Part 1
Philip closed the study door behind him. The soft click echoed louder than it should have in the silence. The mana-powered telephone sat on his grandfather's mahogany desk, its polished brass gleaming in the afternoon light. Through the window, thin columns of smoke still rose from distant skyline. The chaos was still ongoing.
His hand hovered over the receiver. What do I even say to her?
The System materialized, sitting cross-legged on the edge of the desk. She'd traded her usual theatrical costumes for something surprisingly subdued—a simple blouse and skirt that made her look almost professorial. "You know," she said quietly, "sometimes the hardest conversations are the ones with people who love us most."
Philip nodded, swallowing hard. He picked up the receiver.
"Elora?"
Half a second of silence. Then a sound that hit him—a sharp, desperate gasp carrying years of fear finally released.
"Philip." His name broke on her lips. "Oh thank Heavens. You're alive. You're okay."
The raw relief in those words—like a prayer answered after endless nights of terror—made Philip's eyes sting. He sank into his grandfather's leather chair, grateful for something solid beneath him.
"I'm fine," he managed, his voice rougher than he'd intended. "Completely unharmed. The townhouse is far enough from the riots. I was never in any real danger."
"The news," Elora continued, words tumbling over each other like she'd been holding them back for hours, "they showed footage of the attacks, the fires, the—" her voice caught, "—the bodies, Philip. They said dozens were killed in the capital. High-profile targets. When I saw you among the crowds in one of the images, I thought—"
She broke off. Philip heard her struggling to breathe evenly.
"I'm sorry," Philip said softly. "I should have called earlier. I didn't realize—"
"No, no, don't apologize." Elora's laugh was watery, teetering on tears. "I'm just—I'm so relieved. When Lydia finally answered and said you were safe, I was so relieved."
Philip closed his eyes, picturing her—golden hair probably disheveled from running her hands through it, green eyes red-rimmed, standing in some pristine room in the country estate while trying to hold herself together.
"I'm here," he said, putting as much warmth as he could into those two words. "I'm safe. I promise."
For a moment, there was only her breathing—shaky, gradually evening out. Then she spoke again, softer now. More vulnerable.
"I don't know what I would have done if something had happened to you." Barely above a whisper. "Not now. Not after everything with—"
She stopped.
Philip's stomach clenched. "Elora," he said gently, "how are you holding up? And... how is Kendrick?"
The silence that followed was different. Heavy. Suffocating. Philip could practically feel her freezing on the other end.
"Elora?"
"He's..." She paused. When she continued, her voice had gone carefully neutral—the kind that takes real effort to maintain. "He's stable. Making progress."
Something about the way she said it—too controlled, too measured—made Philip's chest tighten. "That's good, isn't it?"
Another pause. Longer.
"Elora, talk to me. Please."
He heard a shaky inhale, then something that might have been a laugh or a sob. "I'm sorry. I just—I can't talk about medical reports right now. The words all sound the same after a while. 'Stable.' 'Progressing.' 'Cautiously optimistic.' They're all just... words."
Philip's grip tightened on the receiver. Ask her. Be honest. Show her you care.
"How is Kendrick really?" he asked softly. "Not the official report. How is he?"
The dam broke.
It started with a sharp intake of breath—the kind someone takes when they've been underwater too long. Then a sound escaped her somewhere between a gasp and a sob.
"He can't..." Elora's voice splintered. "He can't walk, Philip. They say—they say maybe someday, with therapy, but right now he just sits there in that chair and—"
She stopped, and Philip heard her crying. Not delicate tears but harsh, wrenching sobs she'd clearly been holding back for days or weeks.
"And his speech," she continued through the tears, words rushing out now that the seal had broken, "he tries so hard but the words won't come right. He gets so frustrated, and I can see him—I can see the old Kendrick trapped inside, trying to get out, but his body won't cooperate and his brain won't…"
Another sob cut her off.
Philip felt his own throat close up. The image of Kendrick—brilliant, theatrical, impossibly beautiful Kendrick who moved through the world like it was his personal stage—reduced to struggling with basic speech and movement...
"Elora, I'm so sorry," Philip said. The words felt completely inadequate. "I can't imagine what you're going through."
"The worst part," Elora's voice had gone raw, stripped of all that aristocratic polish, "is that he knows. He knows what he's lost. I can see it in his eyes. He looks at me and I know he's thinking about how he used to be, and it's killing him, Philip. It's killing both of us."
Philip's vision blurred. "I wish I could be there with you."
"I needed you so much," Elora said, her voice breaking again. "These past weeks have been—I couldn't talk to Mother or Father, and I wanted to scream at them that their son is suffering and maybe they could show one genuine emotion about it—"
She dissolved into sobs again, and Philip sat there helplessly, listening to her cry through the phone, wishing he could reach through the connection and hold her.
"I'm here now," Philip said softly. "I'm listening. Tell me everything."
And she did. The words poured out—weeks of grief and fear and exhaustion all at once. She told him about the first time she'd seen Kendrick after the surgery, how he did barely recognized her. About the way he'd looked at her with desperate hope, asking without words if she still saw him as the brother she'd known. About the physical therapy sessions where he pushed himself until he collapsed, determined to prove the doctors wrong.
