Chapter Four: The Heat Between Blades

The blade missed her throat by inches.

Seraphina twisted, flame bursting from her palm as she drove her dagger deep into the man's side, fiery magic flaring along the blade's edge and searing flesh on impact. The attacker screamed, flames licking up his tunic as he fell back. The assassin crumpled with a wet grunt. She spun, eyes scanning for the next attacker. She didn't know who sent them, but she had guesses. And if Alaric had meant this as a warning, he'd misjudged how ready she was to cut back.

The cold night air bit at her skin, but the heat of battle was a different kind of fire, one that burned hot and steady. The garden around her had turned into a blur, stone paths, crushed flowers, muffled screams. Her magic pulsed beneath her skin, alive and restless.

She hadn't always had this power, just woke up one day with it burning under her skin like it had been waiting. It scared her at first. It still did, a little. But now wasn't the time for questions. Now it was a weapon, and that was enough.

Sparks danced at her fingertips, lighting her weapon with controlled fire. Every strike, every parry was instinct. She had done this too many times, and the danger no longer startled her. The silence before the attack, however, was unnerving.

Steel clanged to her right. Caelan.

They moved fast, side by side without planning it. His shoulder brushed hers more than once as they fought, but neither of them pulled away. Every time she pivoted, he was already adjusting. Close. In sync. Like it wasn't their first time doing this.

He moved like a storm, his blade cutting through the air, every strike calculated, every breath steady. His wind-magic-infused sword hummed with the speed it carved through flesh. The air seemed to whip around him as he flowed through the attackers with unnatural fluidity.

"Behind you," he barked.

She ducked just in time, feeling the hiss of the blade whip past her cheek. Without hesitation, she drove her dagger into the attacker's thigh, twisting as the man screamed and collapsed. The pain was nothing. The body count rising around them, however, was real. There were too many. And they were too quiet.

The garden blurred into chaos, the battle unfolding like a brutal dance with no rhythm and no rest. Seraphina's movements were automatic now, sidestep, strike, spin, twist. Fire flared with each movement, protective and predatory, as if her magic sensed the threat before she did. She was an instrument, sharp and precise, but even instruments wear down. Her arm throbbed, the wound there pulsing with pain, but she ignored it. Pain was a reminder she was alive. And if she was alive, she could still fight.

Another figure lunged. One of them broke off, blade raised high, sprinting toward Caelan's flank. He hadn't seen.

"Caelan!" she shouted, flinging her dagger just as the man lunged. Steel found flesh. The man dropped. Caelan turned, surprised. Just for a breath, his eyes met hers. It wasn't gratitude. It was sharper than that, respect, maybe. Or interest. It held a second too long before they both turned away.

Seraphina sidestepped and slammed the hilt of her spare dagger into another attacker's temple. The man crumpled to the ground, unconscious, if not dead.

By the end, three bodies littered the stone-paved garden, the others scattered into the night. If anyone found these bodies, questions would follow. But that didn't matter. What mattered was that someone had known where to find them. Someone wanted this meeting silenced. One gurgled near the well, then went still. Seraphina exhaled slowly, her breath shaky. This wasn't over. Not yet.

She leaned against the moss-covered stone, her arm sore, catching her breath. Her blood, her own, mingled with the damp moss at her feet, but she barely felt it.

"You're hurt," Caelan said, stepping close, his voice low, like the calm before a storm.

"It's a scratch," Seraphina muttered, her voice dry. Blood still trickled down her arm, but she didn't flinch. "Besides, I wasn't the one who nearly took steel to the spine."

He gave a single nod, but stepped in close, closer than necessary. "You saved me."

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"Don't get sentimental," she said, finally meeting his eyes. "I don't do gratitude."

Caelan's gaze sharpened. "They'll come again."

"Then next time, I hope they send more," Seraphina said, standing tall, fire flickering along her skin like it agreed. "Because that? That was pathetic."

Caelan didn't respond right away. His silence was heavy. He studied her with a mixture of caution and something else, something unreadable.

Finally, he spoke. "You've got me, for now. Just don't make me regret it."

"Then keep up or get out of the way," she said. Her voice didn't rise, but it didn't need to.

That wasn't a surrender. It was a gamble. And Seraphina understood exactly how dangerous a man like Caelan could be, especially when he started betting on her.

An hour earlier, the estate had been quiet.

