Part 1
Philip awoke with a start, his body jolting upright before his mind had fully surfaced from sleep. Sunlight streamed through half-drawn curtains, casting golden rectangles across his bedchamber's polished floor. For one blissful moment, his mind was empty—then the memories flooded back. Rain-soaked bodies sprawled across his garden. The crack of rifles. Kendrick's impassive face as he ordered the slaughter.
Philip's stomach lurched. He pressed a hand to his mouth, fighting a wave of nausea.
A gentle knock at the door preceded Lydia's entrance. She carried a silver breakfast tray, her usual efficient self, though the shadows beneath her eyes betrayed a sleepless night.
"Good morning, Master Philip," she said, setting the tray on a side table. "I've brought your favorite—poached eggs with smoked salmon. And the morning correspondence." She placed a small stack of letters beside the breakfast plates, one envelope bearing a distinctive military seal.
Philip nodded weakly, his appetite nonexistent. "Thank you, Lydia."
She hovered for a moment, concern etching her features. "The grounds have been… cleared. Colonel Nernwick's men worked through the night." Her voice was carefully neutral, yet Philip detected a tremor. "The colonel left word that he would return tomorrow to check on your welfare. He was called to handle similar situations elsewhere."
"Similar situations?" Philip echoed, reaching for the military envelope.
"I'm afraid so, Master Philip. The blackout affected much of rural Yorgoria." She hesitated. "There were… incidents at several estates and in downtown areas of affected towns."
Philip broke the seal and unfolded the letter. It was an internal military bulletin, marked "CONFIDENTIAL: OFFICER EYES ONLY." His eyes widened as he scanned its contents.
The document was an invitation to a ceremony at the upcoming Officers' Ball, where Colonel Kendrick Nernwick and five other officers would receive medals for their "exemplary leadership in defense of imperial social order" during the recent unrest. The language was clinical, almost sanitized: "restoration of order," "defense of private property," "containment of rebellious elements."
But what chilled Philip most was the footnote containing casualty figures: 1,217 "insurrectionists neutralized" across fifty locations, including 53 at Redwood Estate. The cold mathematics of death reduced to statistics.
Philip's hand trembled as he set the letter down. "They're endorsing brutality," he whispered. "They're giving medals for…" He couldn't finish the sentence.
Lydia's expression remained carefully composed. "Such actions would be viewed by most aristocrats as regrettable but necessary, Master Philip. Colonel Nernwick's methods, while firm, are actually considered moderate in certain circles."
"Moderate?" Philip stared at her in disbelief.
"Indeed." Lydia lowered her voice. "Don't tell me you forgot that incident when pacifist protesters surrounded Rosetta's carriage and threw garbage at her. They were all executed on the spot by Major General Thornlight to prevent diplomatic complications. You were in that carriage yourself. You even wrote a poem commending Rosetta's bravery in face of 'adversity.' By comparison, Colonel Nernwick's approach last night would be seen as… restrained."
Philip felt the world shift beneath him. His mind reeled, struggling to reconcile the elegance and abundance of aristocratic life with this brutality that apparently underpinned it all.
"All that glisters is not gold," he murmured.
"Master Philip?"
"Something I read once. It means appearances can be deceiving." He ran a hand through his hair. "I've been so consumed with my personal problems—the estate's finances, my old scandals—that I never noticed the wider changes occurring around me."
He stood, moving to the window. Below, gardeners were replanting flowers in beds trampled during the previous night's violence. The scene looked absurdly normal, as though nothing had happened. That's the efficiency of the Empire, Philip thought ironically.
"I just realized how little I know about the wider world," Philip continued softly. "My aristocratic life, however cash-strapped, is built on the backs of people who are far worse off. And I never noticed how badly they're treated until they stormed my garden and were slaughtered for it."
Lydia joined him at the window. "The Empire isn't inherently evil, Master Philip. Like all machines, parts have become rigid while others adapted poorly to changes. Over decades, these dislocations accumulated as reforms were stifled by vested interests. During prosperity, these problems are papered over by economic growth, but…"
"But in hard times like now, they boil over," Philip finished.
