The dueling courtyard was built for ceremony—smooth stone, marble columns, and far too many nobles pretending not to be thrilled about the incoming violence.
Seraphina stood at the center like a dark flower in full bloom.
Midnight blue gown. High slit. Gloves to the elbow. A sword resting against her shoulder like a whispered threat.
Her opponent, Lady Ilsabeth's chosen champion, was a pretty nobleman named Dorian with perfect posture and no soul behind his eyes.
He bowed with flourish.
She didn't.
A light breeze picked up.
Somewhere, Lord Snobberly yawned from atop Lucien's shoulder.
"I do hope," Dorian said smugly, "that you've at least held a blade before."
Seraphina's smile was small and surgical. "Only when I'm bored."
Rhys leaned on the fence, arms crossed. "Ten gold on her disarming him in under three minutes."
Lucien glanced at the sun. "Two, if she's irritated."
The bell rang.
Dorian lunged.
Seraphina stepped aside with the elegance of a bored goddess dodging fate. Her blade slid from its sheath with a sound that promised scandal. She didn't counter immediately. She waited.
She let him show off.
Let him swing wide, overreach, grin like he thought he was winning.
Then, just as he moved in for a dramatic upward slash—
CLACK.
Her heel stepped on his foot.
Her glove caught his wrist mid-swing.
Her sword? Gently tapped his cheek.
A thin red line appeared.
Gasps rippled through the courtyard.
"First blood," the officiant croaked.
Seraphina leaned in, close enough to whisper.
"You should've worn thicker skin, darling."
Dorian blinked. Then fainted.
Straight to the floor. Down like dignity at a masquerade ball.
She turned. Calm. Gliding away like she hadn't just humiliated someone in front of half the capital.
Rhys cheered.
Lucien sighed.
Thorne, lurking near the gates, smiled for the first time. Just a little.