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."

The ballroom was a sea of diamonds and silk. The orchestra played a swelling waltz, but nobody was dancing. Everyone was watching the stage.

King Edward stood at the podium. General Stone stood beside him, the newly pinned Imperial Cross gleaming on his chest.

The applause was deafening.

"And now," the King announced, his voice amplified by the microphone, "we have one more hero to honor."

The spotlight swung around, blindingly bright. It landed on Julian and Imogen.

A hush fell over the crowd.

Julian unlocked the brakes on his wheelchair. He gripped the armrests.

"Julian, don't," Imogen whispered. "Your leg..."

"Help me up," he said through gritted teeth.

Imogen hesitated, then slipped her arm under his. With her support, Julian pushed himself up. His bad leg trembled violently. Pain shot up his spine, white-hot and searing.

But he stood.

He stood tall, leaning heavily on Imogen.

He reached into his pocket and pulled out the velvet box.

He shifted his weight, a sharp hiss of pain escaping his lips. Wincing, he slowly, agonizingly, lowered himself onto one knee. The fabric of his uniform strained against the bandages, and a fresh, hot spike of agony shot through his side, but he locked his jaw against it.

The crowd gasped. A collective intake of breath.

"Imogen Sterling," Julian's voice was strong, carrying to the back of the room. "I told you I would do this when we weren't covered in blood."

Imogen covered her mouth with her hands. Tears streamed down her face, ruining her makeup. She didn't care.

"Will you marry me?"

"Yes!" she cried out. "Yes, you idiot, stand up!"

She dropped to her knees to hug him. The crowd erupted. Thunderous applause. The King clapped from the stage, sealing the union with royal approval.

In the shadows near the buffet table, Isolde watched them. She was smiling, clapping.

Then, the room spun.

A wave of nausea hit her so hard she almost dropped her clutch. She grabbed Elliot's arm to steady herself.

"Isolde?" Elliot asked, concern instantly replacing his social smile. "Are you okay?"

"I'm fine," she muttered, swallowing back bile. She instinctively touched her stomach. No. It couldn't be. Not yet. The timing would ruin everything. The thought was a shard of ice in her gut.

She looked up, trying to focus. Her gaze drifted to the stage.

The King was stepping down. As he descended the stairs, a man in a black tuxedo stepped out from behind a heavy velvet curtain.

He was nondescript. Forgettable. But Isolde knew him. Agent Cipher. The head of the King's 'Special Operations' division-the department that handled things that needed to disappear. Not people. Problems.

Cipher caught the King's eye. He gave a single, sharp nod. The King touched his tie-a signal.

Isolde's blood ran cold as she understood. It wasn't an order to kill. It was an activation signal. A green light for an extraction.

She scanned the room frantically. She found her.

Consort Cecilia. The King's wife.

Cecilia was standing near the balcony doors. She wasn't looking at the proposal. She wasn't looking at the King. She was staring at the exit sign with a look of utter, hollow despair.

Isolde remembered the headlines from her past life. Consort Cecilia Dies of Sudden Heart Failure. It was supposed to happen next month.

But the nod. The signal.

They moved the timeline up.

Isolde gripped Elliot's arm tighter, her fingernails digging into his suit fabric. The joy of the engagement evaporated, replaced by the cold, hard reality of the game they were playing.

Julian and Imogen were kissing in the spotlight, bathed in applause.

But in the shadows, the knives were already out for the Queen.