The Stone mansion was in chaos.

Maids were running back and forth with basins of hot water and towels that were already stained red. The air smelled of metallic copper and lavender panic.

Isolde burst through the front doors, Elliot right behind her.

"Where is she?" Isolde screamed at the butler.

"The master bedroom, My Lady," the butler stammered, his face pale. "The doctor says... he says the bleeding won't stop."

Isolde didn't wait. She hiked up her skirt and sprinted up the grand staircase.

At the top of the stairs, she collided with a wall of noise. Screams. Her sister's screams.

Isolde threw the bedroom doors open.

The room was hot and stifling. Seraphina was on the bed, her skin the color of ash. Her eyes were rolled back, unfocused.

"Seraphina!" Isolde rushed to the bedside. She grabbed her sister's limp hand. It was cold.

"Isolde?" Seraphina whispered. Her voice was a ghost. "I'm tired. I want to sleep."

"No!" Isolde shook her. "You do not sleep! You hear me? You fight!"

"I can't..." Seraphina's eyes fluttered shut. "Tell Marcus... tell him I tried."

"Tell him yourself!" Isolde yelled.

Suddenly, a roar came from the hallway.

"Move! Get out of my way!"

General Stone charged into the room. He was still wearing his desert fatigues, covered in dust. He looked like a madman.

He fell to his knees beside the bed. "Seraphina!"

Seraphina's eyes snapped open. The sound of his voice was like a jolt of electricity.

"Marcus?"

"I'm here," Stone choked out, gripping her face with his rough hands. "I'm here, baby. I'm home."

Behind him, a pale and sweating Julian was wheeled into the room by Imogen. He took one look at the situation, his professional instincts overriding the agony in his side.

"Get those fluids running wide open!" Julian barked at the terrified attending physician, his voice strained. "She's in hypovolemic shock! Elevate her legs! Now!" He gripped the armrest of his chair, his knuckles white, fighting a wave of dizziness.

The room exploded into action. Stone held Seraphina's hand, whispering promises, begging her to stay. Julian shouted orders from his chair, his medical authority overriding the panic.

Isolde stood back, her heart pounding against her ribs. She watched the monitor. The heart rate was dropping.

Beep... beep... beep...

"Push!" the midwife shouted. "One more time, My Lady! For the General!"

Seraphina looked at Stone. She saw the fear in the eyes of the man who never feared anything. She took a deep, ragged breath. She screamed, a primal sound of defiance against death.

And then... a cry.

A thin, high-pitched wail that cut through the tension like a knife.

The midwife held up a small, wriggling bundle.

"It's a boy," she wept. "It's a boy."

Stone buried his face in the mattress and sobbed. Great, heaving sobs that shook his massive frame.

Seraphina smiled weakly. "Marcus..."

Stone looked up. He took the baby, wrapping it in his dirty fatigue jacket. He held it down for Seraphina to see.

"Look," he whispered. "Look at him. He's a fighter. Just like you."

Isolde leaned against the doorframe. Her legs gave out. She slid down to the floor, burying her face in her hands.

Elliot was there instantly. He wrapped his arms around her, pulling her close.

"You did it," he whispered into her hair. "She's safe."

Isolde nodded, tears soaking Elliot's expensive suit. The timeline had bent. Death had come for the Stone family, and they had sent it away empty-handed.

Julian sat in his wheelchair, wiping sweat from his forehead. Imogen stood behind him, her hands resting on his shoulders. They shared a look. A look that said: We survived.

The mansion was quiet now. The guests had gone, the doctors had left.

In the master bathroom, General Stone stood in front of the mirror. He had finally taken off his jacket.

He hissed as he peeled his undershirt off. The fabric was stuck to his back.

He hadn't told anyone. When the mortar hit the depot, a piece of shrapnel had grazed his back. It wasn't deep, but it was ugly. A long, jagged tear across his latissimus dorsi.

He grabbed a bottle of rubbing alcohol and a towel. He bit down on the towel and poured the alcohol over his shoulder.

The burn was blinding. He groaned, bracing his hands against the sink, his knuckles turning white.

"Marcus?"

Stone froze. He spun around, trying to hide his back.

Seraphina was standing in the doorway. She was wearing a silk nightgown, holding onto the doorframe for support. She looked weak, but alive.

"What are you doing?" she asked softly.

"Nothing," Stone said quickly. "Just... cleaning up."

Seraphina walked into the room. She moved slowly, wincing with each step. She walked around him.

She gasped when she saw his back. The angry red line, the dried blood.

"You're hurt," she whispered. Her fingers hovered over the wound, afraid to touch.

"It's a scratch," Stone lied. "Julian took the real hit."

"You idiot," Seraphina said, but there was no heat in it. Her eyes filled with tears. "You came home like this... you held me... and you didn't say a word?"

