The heavy doors of the Ironhold War Room slammed shut behind General Aldric and Elyria, their footsteps fading down the marble corridor. Silence settled like a suffocating shroud. Only the crackle of dying embers in the hearth and the slow, deliberate tap of my father's signet ring against the oak table filled the space.
I kept my spine straight, my face a mask of calm. But beneath my gloves, my nails bit into my palms.
Duke Ironhold leaned back in his chair, the firelight carving shadows across the sharp angles of his face. His voice was a velvet-wrapped blade.
"Tell me, Seraphine," he murmured, "how long did you think you could hide him from me?"
My pulse spiked, but I met his gaze without flinching. "I don't know what you mean."
A slow, knowing smile curled his lips. "Your chauffeur. The man who left traces of charcoal and amateur wiring all over my city." His fingers steepled. "Gunther, wasn't it?"
The air turned to ice in my lungs. He knew.
I tilted my head, forcing a laugh. "If you're accusing him, you'll need more than speculation. The second bomb was crude—hardly the work of a professional."
"Precisely." His eyes gleamed. "Which is why I didn't hand him to Aldric. Yet." He stood, circling the table like a wolf closing in. "But I do wonder… why would my daughter protect a man reckless enough to strike at Ironhold itself?"
Every instinct screamed to lie, to deflect. But my father had already seen through me. The game had changed.
So I bared my teeth in a smile just as sharp as his.
"Maybe," I said softly, "you should ask what he knows that made him desperate enough to try."
The Duke went very still.
And for the first time, I saw the flicker of doubt in his eyes.
The silence between us was thick, charged like the air before a storm. My father's gaze bore into me, unreadable as ever, but I refused to look away. This was no longer about evasion—it was about survival.
So I asked the question that had festered in my chest for years.
"Am I anything to you, Father?"
His brow twitched, the only sign of surprise. "What kind of question is that? Do you want me to be indifferent?" His voice was cool, but there was an edge to it now—the first crack in his composure.
I pressed on. "What I mean is… if you had known about the rune-bomb planted in the dome before it detonated, what would you have done?"
"I would have dealt with it," he said smoothly. "Reported it to the royal forces, had it dismantled."
"Would you?" I tilted my head. "Are you certain the royal forces would report directly to the lieutenants? Or even to General Aldric himself?" My fingers traced the edge of the war table. "Or would they report to the spies first?"
His eyes narrowed. "That's—"
"You know exactly what I'm implying." I cut him off, my voice steady despite the fire in my chest. "So tell me, Father—what would you really have done?"
For the first time, he hesitated. "I would have forbidden you from going. That summit was—"
"I would have survived," I interrupted again, sharper now. "But what of the others? The nobles? The king's delegates? What would that have done to your reputation as Duke of Ironhold? As the king's right hand?"
The words hung between us like a blade.
His jaw tightened, and for a fleeting moment, I saw it—the realization dawning in his eyes. The pieces clicking into place.
Gunther's bomb hadn't been an act of rebellion.
It had been a distraction.
A crude, chaotic explosion to draw attention away from the real threat—the rune-bomb, sophisticated and deadly, meant to decimate the Ironhold elite in one strike.
And in that moment, my father understood:
Gunther hadn't attacked Ironhold.
He had saved it.
The Duke exhaled slowly, his fingers curling into fists atop the table. "You're saying he knew."
"He knew enough to act," I said quietly. "And he knew no one would believe him without proof."
The fire crackled, casting long shadows across the war room. My father's voice, when he finally spoke, was barely above a whisper.
"Then why didn't he come to me?"
I met his gaze, unflinching.
"Would you have listened?"
Silence.
And in that silence, the truth settled between us like ash after a fire.
The Duke of Ironhold had spent years weaving a web of control, trusting no one, suspecting everyone.
But now, for the first time, he was forced to face the consequences.
His own daughter didn't trust him.
And worse—he wasn't sure if she was wrong to.
The weight of my words lingered in the air like smoke after a wildfire. My father—the unshakable Duke of Ironhold—stood frozen, his sharp mind racing to reconcile everything I had just laid bare.
"Now you understand why I protected him," I said softly. "And why I admire him so much."
His hand tightened on the edge of the war table. "Wait… wait. Hold up. Wait a minute." He held up a finger, as if physically stopping my words. "No, no—this is a different matter entirely, my beautiful daughter." His voice was strained, caught between disbelief and reluctant amusement. "I've given you choices. Noblemen. Promising suitors from the finest houses. And you discarded them all as if they meant nothing!"
"Yes," I admitted, lifting my chin. "Because I was too focused on the Academy. Too focused on duty to remember one simple truth—I'm also a woman, Father."
His lips pressed into a thin line. "But why… him? He's my age. You realize he could practically be your father?"
A smirk tugged at my lips. "Funny you should say that. After all, didn't you once see him evade your Blade of Clarity like it was nothing?"
"This isn't about skill, my child," he said, but his voice lacked its usual steel.
I stepped closer, my gaze unwavering. "Isn't it? You respect strength. So do I."
A long silence stretched between us. Then, finally, the Duke exhaled, rubbing his temple as if warding off an impending headache.
"Fine," he muttered. "I'll give you this chance. But do it where I don't have to see it." He shot me a warning look. "I'm an old man now—same age as that 'idol' of yours, who probably has the same creaking joints and old wounds. Spare me the indignity."
I couldn't help the small, triumphant smile that curved my lips.
"Thank you, Father."