About the night she'd found him crying silently in his wheelchair, staring at old photographs of himself at cavalry practice, and how he'd tried to hide the tears when she entered.
"He apologized to me," Elora said, her voice raw with fresh tears. "For 'burdening' me with his recovery. As if—as if taking care of my brother could ever be a burden—"
She broke down completely then, and Philip let her cry, murmuring soft reassurances that felt meaningless but were all he had to offer.
Eventually, the sobs faded to hiccups, then to shaky breathing. Philip heard her blow her nose—an inelegant sound that somehow made her more real.
"I'm sorry," she said after a moment, her voice hoarse. "I didn't mean to fall apart like that. This is—I shouldn't have—"
"Don't apologize," Philip cut her off firmly. "You have every right to feel what you're feeling. What you're going through—what Kendrick is going through—it's not something you just 'handle gracefully.'"
"Mother would disagree," Elora said with bitter humor. "She thinks emotional displays are 'beneath our station.'"
"Your mother," Philip said carefully, "belongs more to the theater than to reality."
Elora's startled laugh—genuine and surprised—was like sunshine breaking through storm clouds. "Philip!"
"I mean it," Philip continued. "You're allowed to fall apart. You're allowed to be angry and sad and scared. That is human, Elora."
She was quiet for a moment. When she spoke again, her voice was softer. Warmer. "Thank you. For listening."
Philip's heart clenched. Because part of him wanted to promise her that Kendrick would fully recover, that everything would go back to how it was. But he couldn't. He wouldn't lie to her like that.
"I can't promise you it'll be fine," Philip said honestly. "I don't know what Kendrick's recovery will look like. But I can promise that you're not alone in this. Whatever you need—even if it's just someone to listen while you cry—I'm here."
"Even if I call at unreasonable hours to sob about medical reports?" Elora asked, and Philip could hear the faint smile in her voice despite everything.
"Especially then."
Another pause. Almost comfortable. Philip could hear Elora's breathing evening out.
"I want to see you," Philip said suddenly. The words escaped before he could think them through. "To see you and Kendrick."
He heard Elora's sharp intake of breath. When she spoke, her voice was thick with emotion again—but different this time. Touched. Overwhelmed.
"You—you would do that? Even with the riots and the travel restrictions and—"
"Of course I would," Philip said firmly. "You and Kendrick are important to me. I want to be there for you. Let me come—"
"No."
The word was firm. Immediate. And carried an edge of panic that stopped Philip cold.
"Elora—"
"Philip, no. Absolutely not." Her voice had gone tight with fear. "The riots are still happening. You said yourself you're safe where you are. The roads aren't secure, there are checkpoints everywhere, people are getting hurt—"
"I can handle—"
"I can't," Elora cut him off, her voice breaking again. "I can't handle worrying about you too. I can't—"
She stopped, took a shuddering breath. "I can't risk another person I love walking into danger. Not after Kendrick. Please, Philip. Please don't put me through that again."
Philip was stunned. The raw terror in her voice when she'd thought he might be hurt... it surprised him harder than he'd expected.
"I shouldn't have let Kendrick go," Elora continued, her voice hollow. "I felt it was dangerous. But he was so determined, and I thought—I thought he'd be fine. He's always been fine. And now look at him."
She dissolved into sobs again.
"Hey, hey," Philip said urgently. "Listen to me. What happened to Kendrick was not your fault. He made his own choice. He's a grown man, an officer with a duty to the Empire—"
"He's my brother," Elora sobbed. "My twin. We shared a womb, Philip. We learned to walk together, to read together. We were supposed to—we were supposed to grow old together, gossiping about our children and grandchildren, teasing each other about going gray—"
Her voice cracked completely. "And now I don't even know if he'll ever dance again. If he'll ever ride a horse. If he'll ever be able to speak a full sentence without struggling. And it's my fault because I didn't stop him—"
"It's not your fault," Philip repeated firmly, wishing desperately that he could hold her. "Elora, look at me—I mean, listen to me. You are not responsible for the missile strike. You are not responsible for the Empire's political decisions. You are not responsible for a war that's been building for years. You're just... you're just someone who loves her brother and is watching him suffer, and that's hard enough without blaming yourself for things beyond your control."
Elora's crying had softened to quiet tears. "I just want him back," she whispered. "I want my brother back."
"I know," Philip said gently. "I know you do."
They sat in silence for a moment, connected by the phone line and shared grief.
"So please," Elora said finally, her voice steadier but still fragile, "don't make me watch you walk into danger too. Stay where you're safe. Stay where I don't have to imagine your name on a casualty list. I couldn't—I can't lose you too, Philip."
The raw honesty in those last words—the way she said "lose you too" like it would be the end of her world—made Philip's throat close up.
"Okay," Philip said quietly. "I'll stay here until the riots calm down."
Elora's exhale was so relieved it sounded like a sob. "Thank you. Thank you, Philip."