"Yes, after the Manaviridae crisis exacerbated the imbalances," Lydia agreed.
Philip's head snapped up. "The what?"
Lydia studied him with sudden concern. "The Manaviridae Pandemic? Five years ago? It decimated global trade for nearly two years." Her voice grew worried. "Master Philip, you… you do remember the pandemic, don't you?"
Philip felt a cold sweat break out across his forehead. Of course he wouldn't know about a pandemic specific to this world. But admitting that would reveal his true identity.
"I… think it might be the amnesia…" he stammered.
Lydia's face crumpled with concern. "Oh, dear. First the amnesia from your incident at the pond, and now this concussion has worsened your memory issues." She pressed a cool hand to his forehead. "Perhaps I should call the doctor again."
"No!" Philip said quickly. "No, that's not necessary. I'm sure it will come back to me. I just need… time."
Lydia looked unconvinced but didn't press the issue. "Very well. But please, at least for today, rest well. No strenuous activities."
The door burst open as Natalia practically flew into the room, her simple day gown flowing behind her like a sail caught in a sudden breeze. Her eyes lit up with unbridled joy at the sight of Philip awake in bed.
"Master!" she cried, her voice trembling with relief. "You're awake! Thank heavens!" She rushed toward him with supernatural grace, her golden hair streaming behind her. "I've been so worried! I sensed your mana fading after the incident, but I stayed away—I feared my presence would drain you when you needed all your strength to recover."
Before Philip could respond, Natalia launched herself at him, enveloping him in an exuberant embrace. Her arms wrapped around him completely, pressing him against the sumptuous curves of her body. Philip's face was suddenly buried in the soft abundance of her bosom, her perfumed warmth overwhelming his senses.
"I was so afraid for you, Master," she murmured, unconsciously rubbing her cheek against his hair. The motion caused a subtle friction that sent Philip's pulse racing. His face blazed crimson as blood rushed simultaneously to his cheeks and… elsewhere.
Natalia finally pulled back slightly, her radiant face inches from his. Her eyes widened with sudden concern as she noticed his flushed complexion. "Master! Your face is so red! And your heart—it's racing!" She pressed a cool hand to his forehead. "Are you feverish? Has your condition worsened?"
Philip struggled to regain his composure, acutely aware of Lydia standing nearby, one eyebrow raised in knowing amusement.
"I'm… fine, Natalia," he managed, gently creating a more appropriate distance between them. "Thank you for your concern. And thank you for defending the estate. You were… remarkable."
Natalia beamed at the praise, finally settling into a more proper position beside his bed. "I only did what was necessary to protect you, Master." Her expression turned thoughtful. "But may I ask something that has been puzzling me?"
"Of course."
"Those people who attacked the estate…" She frowned, struggling to articulate her thoughts. "I sensed something from them that confused me. Such overwhelming anger and hatred. It's an emotion I've never encountered before in humans."
She glanced between Philip and Lydia. "I had thought most humans were like you, Master—your aura radiates kindness and compassion. Even the assassins who came before felt nothing but professional coldness. Much like I sensed from Colonel Kendrick and his troops when they suppressed the rioters."
Her innocent observation hung in the air, its ironic weight making Philip's stomach tighten. The parallel between professional killers and imperial troops was damning in its accuracy.
"Why were these people so different?" Natalia continued, genuinely perplexed. "So full of rage?"
Philip exchanged a glance with Lydia, unsure how to explain centuries of class resentment ignited by exacerbated global economic condition to someone still learning about human emotion.
"Well, Natalia," he began carefully, "people who feel powerless and desperate sometimes—"
Philip was interrupted as Albert appeared at the doorway, clearing his throat. "Excuse me, Master Philip. There's a call for Miss Natalia on the ground floor telephone."
Philip blinked in confusion. "We have telephones on multiple floors?"
"Indeed, sir. The estate is equipped with several mana-powered landlines. Master Gabriel had them installed during the last renovation."
Natalia looked uncertain. "A call… for me? Who would call me?"
"Imperial Silver Screen Studios," Albert replied, looking almost embarrassed. "They insisted on speaking with you directly."