He waved me off with a grumble, but as I turned to leave, I caught the faintest flicker of something in his eyes—resignation, yes, but also… understanding.
Gunther had forced him to see the rot in his own duchy.
And now, perhaps, he was beginning to see the truth in my heart as well.
The knock at my door was soft, yet it sent an unexpected tremor through my chest. When I opened it, there she stood—Lady Seraphine, dressed in casual attire that somehow made her look even more regal. The dim light of the hallway framed her like a painting, and for a foolish moment, I forgot how to breathe.
"May I come in?" she asked, her voice a quiet melody.
I stepped aside, suddenly hyper-aware of the mess in my quarters—scattered tools, half-dismantled mechanisms, and the ever-present scent of oil and old parchment. "Of course, my lady. Forgive the disorder."
Her lips curved into a faint smile as she stepped inside. "I came here for you, not for the state of your room."
I guided her to the only decent chair—the one I usually occupied during long nights of tinkering or brooding over a cup of bitter coffee. "Would you like some tea? Or coffee?" I offered, desperate for something to do with my hands.
"Could you just... sit with me instead?" Her gaze held mine, unwavering. "There's something I need to ask."
I stiffened but obeyed, lowering myself onto the edge of my workbench, keeping a respectful distance. "Of course, Lady Seraphine."
She took a slow breath, her fingers tracing the rim of a discarded gear on my desk. "Tell me… do you ever think of marrying again?"
The question hit me like a hammer to the ribs. "My lady—" I choked out a disbelieving laugh. "Surely you jest. A man like me—a mere chauffeur—could never be worthy of the Duke's daughter."
Her eyes flashed. "So you're saying I'm not worth answering?"
"No! I only meant—" I dragged a hand through my hair, frustration and something far more dangerous clawing at my throat. "You are nobility. I am a man who fixes carriages and occasionally… improvises explosives. This isn't a matter of worth—it's a matter of reality."
"Reality?" She leaned forward, and the scent of jasmine and steel—so uniquely her—wrapped around me. "A 'mere chauffeur' doesn't assemble bombs that stump royal alchemists. A 'mere chauffeur' doesn't dismantle a high-tier wizard's trap with his bare hands in under a minute." Her voice dropped to a whisper. "Gunther. Don't insult me by pretending I don't know exactly what kind of man you are."
I swallowed hard. "Even so, my lady… my duty—"
"Your duty is to protect me, isn't it?" Her fingers brushed the back of my hand—a fleeting, electric touch. "Then stay by my side. Not just as a servant. Not just as a shadow. Because I…" She hesitated, and for the first time, the unshakable Lady Seraphine looked uncertain. "I don't want to lose you to some false notion of propriety."
The air between us thickened, every unspoken word heavier than the last. I was too old for this. Too scarred. And yet—
Her hand found mine, threading our fingers together with a gentleness that shattered my resolve. "You once told me age is just a number scribbled on a forgotten document," she murmured. "Was that a lie?"
I let out a shuddering breath. "No, my lady."
"Then look at me," she commanded.
I did. And in her eyes, I saw no hesitation—only a fire that mirrored the one I'd spent decades smothering in myself.
Slowly, painfully, I turned my hand to clasp hers properly. "Seraphine," I said, testing her name without title for the first time. "You terrify me."
Her laughter was soft, victorious. "Good."
And when she leaned in, I didn't pull away.
Her fingers were still laced with mine—warm, alive, real in a way that made my chest ache. I should have pulled away. I should have remembered my place, my age, the decades of blood and regret that separated us.
But then her thumb brushed over my knuckles—over the scar there from a blade I hadn't quite dodged years ago—and something in me cracked.
"Do you know why I really came tonight?" Seraphine asked, her voice barely above a whisper.
I couldn't speak. Couldn't trust my own voice not to betray the storm inside me. So I simply waited, my pulse hammering like a prisoner begging for release.
She leaned closer, the firelight catching in her eyes—not the cool, calculating noblewoman's gaze I was used to, but something hungry. "Because I dreamed of you last night."
A shudder ran through me. "My lady—"
"Not like that," she interrupted, though her lips quirked in a way that suggested yet. "I dreamed you were walking away. And when I called for you, you didn't turn back." Her grip tightened. "So tell me, Gunther—if I asked you to stay, would you?"
The question was a blade pressed to my throat.
Because the truth was simple: I already had.
Every year I'd lingered in Ironhold, every time I'd patched up her scrapes or quietly disposed of threats the Duke's men were too slow to catch—I'd been staying. Just in the shadows. Just where it was safe.
But Seraphine had never been content with shadows.
"You deserve more than a broken-down mercenary," I rasped.
"I deserve the man who knows me," she countered. "The one who sees the runes beneath my gloves and doesn't flinch. The one who chose to plant that bomb because he knew—knew—I'd walk right into that dome otherwise." Her free hand rose, hovering near my cheek. "Tell me I'm wrong."
I caught her wrist before she could touch me, my breath ragged. "You're not."
The admission cost me. But the way her eyes lit—like dawn breaking over a battlefield—was worth every shattered defense.
"Then stop pretending," she breathed.
And God help me, when her lips met mine, I did.
[Outside the Door]
The Duke of Ironhold turned away from the threshold, the ghost of a smile tugging at his mouth.
"Damn old fool," he muttered to the empty hall. "Took you long enough."
Then, with a shake of his head, he strode away—leaving only a single rose on the floor, its petals as red as the blood his daughter had just drawn without a blade.