Part 1
As the carriage stopped at the gates of the property, Philip was thoroughly unprepared for the grandeur before him. The wrought-iron barriers rose twenty feet high, every bar inscribed with protective runes that hummed with barely contained power. The ducal crest seemed to shift in the afternoon light, the heraldic creatures' eyes tracking their approach.
Guards in the Duke's livery—dark red trimmed with gold—stood at attention. Unlike the private security staff at the Yorgorian estate, these men carried themselves with military precision. Their mana-powered rifles weren't for show; Philip could sense the weapons were charged and ready.
"State your business," one guard said, though his tone suggested he knew exactly who they were.
"Lord Philip Redwood and party, expected by His Grace," Lydia replied smoothly.
The guard's eyes swept over them, lingering on Natalia with professional assessment before he stepped back. "Welcome to Albecaster House, Lord Philip."
The gates swung open with barely a whisper, and they entered another world entirely.
Philip's jaw dropped despite himself. The driveway stretched ahead like a white ribbon through grounds that seemed to extend forever. Manicured lawns rolled toward the horizon, punctuated by geometrically perfect gardens and the occasional marble folly. To the left, he glimpsed what could only be described as a village—neat stone cottages with smoke rising from their chimneys.
"Is that...?" he began.
"The servants' quarters," Lydia confirmed. "The Duke employs approximately fifty staff for his 'modest townhouse.' They require appropriate accommodation."
To the right, a stable complex sprawled across several acres. Philip counted at least a dozen buildings, and through the open doors, he could see not just horses but several automobiles being serviced by mechanically-inclined grooms. The scale was staggering. This was supposed to be the Duke's city residence, his concession to modesty while in the capital.
"If this constitutes intentional modesty..." Philip muttered.
"Anything less would appear disingenuous," Lydia replied matter-of-factly. "The Duke of Redwood cannot be seen slumming it like some middle-class nouveau riche. It would render his intentions too transparent."
More guards patrolled the grounds, moving in precise patterns that spoke of military training. Philip noticed how they remained just visible enough to deter but not so prominent as to appear paranoid. Everything here was calculated, from the placement of every rose bush to the timing of the guards' routes.
The mansion itself finally came into clear view, and Philip felt his breath catch. The view from the distance hadn't done it justice. White limestone gleamed in the afternoon sun, every surface polished to perfection. Corinthian columns supported a massive portico, their capitals gilded with genuine gold that caught the light. The windows—dozens of them across the façade—were works of art in themselves, leaded glass in complex patterns that threw rainbows across the white gravel drive.
Above it all rose a dome of colored glass, its apex crowned with a golden phoenix that seemed ready to take flight. The building was classical Avalondian architecture perfected, every proportion calculated to inspire awe, every detail designed to remind visitors of the family's power and heritage.
As their carriage pulled up to the entrance, footmen materialized as if from thin air. One opened the door while another stood ready with a stepping stool—unnecessary but traditional. They wore formal livery that probably cost more than most people's annual salary: black tailcoats with gold buttons bearing the ducal crest, white gloves so pristine they seemed to glow.
"Welcome home, Lord Philip," one footman said warmly, bowing deeply. His eyes moved to Lydia. "Miss Lydia, it is an honor to have you at Albecaster House."
Philip climbed down, trying not to feel like an impostor in his relatively simple clothing. Natalia followed, her movements fluid as water, and he saw how every footman's eyes tracked her. Not with the appreciation men usually showed—though she certainly warranted it in her fitted dress that emphasized her remarkable figure—but with something closer to confusion and unease.
The head footman, an older man with silver at his temples, cleared his throat. "The young lady is...?"
"Natalia," she announced brightly, apparently oblivious to the awkwardness. "I'm with Master Philip!"
The way she said it—possessive, intimate, with her hand finding Philip's arm—sent a visible ripple of shock through the assembled staff. The footman's professional composure cracked for just a moment, his eyes widening before he caught himself.
"Of... of course," he managed. "Welcome to Albecaster House, Miss Natalia."
As they moved toward the entrance, Philip heard the whispered conversations erupting behind them. He caught fragments—"mistress," "so beautiful," "the scandal"—before the massive doors opened and he forgot everything else.
