The capital did not sleep that night.
Torches burned along the castle walls, and the sound of armored boots echoed through the courtyards. News of Veyron's approaching forces spread like wildfire. Panic simmered beneath the surface of order.
Seraphina stood at the war table beside the Crown Prince, studying the map.
"They will not attack the main gates," she said calmly, pointing toward the river passage. "Veyron prefers spectacle—but he wins through misdirection."
The generals murmured.
The Prince's eyes remained fixed on her. Not as a ruler evaluating strategy.
But as a man watching the woman he loved step further into danger.
The First Spark of Conflict
Alaric entered abruptly, cloak damp from scouting.
"They're closer than we thought," he reported. "And… they're spreading rumors."
Seraphina looked up. "Rumors?"
Alaric hesitated.
"That the 'Villainess' has bewitched the Crown Prince. That you are the reason chaos follows the throne."
Silence fell.
Seraphina felt the old sting of that word.
Villainess.
The Prince's expression darkened.
"Anyone who repeats such slander will answer to me."
But Seraphina gently touched his sleeve.
"No. If I hide behind you, they win."
For a moment, their eyes locked.
And something unspoken passed between them.
Jealousy Ignites
Later, as preparations intensified, Seraphina found herself alone in the armory corridor with Alaric.
"You know," he said lightly while adjusting his gloves, "if things grow too dangerous, you could always run away with me."
She laughed softly. "Is that a formal offer?"
"Very formal. I even promise mediocre cooking and dramatic poetry."
She smiled—really smiled.
And that was when the Prince stepped into the corridor.
He had seen it.
The laughter.
The closeness.
His restraint snapped.
"Alaric," his voice was controlled—but sharp. "Report to the east tower."
Alaric raised both hands in surrender. "As you command."
As he passed Seraphina, he whispered playfully, "He's terrifying when jealous."
She barely had time to react before the Prince stepped closer.
Too close.
"You find him amusing."
It wasn't a question.
Seraphina lifted her chin. "He makes me laugh."
"And I do not?"
"You make my heart race."
The confession slipped out before she could stop it.
The Prince froze.
The world seemed to tilt.
The Almost Confession
Outside, thunder cracked across the sky.
He stepped forward, hand gripping her wrist—not painfully, but firmly.
"When you smile at him," he said quietly, "it feels like I am losing something that was never mine to claim."
Her breath trembled.
"You are not losing anything."
"Then tell me," he demanded softly, "what am I to you?"
The air between them burned.
She could see it now—no more denial, no more political restraint.
Just a man standing before her, afraid.
Before she could answer—
A horn sounded from the walls.
The attack had begun.
The Battle of the River Gate
Flames rose in the distance.
Veyron's forces had chosen the river passage—exactly as Seraphina predicted.
Chaos erupted.
The Prince mounted his horse, sword gleaming under lightning.
Seraphina refused to remain behind.
"I will coordinate the inner defense."
He grabbed her hand again.
"You are not expendable."
"Neither are you."
For a heartbeat, war faded.
Only them.
Then he leaned down and pressed his forehead against hers.
"If I survive tonight," he whispered, "I will not remain silent any longer."
Her heart nearly stopped.
The Turning Point
The battle was fierce.
Alaric fought with reckless charm, protecting the flank while joking at soldiers to keep morale high.
Seraphina directed reinforcements with sharp precision.
But then—
A masked figure slipped past the chaos.
Not toward the gates.
Toward her.
Steel flashed.
She barely had time to react before—
The Prince intercepted the blade.
Blood darkened his sleeve.
Time froze.
"NO!" she cried.
The assassin vanished into smoke.
The Prince remained standing—but wounded.
He looked at her, breathing hard.
"I told you," he murmured faintly, "I would not let you fall."
The Cliffhanger
The battle ended in temporary victory.
But the cost lingered.
Inside the dimly lit chamber, Seraphina pressed cloth against his wound.
Her hands trembled.
"You could have died."
He studied her face.
"And what would that have done to you?"
Tears shimmered in her eyes.
He reached up weakly, brushing her cheek.
"That," he whispered, "is the answer I needed."
Footsteps rushed down the corridor.
A soldier burst in.
"Your Highness—Veyron has requested a private audience."
Silence.
Seraphina's pulse pounded.
Why now?
Why personally?
And why did it feel like this was only the beginning?
End of Chapter 13