every word weighed. The slightest misstep could be disastrous."
"Which is why preparation is essential," Seraphina said. "The Marquess's reputation for strategic thinking can be reinforced through carefully selected patronages. His cultural refinement through the poetry competition. His political strength through the alliances displayed in the gift exchanges."
She paused. "And the strength of our betrothal—the legitimacy of this alliance—through our participation in the traditional courtship displays."
Something flickered in Aldric's expression—recognition, perhaps, of the additional layer she was proposing. Not just rehabilitating James's image, but also establishing her own legitimacy as his betrothed and future partner in political affairs.
"You seek to kill several birds with one stone," Aldric observed.
"I seek to turn a vulnerable moment into a demonstration of strength," Seraphina corrected. "There's a difference."
Aldric looked at James. "Can you manage it? Physically?"
"With the proper support," James said, his eyes flickering to Seraphina, "yes. I can appear for the key events—the opening joust, the salon, perhaps the final feast. Brief appearances, strategically timed, with Miss Araminata managing the rest." He smiled wryly. "She's become rather adept at managing things in my absence."
"So I see." Aldric was quiet for a long moment, clearly weighing options, calculating risks. When he finally spoke, his voice carried the weight of decision. "Very well. You will attend the Tournament. Both of you."
I know, Seraphina thought but did not say. I've watched them work. I've been their victim. But this time, I know their methods. This time, I'm prepared.
"We understand the risks, Your Highness," she said aloud.
"Do you?" Aldric stood, the movement filling the room with restless energy. "The Tournament is where reputations are made or broken. The Third Prince will be there. His faction watches for weaknesses—flaws in posture, speech, alliances. One misstep, and the consequences will be severe."
"Then it's fortunate," James said mildly, "that Miss Araminata appears to have given this considerable thought. Haven't you, Miss Araminata?"
All eyes turned to her.
"I have, Marquess Celosia," Seraphina said, meeting Aldric's gaze steadily. "And I would welcome the opportunity to discuss my proposals with His Highness—if he has the time and inclination to hear them."
Aldric's lips curved into something that might have been a smile. "I have both, Miss Araminata. Impress me."
And so she began to lay out her plan—the specific rituals she proposed to emphasize, the allies she suggested cultivating through strategic patronage, the symbolic gestures that would reinforce James's position while also establishing her own credibility. She spoke of the poetry competition as an opportunity to demonstrate intellectual partnership, of the gift exchanges as a way to signal continuing alliances, of the favor tokens as a visible declaration of their betrothal's legitimacy.
As she talked, she watched Aldric's expression shift from skepticism to interest to something approaching approval. James contributed occasionally, refining a point or adding context, but mostly he let her speak—allowing her to prove herself through her own words and strategy.
By the time she finished, the afternoon light had deepened to gold, casting long shadows across the drawing room floor.
Aldric was silent for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Then he nodded, slowly. "More sophisticated than I expected. You understand the layered nature of court communication."
"The Tournament operates on multiple levels," Seraphina replied. "Surface spectacle, symbolic messaging, and underneath, the mechanisms of power. To succeed requires awareness of all three."
"Indeed." Aldric looked to James, who tilted his head in acknowledgment.
Aldric moved toward the door, then stopped. "Miss Araminata."
"Your Highness?"
"James's trust is not easily earned. That he has extended it to you is… significant. Do not make me regret allowing this."
"I would expect nothing less, Your Highness," Seraphina said steadily.
Aldric nodded once, then departed. The door closed with a soft click that somehow echoed like the fall of a gavel.
᯽
Silence settled over the room. James remained in his chair, utterly still, his gaze fixed on some middle distance. Not resting, Seraphina realized, but thinking—processing the conversation, considering implications, planning several moves ahead.
She moved to the window, watching the First Prince's carriage pull away, guards falling into formation.
"That went… better than expected," she murmured.
"He did not forbid the alliance," James said, his voice measured. "From Aldric, conditional trust is considerable." There was no pride in his tone. Only calculation. And something heavier, something buried.
Seraphina turned from the window. "And the Tournament?"
"Necessary." He paused. The single word carried weight. Then, quieter: "Dangerous." His gaze lifted, locking with hers—steady, piercing, yet absent of suspicion. Simply acknowledgment. "You understand this."
"I do."
A long moment passed. Then: "Then we prepare. Carefully. Thoroughly." His voice softened slightly, and for the first time that day, carried something heavier than strategy. Something shared. "Together."
The word settled between them, thick and solid.
Seraphina inclined her head, understanding the depth behind it. "Together," she echoed.
James nodded once, eyes closing briefly, a flicker of fatigue crossing his features. The mask of composure remained, but she saw it—the strain etched in the tightness around his eyes, the careful stillness of his posture.
The room vibrated with unspoken agreements, promises neither had voiced but both understood. It was intimacy tempered by fire and ice. Trust earned, fragile but undeniable.
"And if they come for us?" she whispered.
James's hand lifted, resting lightly on the arm of the chair, not touching her, but near enough that the distance pulsed with meaning. "Then we burn brighter," he said, voice low, a promise and a threat wrapped together. "They will see. And they will remember."
A shiver traced her spine.
Together.
The word echoed in her mind, an anthem, a warning, a heartbeat in the quiet. In this court of knives and whispers, that was the only weapon they could trust.
"You should rest," Seraphina said quietly.
"Shortly." His eyes opened again, clear despite the exhaustion. "First, we discuss strategy. The Tournament will require precision."
Even wounded, even exhausted, James's mind continued to work—calculating, planning, preparing. It was not ambition driving him, Seraphina realized, but something deeper. A fundamental inability to surrender control, born not of pride but of bitter experience.
Men who lowered their guard here did not live long.
And James intended to survive.
"Then let us begin," she said, settling into a chair across from him. "We have three weeks. That should be... sufficient."
"Should be," James agreed. A pause. "Though in my experience, sufficiency is a luxury one hopes for but rarely achieves."
Despite everything—the danger, the exhaustion, the weight of what lay ahead—Seraphina felt the faintest curve of a smile touch her lips.
The Tournament of Roses had destroyed her once before.
This time, she would wield it as a weapon and this time, she would not be doing so alone.