The entrance hall was a cathedral of marble and gold. The ceiling soared two stories above, crowned with a dome painted with such skill that the angels and heroes seemed ready to step down among them. The crystal chandelier hanging from its center wasn't merely large—it was architectural, thousands of crystals arranged in tiers that caught and multiplied the light until the whole room seemed to glow.
Marble columns flanked the space, their bases emblazoned with the ducal arms in gold relief. The floor was a chessboard of black and white marble, polished so perfectly Philip could see his reflection. Persian rugs that probably cost more than houses created paths of color across the stark geometry. Everything smelled of beeswax, lemon polish, and fresh flowers—the signature scent of impeccable maintenance.
But it was the paintings that made Philip stop. Massive portraits in gilded frames lined the walls, generation after generation of Redwoods staring down with eyes that seemed to follow his movement. Military uniforms, ball gowns, ceremonial robes—the history of the family captured in oil and canvas. Though from what he knew, much of it had been reconstructed with the assistance of renowned historians and genealogists after the family's restoration.
His gaze was drawn to one portrait in particular. A couple stood together, both in military dress uniforms. The man was handsome in that classical way—brown hair, strong jaw, eyes that suggested both intelligence and humor. But the woman...
Philip felt heat rise to his face. She was breathtaking. Red hair like flame, features that belonged on a goddess, a figure that even the formal uniform couldn't disguise. She stood with casual confidence, one hand on her husband's arm, the other resting on the sword at her hip. This was his grandmother? The woman in the portrait looked like she could stop traffic—hell, she could stop wars just by walking into the room.
"Master?" Natalia peered at him with genuine curiosity. "Your heart rate has increased by thirty-seven percent, and your facial capillaries show elevated blood flow patterns consistent with—"
"Architecture!" Philip said quickly, far too loudly. "I'm admiring the remarkable architecture!"
Lydia's lips twitched with barely suppressed amusement. "Yes, the 'architecture' is indeed quite... striking. The Duchess was rather famous for her exceptional 'architectural qualities' in her youth."
Philip stared at the portrait again, trying to reconcile this goddess of war with the grandmother he had only heard about but never met. She would be much older now, of course. Probably stern and matronly, nothing like this painted vision that was making him question his own mental stability. It wasn't his fault—it was old Philip's genetics responding to...
He firmly commanded himself to terminate that line of thought immediately.
The staff had assembled in neat lines, and Philip was struck by how different they were from the staff at the Yorgoria estate. These people moved with choreographed precision, their uniforms sharp enough to cut glass. The maids wore black dresses with white aprons so starched they could probably stand on their own, while the footmen's tailcoats looked fresh from the tailor.
An elderly butler stepped forward, his bearing military-straight despite his age. Philip recognized him from the briefing—Harrison, who'd served the family for forty years.
"Lord Philip," Harrison said, his voice warm despite the formality. "Welcome home. Her Grace extends her apologies—an unexpected guest has delayed her. She requests that you make yourself comfortable and she will join you shortly."
Philip saw how the servants held their breath after this message was delivered, as if expecting an explosion. The old Philip must have possessed quite the temper when disappointed. Instead, he simply nodded.
"Of course. We're in no rush."
The visible relief on their faces was almost comical. Several maids actually smiled before catching themselves and returning to professional neutrality.
"If you would be so kind as to follow me to the Blue Drawing Room," Harrison suggested, already turning toward one of the doorways.
As they walked, Philip noticed the deference was different here than in Yorgoria. There, the servants had been respectful but familiar, treating Philip with the easy manner of people who'd known him since childhood. Here, fear was mixed with the respect. The maids stepped aside as he passed, eyes downcast. The footmen stood at attention like soldiers being reviewed.
Natalia, apparently unaware of or unconcerned by the atmosphere, had latched onto his arm with both hands. She walked so close that her remarkable bosom pressed against him with each step, humming contentedly to herself.
Philip caught the expressions on the servants' faces—the older maids regarding Natalia with barely concealed disapproval, their lips pursed as if they'd sampled something particularly sour. The younger ones attempted to mirror their seniors' disapproval, though Philip detected envy in their eyes.
"Natalia," he whispered urgently, "perhaps a touch less... affectionate?"
She tilted her head, those electric blue eyes studying him with genuine confusion. "Am I not executing my role correctly? Should I demonstrate more distance? But the book explicitly stated that mistresses should display affection to establish their territorial claims..."
One of the younger maids made a choking sound.