"You were busy," Stone tried to joke, but his voice cracked. "You were pushing a human out of your body."

Seraphina took the towel from his hand. "Sit down."

"Sera, you should be in bed..."

"Sit. Down."

Stone sat on the edge of the tub. He was a General who commanded thousands of men, but he didn't dare disobey his wife.

Seraphina gently cleaned the wound. Her touch was light, reverent. She kissed his shoulder, right above the cut.

"I thought you weren't coming," she confessed softly. "When the pain started... I thought I was going to die alone."

Stone turned and pulled her into his lap. He buried his face in her neck, inhaling the scent of milk and baby powder.

"Never," he swore. "I will burn the world down before I let you go alone."

They sat there for a long time, holding each other in the silence of the bathroom.

"Have you named him?" Stone asked.

"Victor," Seraphina said. "For victory."

"Victor Stone," Marcus tested the name. "Sounds like a tank commander."

"He will be a poet," Seraphina argued with a smile.

A knock at the door interrupted them. It was Isolde.

"Sorry to interrupt the love fest," Isolde said, leaning against the doorframe, holding a thick envelope. "But a royal courier just dropped this off."

Stone took the envelope. It was heavy cream paper, embossed with the Royal Crest in gold leaf.

He opened it.

INVITATION TO THE VICTORY GALA

In Honor of General Marcus Stone and the Heroes of the Border War.

"It's next week," Stone said, tossing the invitation on the counter. "I hate galas."

"You have to go," Isolde said. Her eyes were sharp. "Julian is getting a commendation. And... I think he's planning something."

Seraphina raised an eyebrow. "Planning what?"

Isolde smiled, a secretive, knowing smile. "Let's just say Imogen better get a manicure."

The Royal Palace smelled of beeswax and old power.

Julian sat in his wheelchair in the antechamber of the King's private study. He was wearing his dress uniform, the medals pinned to his chest clinking softly every time he breathed.

Duke Elliot stood behind him, his hand resting on the wheelchair handle.

"Remember," Elliot murmured. "The King is generous, but he is a merchant at heart. Everything has a price."

"I have my wallet ready," Julian said dryly, adjusting his glasses. He was nervous. His palms were sweating inside his white dress gloves.

The heavy doors opened.

King Edward sat behind a desk that was large enough to land a plane on. He didn't look up from the documents he was signing.

"Enter," the King said.

Elliot pushed Julian forward.

"Your Majesty," Julian said, bowing his head as best he could from the chair.

The King finally looked up. He had cold blue eyes that assessed Julian's value in seconds.

"Dr. Harris," the King said. "Or should I say, the man who saved my best General."

"I did what any soldier would do, Sire."

"Modesty is boring, Doctor," the King waved a hand. "You took a poisoned blade for a superior officer. That earns you a favor. Ask."

Julian took a deep breath. This was it.

"I request permission to marry Lady Imogen Sterling."

The King paused. He leaned back in his leather chair, steepling his fingers.

"The Sterlings," the King mused. "An old name. Impoverished. Disgraced by her father's gambling debts. Why her? You could have a Duchess. A man of your talent and your family's standing..."

"She saved my life in the desert," Julian said. He looked the King in the eye. "She is the only one I want."

The King studied him. For a moment, the mask of the monarch slipped, revealing a man who remembered what it was like to be young and foolish.

"Very well," the King said. "But the Duke is right. Everything has a price."

"Name it," Julian said.

"My mother," the King said, his voice dropping. "The Queen Mother. The Levine incident has left her... rattled. Her paranoia attracts parasites. I need a medical advisor in her wing. Someone I can trust. Someone whose loyalty isn't to the old guard, but to the future of this Crown."

Julian understood immediately. The King wanted a spy. He wanted someone to watch the Queen Mother, to ensure no more "Levine incidents" happened, and perhaps to monitor her political meddling.

"I would be honored to serve as the Royal Physician," Julian said.

"Good," the King stood up. "Then you have my blessing. Do it tonight. At the Gala. Give the people a show. They love a romance."

Julian and Elliot left the study.

As they rolled down the hallway, Elliot chuckled. "You just sold your soul to the devil for a girl."

"Worth it," Julian said. He checked his pocket. The ring box was there. The real one this time. A three-carat sapphire from the Powers vault.

They reached the entrance to the Grand Ballroom. The doors were open, spilling light and music into the corridor.

Imogen was waiting there. She was wearing a midnight blue gown that hugged her curves. She looked nervous, twisting a handkerchief in her hands.

When she saw Julian, her face lit up. It was like the sun breaking through clouds.

"Did it go okay?" she asked, rushing over.

Julian smiled. He reached out and took her hand.

"Better than okay," he said. "Ready to make a scene?"

Imogen laughed. "With you? Always."