Minutes later, they stood in the manor's entrance hall, watching with mounting disbelief as Natalia spoke into the sleek, mana-powered telephone receiver.
"Yes, I understand that's a very generous offer," she was saying, her melodious voice maintaining perfect politeness. "However, I will need to discuss this with my love before making any decisions." She glanced at Philip, taking her "mistress" role with utmost seriousness. "Yes, that's right. I am his mistress."
As Natalia hung up, Lydia was frantically checking her mirror-phone, her fingers swiping across its surface with increasing alarm. "Oh my goodness," she whispered, her face paling. "Oh no."
Before anyone could ask what was wrong, the telephone rang again. Albert answered, his eyebrows shooting up in surprise before he handed the receiver to Natalia.
"Nightingale Entertainment Agency," he murmured to Philip.
"You'd like to represent me?" Natalia was saying. "Leave behind my rags and become the next sex symbol and cultural icon of the Empire? Like the skirt-blown blonde from sixty years ago? Uh... sure."
She listened with inquisitive politeness. "That's very flattering. I'll discuss it with my love, Captain Philip Redwood."
As she set down the receiver, Natalia turned to Philip with innocent curiosity. "What's a sex symbol?"
Philip choked slightly.
"I know sex is something a real mistress does with her lover," Natalia continued matter-of-factly. "It involves physical contact and produces pleasure, according to Chapter Three of 'The Aristocrat's Companion.' But what's a symbol of sex?"
Before anyone could respond, the telephone rang again. This time it was the Imperial Broadcasting Corporation, offering Natalia a position as a news anchor.
"They say I'll become a household name," she reported to Philip afterward, looking bewildered. "They claim it's the highest honor a woman of my status can achieve in the Empire."
"That's debatable," Lydia muttered under her breath.
The calls continued: the Imperial Army Recruitment Division wanted her as "Captain of the Arts Corps" to inspire enlistment; Maison du Soleil, the Francimonican Republic's elite fashion house, offered a modeling contract; and finally, Madame Rossignol, a world-renowned painter, requested Natalia as a nude model.
"A nude model?" Natalia repeated, loud enough that Lydia nearly collapsed against the nearest wall. Natalia listened to the explanation on the other end. "Oh, you needn't worry about my inexperience, Madame. I've been nude in front of an audience of one before. It must be something similar."
Philip couldn't believe his ears. Lydia looked as though she might faint. Albert coughed violently into his handkerchief.
As she finally set down the receiver, Natalia turned to Philip with a thoughtful expression, tapping one elegant finger against her chin.
"After evaluating all these offers," she announced with the earnest seriousness of a financial advisor, "I believe Madame Rossignol's nude modeling proposition offers the optimal ratio of discretion to compensation."
She brightened. "The painter promised to keep my identity mysterious while paying five hundred Continental dollars per session! And she was most enthusiastic about my," she gestured vaguely at her perfect physique, "anatomical perfection. She plans numerous paintings since 'the divine symmetry of my proportions is a once-in-a-lifetime discovery for an artist.'"
Natalia smiled with practical satisfaction, completely oblivious to Lydia's near-apoplectic expression.
"It's the perfect solution!" she concluded triumphantly. "Maximum financial benefit with minimum public exposure!"
She paused, blinking innocently. "It would solve the estate's cash flow problem without drawing attention to my… special nature."
Philip stared at her in stunned silence, marveling at how she could be so perceptive about their financial situation yet so utterly clueless about social propriety.
"No!" he blurted, surprising even himself with his vehemence.
Natalia's eyes widened, but she immediately lowered her gaze in acquiescence. "But of course, the decision is yours, Master," she said with quiet docility, despite her obvious confusion at his reaction.
Philip exhaled slowly, feeling events spiraling beyond his control.
"Let's not make any rash decisions," he told Natalia, who nodded obediently.
Part 2
In the heart of Albecaster, the Avalondian capital, afternoon sunlight streamed through the tall windows of a private room at the Thornbridge Club. The venerable establishment, with its dark wood paneling and leather armchairs, had served as the unofficial meeting place for the empire's power brokers for generations.