"What book?" Philip asked weakly.
"'The Mistress's Guide to Proper Conduct in Noble Houses,' Chapter Three: Establishing Your Position Through Strategic Displays of Intimacy," Natalia recited cheerfully. "Would you prefer I implement the suggestions from Chapter Seven: Advanced Techniques for—"
"No!" Philip said quickly in an almost inaudible and desperate whisper. "No techniques whatsoever. Just... be yourself."
"But my authentic self desires proximity to Master," she said with disarming honesty, snuggling closer.
Behind them, Philip heard one of the older maids whisper to another, "The absolute impropriety! Is she even aware of what she's doing?"
"Different times indeed," the other replied with an audible sniff. "These modern arrangements... though I suppose his lordship is young, and the Duke does require an heir eventually..."
Natalia's supernatural hearing obviously caught every word. She whispered to Philip, "Why do they emit such pronounced disapproval pheromones? Is the cultural attitude toward mistresses substantially different in Albecaster compared to Yorgoria?"
"It's... complicated," Philip managed.
"Everything human is delightfully complicated," Natalia sighed, then brightened considerably. "But that's precisely what makes it fascinating!" She waved cheerfully at a cluster of young maids, who scattered like startled birds.
Lydia leaned close to Natalia as they walked. "You might consider moderating the affectionate displays when we encounter the Duchess."
"Why?" Natalia asked with genuine innocence.
"Because she's... traditionally minded," Lydia said carefully.
Philip felt his stomach plummet. "Does she know? About...?" He gestured vaguely at Natalia.
"She knows considerably more than you might assume," Lydia confirmed quietly.
They entered the Blue Drawing Room, and Philip was again struck by the sheer opulence. The room was the size of a small ballroom, with blue silk wallpaper that shimmered in the light from another crystal chandelier. Furniture that belonged in a museum was arranged in conversation groups, and the walls held more paintings—these ones landscapes rather than portraits.
Through the tall windows, Philip could see the estate's gardens stretching into the distance, geometric patterns of flowers and hedges that must require an army of gardeners to maintain. In the distance, he glimpsed other buildings—guest houses? Offices? The estate was like a small city unto itself.
"Tea will be served momentarily," Harrison announced, then withdrew with a bow.
The instant the door closed, Natalia practically climbed into Philip's lap, wrapping her arms around his neck with a contented sigh.
"Finally! Maintaining appropriate distance is absolutely exhausting." She nuzzled against his neck, her breath warm on his skin. "Your scent is particularly appealing today. Did you change soap formulations?"
"Natalia," Philip said weakly, acutely aware that servants could enter at any moment.
"The door incorporates acoustic dampening materials," she informed him cheerfully. "I can detect it from the sound absorption coefficient. We have approximately three minutes before anyone returns."
"That's not the point—"
She pulled back to study him, and Philip was struck again by how impossibly beautiful she was. Not merely physically—though the way her dress stretched across her ample bosom was definitely affecting his concentration—but something in her expression, the unique mixture of innocence and devotion that made her extraordinary.
"I missed maintaining proximity to you," she said simply. "At the orphanage, I desired to protect you but was required to maintain appearances. It was profoundly frustrating."
"Speaking of the orphanage," Lydia interjected, settling gracefully into a chair, "we need to determine how to resolve that situation without it escalating into a crisis."
The warmth drained from the room. Philip felt Natalia tense against him, her playful mood evaporating instantly.
"Those children," Philip said quietly. "What exactly were they?"
"I suspect," Lydia said carefully, "they're precisely what you funded. Genetically enhanced orphans trained from birth to become perfect soldiers. Or intelligence operatives. Or whatever their designers intended."
"But I wasn't aware—"
"Naturally you weren't. During your engagement to Rosetta, you would have signed whatever documentation she presented. She could have been funding an invasion and you would have authorized it, provided she smiled while handing you the pen."
Philip felt nauseated. Those beautiful, broken children with their perfect faces and empty eyes. He'd paid for that. His signature had authorized their creation and training.
"We must take action," he said.
"What would you propose?" Lydia asked pragmatically. "Storm in demanding cessation? Report it to authorities who are likely aware and complicit? The Redwood-Woterbatch Foundation operates entirely within legal parameters. Revolutionary, even. Providing enhanced education and opportunities to orphans—who could possibly object?"
