The counter-offensive began at dawn.

Catarina dressed in her most practical riding habit. It was dark green velvet, tailored for movement.

She rode to the central market. She did not take a heavy guard. She took two scribes.

She walked through the stalls. She inspected the produce.

She stopped at a grain merchant's stall.

"Mr. miller," she said loudly enough for the crowd to hear. "I noticed the eastern road repairs are ahead of schedule. We should see a decrease in transport costs this month."

The miller blinked. "Truly, Your Grace?"

"Truly," Catarina said. She signed a document the scribe held out.

"I am authorizing a reduction in the market tax to match the savings. Pass it on to your customers."

A ripple went through the crowd.

Tax reduction.

Victor Roselle had been giving speeches about "Martial Honor" and "Ancient Bloodlines."

Catarina was putting coins in their pockets.

By noon, she was at the city walls. She inspected the ballistae with the captain of the watch.

She asked technical questions about tension variance and bolt supply.

She looked competent. She looked unbothered.

Meanwhile, the whispers began.

In the tavern, a merchant lowered his voice. "Have you heard? Lord Victor owes forty thousand gold pieces to a demon casino."

"Forty thousand?" another gasped. "He'll strip the treasury bare in a week!"

In the laundry, Martha scrubbed a sheet with vigor.

"And Duke Thornbeck wants to tax the wool," she told the scullery maids. "He wrote it down! My nephew saw the letter!"

"They want to sell us out," a maid whispered. "To pay for his gambling."

By evening, the mood in the city had shifted.

Victor rode his carriage through the main street. He waved at the people.

The people did not wave back.

They stared. They muttered.

Some of them touched their purses protectively.

The narrative had changed.

He wasn't the Savior anymore. He was the Thief.

✧✧✧

Day three.

Catarina held a public audience in the square.

Usually, these were boring affairs. Today, the square was packed.

Victor stood on a balcony overlooking the square. He looked smug.

He was waiting for her to stumble. He was waiting for her to look weak.

A merchant stepped forward.

"Your Grace, we are concerned about the succession crisis. Is it true the legal challenge will freeze our assets?"

Catarina sat on a simple wooden chair. She looked relaxed.

"There is no crisis," she said calmly. Her voice carried clearly. "There is a frivolous legal complaint filed by a cousin who is confused about how finances work."

Laughter rippled through the crowd.

"The duchy is solvent," Catarina continued. "Our reserves are full. Unlike some private estates."

She didn't name Victor. She didn't have to. The crowd looked up at the balcony.

Victor's face turned red.

"We are preparing for the Demon Lord," Catarina said. "We are stockpiling steel and grain. We are not wasting time on vanity projects."

She stood up.

"I serve Roselle," she said. "I do not serve myself. Anyone who seeks this seat for personal gain is an enemy of the people."

The cheer that went up was deafening.

It wasn't polite applause. It was a roar.

Up on the balcony, Victor Roselle stepped back.

He looked at the crowd. He saw their anger.

He realized, with sudden, cold clarity, that he had lost.

✧✧✧

Day five.

The "equipment issues" that had delayed the loyal army miraculously resolved.

Four thousand soldiers marched back into the capital.

They didn't attack anyone. They simply returned to their barracks.

But their presence ended any thought Victor might have had about using his mercenaries.

His "private security" took one look at the heavy cavalry and dissolved into the night.

Day six.

Marcus sat in the library of the ducal palace. He was reading a book on crop rotation.

The door opened.

Catarina walked in.

She held a piece of paper. She looked stunned.

"He withdrew," she said.

Marcus closed his book. "Victor?"

"He sent a messenger," Catarina said. "He is withdrawing the legal challenge. He cites a need to 'focus on his estates in the south.'"

"He's running from his debtors," Marcus translated.

"And Thornbeck?" Catarina asked.

"I suspect Thornbeck stopped returning his letters three days ago," Marcus said. "Thornbeck doesn't back failures."

Catarina walked to the window. She looked out at her city.

It was safe. It was hers.

"It worked," she whispered. "We didn't even have to go to court."

"You won the verdict before the trial started," Marcus said.

He stood up.

"Congratulations, Duchess. You fought a clean war."

Catarina turned to face him.

The adrenaline of the crisis was fading. In its place was something softer.

"I didn't fight it alone," she said.

She walked across the room. She stopped in front of him.

"You saved me, Marcus."

"I advised you," Marcus corrected. "You did the speeches. You signed the orders."

"You gave me the map," she said. "and helped me see the path."

She looked at him. Her green eyes were searching.

"Any other man would have ridden in here and tried to take command," she said. "They would have tried to be the hero."

"I'm not a hero," Marcus said. "I'm a consultant."

Catarina smiled. It was a genuine, unguarded smile.

"You stepped back," she said. "You let me be the strong one. Do you know how rare that is?"

"It shouldn't be," Marcus said.

"But it is."

She reached out. She took his hand.

Marcus froze. He felt the warmth of her skin.

"You see me," Catarina said quietly. "You don't see a political asset. You don't see a damsel. You see Catarina."

"I see a very capable leader," Marcus said. His voice was tight. "Who needs to get some sleep."

Catarina squeezed his hand.

"You could have used this," she said. "You could have asked for a favor. A title. An alliance."

"I helped a friend," Marcus said. "That's enough."

Catarina stepped closer. The air between them felt charged.

"It is enough for now," she said.

She let go of his hand. It was a slow, reluctant release.

"I cannot leave the duchy yet," she said. "I have to clean up Victor's mess. But I will be coming to Luminaris soon."

"For the Royal Council?" Marcus asked.

"To see you," Catarina said.

She wasn't being subtle. The Duchess didn't do subtle anymore.

"We have much to discuss," she said. "About literature. About strategy."

She paused.

"And about us."

Marcus swallowed hard.

"Right," he squeaked. "Us."

"Go home, Marcus," Catarina said gently. "Your brother probably misses you. And I have a cousin to exile."

She walked him to the door.

He walked out of the room.

He walked down the long corridor.

His heart was pounding.

He had saved the duchy. He had empowered the Duchess.

He had also, very definitely, cemented the romance route he was trying to avoid.

"Damien is going to kill me," he muttered.

He reached the courtyard. His horse was waiting.

He mounted up.

He looked back at the palace.

Catarina was watching from her study window. She raised a hand.

Marcus raised his hand back.

He turned his horse toward the capital.

He had won the battle.

But he had a terrible feeling he was losing the war against his own charisma.

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