Sir Arther, Imperial First Minister, lounged in an armchair with one leg casually draped over its arm, teacup balanced precariously in his hand. Across from him, Dianna sat rigidly upright, her own teacup held with perfect propriety.
"Relax, for heaven's sake," Arther drawled, gesturing expansively. "You look like you've swallowed a ramrod. It's Sunday afternoon, not a state function."
"Protocol dictates that we maintain decorum even in informal settings, sir," Dianna replied, her posture unwavering. "Particularly when discussing matters of state."
Arther rolled his eyes dramatically. "Protocol, protocol! If I wanted to speak with a rulebook, I'd have brought the Imperial Charter to tea." He slumped deeper into his chair, deliberately crumpling his impeccably tailored suit. "Come now, loosen that stiff upper lip. Have a scone, at least."
Dianna picked up a scone with mechanical precision, placing it on her plate and cutting it into perfect quarters before taking a minuscule bite.
"Marvelous!" Arther exclaimed, as though she'd performed a cartwheel. "The lady can eat! Next we'll discover you actually sleep at night rather than standing upright in a closet."
Despite herself, Dianna's lips twitched slightly. "Your humor is, as always, most refreshing, sir."
Arther grinned boyishly, though the sharp intelligence in his eyes belied his buffoonish demeanor. "Now, to business. I trust you've seen this morning's papers?"
"Indeed, sir. The mysterious blonde defender of Redwood Estate features prominently."
"Prominently?" Arther scoffed. "She's positively plastered across every front page from here to the Dominions! One might almost think the empire hadn't just suppressed the worst uprising in a decade."
He set down his teacup and leaned forward, his expression suddenly focused. "And isn't that convenient?"
Dianna's eyebrow arched slightly. "You believe the timing is deliberately orchestrated to divert public attention?"
"Oh, I know it is, my dear." Arther's voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper. "Because I orchestrated it."
He reached for the silver teapot, refilling his cup with extravagant gestures. "The Continental Republic is behind the unrest, of course. Our friend Josh has been quite busy stirring the pot in Yorgoria."
"The Republican operative?" Dianna's voice remained steady, though her eyes widened slightly. "You knew of his involvement and didn't neutralize him?"
Arther laughed, the sound echoing off the oak-paneled walls. "Neutralize one of their best? That would cost a fortune! No, no, much better to let him operate, watch his methods, and then…" he snapped his fingers, "play their cards for our purpose."
"But sir, the riots—"
"Were inevitable, my dear. The pressure has been building for years. Better to let it erupt under controlled circumstances than be blindsided later." He waved a hand dismissively. "Meanwhile, we now have our beautiful barbarian woman diversion, taking up valuable column inches that might otherwise examine what actually happened two nights ago."
Dianna frowned. "You leaked the photographs of Miss Natalia?"
"Not directly, of course." Arther looked wounded at the suggestion. "I simply ensured that certain journalists knew there might be something worth seeing at Redwood Estate that night. The rest they did themselves." He winked. "The best way to get people to do things for you is to make them think it was their own idea to begin with."
"Because it hooks their pride," Dianna observed.
"Precisely! And pride is one thing most people can't resist." Arther leaned back, looking enormously pleased with himself. "It's like Empress Celestica inviting you to bathe with her. You simply can't resist."
Dianna choked slightly on her tea, her cheeks coloring. "Sir! That is hardly an appropriate analogy!"
"But memorable, yes?" Arther's eyes twinkled. "You won't forget the point now, will you?"
He rose from his chair and moved to the window, gazing out at the capital's skyline where the imperial banner fluttered atop countless buildings. When he spoke again, his voice had lost its jovial quality.
"The truth, Dianna, is that we hold no cards anymore. The Republic has all of them—or so they believe."
"Yet you seem unconcerned," she observed.
"That's because they've overlooked something significant." He turned back to her, his expression shrewd. "While they've been busy tariffing themselves to death trying to revive their industries, we've been perfecting a far more subtle craft."
"Intelligence gathering," Dianna supplied.