She was right, and Philip hated it. The surface was so perfectly maintained that no one would believe what lay beneath. Just like this city with its impossible architecture that everyone pretended was normal. Just like this estate that was supposedly modest. Just like everything in this Empire built on beautiful ideals concealing rotten realities.
A knock at the door interrupted his thoughts. Harrison entered with a tea service that probably cost more than most commoners' apartments—porcelain so fine it was translucent, silver polished to mirror brightness.
"Her Grace will join you momentarily," he announced, setting the service on a table with practiced efficiency.
Philip straightened, and Natalia reluctantly climbed off his lap, though she maintained her grip on his hand. Through the door, he could hear footsteps approaching—confident, measured, the click of heels on marble.
His mind returned to that portrait, and he firmly reminded himself that the woman about to enter would be nothing like that painted goddess. She would be elderly, proper, probably disapproving of everything about him...
The door opened.
The woman who entered was decidedly not what he had expected.
Part 2
Two hundred miles north, in a study that could have housed a small library, Sir Arthur reclined in a leather chair that had probably witnessed more state secrets than most intelligence agencies. The room was intentionally overwhelming—twenty-five-foot ceilings, walls covered in precious wooden panels carved with scenes from Imperial history, windows offering a view of rolling pastures that seemed to stretch to infinity.
It was a space designed to make visitors feel small, insignificant, malleable. Arthur absolutely adored it.
"So," he said, swirling brandy in a crystal snifter with theatrical flair, "our young Philip has been remarkably industrious! An entire orphanage network producing genetically enhanced super-soldiers. Funded by Osgorreich, no doubt, as a romantic gesture to his beloved Princess Rosetta!"
Dianna, standing by the window with her usual perfect posture, didn't even bother turning to face him. "The funding records suggest he's actually the primary investor, sir."
Arthur sat bolt upright, nearly spilling his brandy. "He's funding it personally?" His eyes lit up with manic glee. "Oh, the extraordinary lengths young men traverse for love nowadays! They readily commit treason simply to please their paramours. So my suspicions were vindicated! He's orchestrating a takeover, creating an army of enhanced children to deliver the Empire to the Imperium!"
Dianna's reflection in the window showed her rolling her eyes. "Have you considered the possibility that Lord Philip might have been... deceived?"
Arthur waved his hand dismissively. "Deceived? Preposterous! He's a Redwood! They're many things—proud, stubborn, occasionally homicidal—but invariably shrewd."
"However," Dianna said mildly, turning to face him, "so was Lord Oliver a Wetdin."
Arthur paused mid-sip, his theatrical persona cracking momentarily. Then his face split into a grin that would have concerned anyone unfamiliar with his methods.
"The late Duke Oliver Wetdin," he mused, setting down his glass. "Oh, you brilliant creature. You're absolutely correct."
He stood, pacing to the window with sudden energy. "The mighty Wetdin dynasty, reduced to rubble by generations of idealism and one man's romantic delusions coupled with financial incompetence. Oliver believed he could restore the family's glory through grand gestures and expensive ventures. Instead, he obliterated centuries of accumulated wealth by funding the whimsical ventures and lavish lifestyles of his associates."
"Rather reminiscent of what Philip was doing before his near-death experience," Dianna observed.
Arthur's laugh echoed off the paneled walls. "Oh, this is too perfect! Superior to anything I could have orchestrated!" He spun to face her, his eyes bright with possibility. "Don't you comprehend? This is precisely the leverage I required!"
"It's certainly convenient," Dianna agreed dryly.
"Convenient?" Arthur's voice rose with excitement. "It's as if the Creator himself looked down, observed how desperately I was attempting to salvage this crumbling Empire, and decided to deposit the perfect bargaining chip directly into my lap!"
He moved to his desk, fingers drumming on the polished surface. "The Duke won't be able to ignore this. His grandson, funding what amounts to treason? The progressive nobles who support him will scatter like vermin. And young Philip..." He smiled. "Young Philip will do absolutely anything to keep this quiet."
"You intend to blackmail him?"
"Such an ugly word," Arthur said with mock offense. "I prefer to negotiate with his grandfather. To offer them an exit strategy, in exchange for certain political considerations, naturally."
Dianna watched him with the patience of someone who'd witnessed too many of his performances to be impressed. "And if he truly was deceived? If he's innocent?"