Seraphina moved like a shadow through the halls, the weight of her cloak draped tightly around her. The torchlight barely reached her as she slipped through a side exit, venturing into the cool night. The quiet felt suffocating, like the calm before a storm that was bound to break.

She followed a familiar route, one she'd used many times before, long ago. A path taken in secret, during festivals, to escape the estate's weight. It led to the far edge of the estate, to a place where nothing but old stone and forgotten stories remained. A place where she could breathe freely, even for a moment.

The well waited there. Ancient. Moss-covered. Its stone rim, worn by time, felt like an old friend to Seraphina, though she didn't believe in its rumored magic, the whispers that it could reveal the truth. Still, it had always been a good place to meet.

She waited, her heart a steady rhythm, but the minutes felt like hours. The wind rustled the trees, a distant cry of a bird echoed. Then, footsteps. Faint, but clear.

He emerged from the shadows of the trees, his broad shoulders framed by moonlight. Silent. Steady. Like a shadow himself.

She pulled her hood down. "You're late."

"You came alone," Caelan said, his voice low, guarded. "Just like I asked."

She gave a half-smile. "You said come alone. I listen, occasionally."

"Could've been a trap."

"And yet you came," she said, arching a brow. "That's either trust or arrogance."

He stepped closer, moonlight carving angles into his expression. "You never sought me out before. Not when Alaric had you leashed and displayed like a prize. So why break formation now?"

Her smile cracked, thinner this time. "Because I've seen what doing nothing gets me. And because you strike me as the kind of man who wouldn't hesitate to tip a lantern in a dry field."

"You think I'm your firestarter?" Caelan's voice was quiet, but something sharp flickered under it. "That I'll burn your enemies while you stay clean?"

"No. I think you've been waiting for the right excuse to finally light the match."

His voice turned cold. "You don't trust me."

"No," she said without hesitation. "But I trust that you hate Alaric. And I know what that kind of hate makes people do."

He tilted his head, eyes narrowing. "You think I haven't already tried to bring him down?"

"If you had, you'd be dead. Or he would." "But we're not. Which means you hesitated."

A flicker of something, shame, maybe, cut through his mask. But it vanished as quickly as it came.

"I needed someone who isn't smiling while reaching for a knife," she continued. "Someone who sees the rot and doesn't flinch."

"You talk like someone who's been carved open by loyalty."

"I talk like someone who knows exactly what it's like to be sacrificed by the people she trusted."

A beat of silence. Then:

"This isn't justice," he warned. "It's survival. And survival gets ugly long before it ever gets clean."

"Good," Seraphina said. "I'm done pretending I want clean."

Before he could speak again, the wind shifted. Hedges rustled. Stillness broke. Six shadows stepped into the clearing, silent, swift, steel drawn.

Seraphina didn't flinch. "Friends of yours?" she asked, blade already raised. "Funny. I was about to ask you the same thing," Caelan replied, drawing his sword.

The garden was soaked in blood, the moon breaking through the clouds just as the last of their enemies fell. She stood, panting but steady, her hand tight around the dagger, her chest rising and falling with each breath.

"That wasn't random," Seraphina said, voice flat. "That was a message."

Caelan nodded. "They're watching. They want to know if you flinch."

"I don't." She wiped the blade clean on a dead man's sleeve.

"They'll keep coming."

"Then I'll keep carving."

She turned toward the palace. Her legs ached. Her arm screamed. But the fire in her chest was roaring louder than all of it. "Tomorrow I walk into that council chamber, blood still drying on my boots. I want to see which coward dares meet my eyes first."

Caelan's jaw tightened. "They're not ready for you."

"Let them learn."

He stared at her like he was trying to solve her, whether she was a weapon, a warning, or both.

"They still think I'm playing their game," she said. "Banquets. Favors. Alliances. But I'm done playing. I'm here to rewrite the rules."

Caelan's voice dropped. "Then I'll walk beside you. But if you lose yourself, I walk."

She swayed. The pain was catching up. Caelan caught her elbow and didn't let go right away. His grip was steady, grounding. She looked up. He didn't say anything, and neither did she.

His hand was steady.

"Too many eyes back at the estate," he muttered. "There's a stable nearby. Quiet."

She nodded. "Then let's disappear."

Together, they vanished into the dark, footsteps swallowed by moss and moonlight. The court still thought she was playing their game.

They were wrong.

She wasn't here to play. She was here to end it.