"The finest network in the world," Arther confirmed with evident pride. "Now, consider Miss Natalia's sudden fame. The Republic, the media, perhaps even our own nobility will investigate her background extensively."
"And your spies within these organizations will simply forward their findings," Dianna concluded, understanding dawning on her face.
"Precisely! Much kinder on our budget." Arther chuckled. "Let them do the heavy lifting."
He returned to his seat, and when he settled back into the chair, there was a calculated stillness to him that replaced his earlier theatrical movements.
"There's something unusual about that girl," he said quietly. "The Redwoods are hiding something, and if I can discover what it is, I can leverage it to bring Duke Redwood fully to our side."
"Is that wise, sir? Duke Redwood's reformist ideas—
are exactly what this empire needs," Arther cut in sharply.
"So you advocate meritocracy, not just for justice but for stability," Dianna observed.
"Exactly!" Arther's eyes gleamed. "With all the best minds with a vested interest in the Empire, who is left among the populace to mount a successful rebellion? The key is that the bureaucracy must be smarter than the various populations it governs."
He paused by the window again. "The Creator gave us natural law as a blueprint. The strong prosper, the weak adapt or perish. Complete social mobility is merely allowing God's design to function as intended."
"And inequality?" Dianna pressed. "The vast disparities between the privileged and the destitute?"
Arther laughed, though without humor. "Inequality, when paired with meritocratic opportunity, is the engine of progress! It provides both carrot and stick—hope for advancement and fear of decline. Without the stark contrast between success and failure, why would anyone strive to improve?"
He turned back, face intense with conviction. "I want to reform our system not because I resent the nobility, but because it calcifies society based on the wrong criteria—birth rather than merit. This stagnation is killing us while the Continental Republic and United Eastern States race ahead, promoting talent regardless of origin."
"So you intend to dismantle the nobility?" Dianna asked carefully.
"Reform it," Arther corrected. "With proper compensation, of course. I'm no revolutionary. Violent upheaval destroys more than it creates. But the upper house cannot remain a birthright if we are to survive."
His expression grew contemplative. "What we need is true capitalism with nobility's privileges abolished. The Empire's vitality should come from a bureaucracy and economy with opportunities fully available to all—a true meritocracy where social mobility works both ways, upward and downward."
"So you seek gradual reform rather than revolution," Dianna concluded. "Evolution, not revolution."
"Precisely." Arther nodded. "Though I'd rather do it fast, given the rate at which our Empire is declining. With Duke Redwood's influence among progressive nobles, we might manage the transformation without fracturing the Empire."
"So you plan to use Miss Natalia to secure his cooperation," Dianna said.
"Indeed." Arther smiled thinly. "The Duke clearly fears exposure of whatever secret surrounds the girl. If I can discover it, I can bring him under my yoke, for the greater good, of course."
The sun began its descent toward the horizon, casting long shadows across the room. Arther checked his pocket watch and sighed.
"I believe Lord Woodblack expects me for billiards." He straightened his rumpled suit with surprising efficiency. "Dreadful game, but useful for extracting information from old windbags who think themselves masters of the universe."
As quickly as it had vanished, his aristocratic buffoon persona slipped back into place. His posture loosened, his expression grew vacantly cheerful, and his voice rose an octave.
"Well then! Must dash! Can't keep old Woody waiting!" He affected an exaggerated wink at Dianna.
Dianna rose, curtsying formally.
As he reached the door, he paused, and for just a moment, he whispered, almost to himself. "If only I could live another five hundred years, then the world would cower before Avalondian glory once more…" His voice faded to a whisper, tinged with something like genuine regret. "If only…"
Then he was gone, leaving behind only the lingering scent of expensive cologne and the echo of his theatrical farewell.
Outside the Thornbridge Club, perched on the branch of an ancient oak tree, an alluring woman watched Sir Arther's departure. Her otherworldly beauty seemed almost to shimmer in the fading light, her perfect features curved in a seductive smile. As the First Minister's carriage disappeared around a corner, she tilted her head, eyes gleaming with mischievous intent.
"Wish granted," she whispered, her melodious voice carrying on the evening breeze, though there was no one near enough to hear.