Arthur's expression shifted, the buffoonish mask falling away completely. For a moment, she saw the real man—calculating, brilliant, utterly ruthless.
"Innocence is a luxury the Empire cannot afford," he said quietly. "If Philip was foolish enough to sign those documents without scrutiny, he remains responsible for the consequences. Just as Oliver Wetdin was responsible for destroying his family's fortune through reckless lending."
He returned to his chair, retrieving his brandy. "Besides, genuine innocence would be even more advantageous. A man who knows he's guilty might resist. A man who knows he was a fool? He'll do anything to prove otherwise."
"You're going to leverage this to control the Duke through his grandson," Dianna said. It wasn't a question.
"Eventually. But first, I need to comprehend the full scope of what's transpiring." Arthur's fingers steepled. "These enhanced children—if they're what I suspect, we're examining a fundamental shift in the balance of power. Osgorreich is constructing an army in plain sight, utilizing our own noble's capital to fund it."
"The irony is rather pronounced," Dianna admitted.
"Isn't it just?" Arthur grinned. "But here's the genuinely intriguing component—why didn't Philip's mistress detect it immediately? She's clearly enhanced herself, possibly even more advanced than those children. Yet she seemed authentically surprised."
Dianna frowned. "You believe she's not connected to the program?"
"I believe," Arthur said slowly, "our mysterious Natalia represents something else entirely. Or perhaps..." He trailed off, lost in thought.
"Perhaps?"
"Perhaps she's precisely what she appears to be—a prototype that escaped control. A weapon that selected its own master." He smiled at the thought. "Wouldn't that be fascinating? Osgorreich's perfect soldier, developing romantic attachment to the enemy and defecting?"
"You're assuming she's capable of genuine emotion."
Arthur's eyebrow rose. "My dear Dianna, you've perused the reports. The way she clings to him, protects him, focuses on him with single-minded devotion? If that's not love, it's a remarkably convincing simulation."
He stood again, unable to contain his energy. "But we're getting ahead of ourselves. First, we need to let this play out further. Let Philip discover the full extent of what he's enabled. Let him panic, struggle, attempt independent resolution."
"And then?"
"Then," Arthur said with satisfaction, "when he's sufficiently desperate, I'll materialize with a solution. The savior who can make everything disappear—for a price."
He turned serious again, fixing Dianna with an intense stare. "I want everything—every document, every transfer, every communication related to that orphanage. Discover who truly controls it, what they're planning, and how many other facilities exist."
"That will require time."
"We have time. The children aren't ready yet—they're still too young, too untested." He paused. "But in five years? Ten? When they're adults with comprehensive combat training and enhanced capabilities?"
The implications hung in the air between them.
"The Empire will face an enemy within," Dianna said quietly. "Thousands of them, raised from birth to be perfect infiltrators."
"Unless," Arthur said, "we control them first."
Dianna's eyes widened. "You cannot be serious."
"Why not? These facilities exist within our borders..." He spread his hands. "We can covertly observe them, learn their technology, and eventually... acquire our own enhanced army."
"That's insane."
"That's survival," Arthur corrected. "The Empire is dying, Dianna. Our military is hollow, our economy is in ruins, our colonies are in revolt. We require something to alter the game's parameters, and these children might be exactly that."
He moved back to the window, gazing out at the pastoral scene that seemed almost mockingly peaceful.
"Of course," he continued, "the alternative option is to... repeal that law prohibiting summoning sentient entities, allowing us to join the global race instead of being abandoned in the dust."
Arthur returned to his desk, pulling out a sealed envelope. "Have this delivered to Duke Redwood. Privately."
"What is it?"
"An invitation to discuss his grandson's charitable endeavors." Arthur's smile was sharp as a blade. "Let's ascertain how much the Duke knows about what his heir has been funding."
Dianna took the envelope, her expression troubled. "This could destroy Philip."
"Or forge him into something useful," Arthur countered. "Either outcome benefits the Empire."
As she turned to leave, Arthur called after her. "Oh, and Dianna? Have our people in Osgorreich dig deeper."
"Yes, sir."
Dianna paused at the door. "You believe this might be part of something larger?"
Arthur's laugh was devoid of humor. "My dear woman, certain national ambitions never perish. It's merely a question of how they will manifest..." He raised his glass in a mock toast. "and when."