"But," Philip continued gently, "promise me something in return. Promise me that when things settle, you'll let me visit. I want to see you, Elora. Not through a phone or in letters. You."
There was a pause. Then, in a voice so soft and warm it made Philip's heart ache: "I promise. Once the riots calm down, I'll... I'll come to you instead. I want to see you too. So much."
The way she said it—the longing and affection and desperate need for comfort—made Philip acutely aware of her feelings. This wasn't just friendly concern. This was...
"I miss you," Philip said. The words escaped before he could overthink them.
"I miss you too," Elora whispered. "More than you know."
Another comfortable silence. Philip could hear her breathing on the other end, could imagine her sitting there with tear-stained cheeks and probably a wrinkled handkerchief clutched in her hand.
"I should let you rest," Elora said finally, though she sounded reluctant. "You've probably had a stressful day too, with the riots and everything."
"It feels wrong to complain about stress when you're dealing with—"
"Don't," Elora cut him off gently. "Your struggles matter too, Philip. Don't diminish them."
Philip smiled despite everything. "When did you get so wise?"
"Probably sometime between my third nervous breakdown and learning to change bandages," Elora said with dark humor. "Trauma is very educational."
"Elora—"
"I'm joking. Mostly." She sighed. "I really should go. Father wants to discuss Kendrick's physical therapy schedule, which promises to be as emotionally fulfilling as watching paint dry."
"Will you be okay?" Philip asked.
"I'll manage. I always do." A pause. "But Philip? Thank you. For listening. For not..." her voice softened, "for not making promises you can't keep."
Philip's heart clenched. Because he'd wanted to make those promises. He'd wanted to tell her Kendrick would be fine, that everything would work out, that she'd get her brother back exactly as he was. But they both knew that wasn't guaranteed. And she deserved his honesty more than his false comfort.
"I'll call again soon," Philip promised. "And you can call me anytime."
Elora's laugh was watery but genuine. "I might take you up on that. Be prepared for incoherent rambling about medical equipment."
"I look forward to it."
"Goodbye, Philip. And... thank you. For everything."
"Goodbye, Elora. Take care of yourself, not just Kendrick."
"I'll try."
The line clicked off, leaving Philip sitting in the sudden silence of the study, still holding the receiver, his heart feeling several sizes too large for his chest.
It was much harder than he thought.
Through the window, new columns of smoke were emerging in the distant suburbs. Philip stood looking out, hands still trembling slightly—not from the phone call itself, but from something deeper. From the crushing weight of realizing he needed to tell Elora there was no future between them, that he couldn't give her what she deserved. From understanding that right now, with Kendrick's condition, with her vulnerability, with her raw grief... the timing couldn't be worse.
How do I tell her? The thought made his hands shake harder. How do I look at someone who just poured out her soul to me, someone who's barely holding it together, and tell her that while I care about her deeply, I can't be what she needs?
He hadn't realized he was still trembling until he felt it—a warmth at his back, gentle and unhurried.
An arm reached around his waist from behind, slowly, carefully. The touch was so soft he almost thought he'd imagined it until he felt her press closer, her body settling against his back with surprising tenderness. Even through his shirt, he could feel her warmth, the soft pressure of her generous bosom against him, the way she fit against his frame despite their minor height difference.
Philip started, his head turning instinctively—and found his cheek brushing against Natalia's face. She'd leaned forward just enough that their skin touched, the contact sending an unexpected jolt through him.
"Natalia—" he began.
"Master," she said softly, her breath warm against his ear. "You really shouldn't factor me in when deciding your future. Your happiness and safety is my happiness."
Her arms tightened around him, not possessively, but protectively. Comfortingly.
"I can always work my way into whatever life you choose," she continued, and there was something both heartbreaking and sweet in her tone. "So pick the lady that is best for you. Don't let me be a factor in your decision. I am here to help you, not to burden you."
Philip felt genuinely touched. The trembling in his hands began to still. He turned completely, expecting his body to react the way it always did around Natalia—with that overwhelming physical response that had embarrassed him countless times.
But it didn't.
To his surprise, his body remained calm. There was no sudden rush of blood, no embarrassing physiological reaction. Just... peace. Warmth. Something deeper than desire.
He found himself looking into her face—that impossibly beautiful face—and felt mesmerized in an entirely different way. By the sheer sincerity he saw there. The genuine devotion. The selfless love that asked for nothing but his happiness.
It was serene. Touching. So profoundly moving that words failed him completely.
"I..." Philip started, his voice catching. He didn't know what to say. How do you thank someone for offering to step aside from your life so you can be happy? How do you respond when they are the one you love?
Natalia's expression softened further, and a small smile played at the corners of her lips—knowing, gentle, with just a hint of her characteristic analytical nature.
"Besides," she added, her voice taking on a slightly more matter-of-fact tone that somehow didn't diminish the sweetness of the moment, "the Duchess showed me how I can be powered by blue mana. So I will no longer need to drain green mana from you. So if Elora or Lilianna can bring you true happiness but cannot accept me, I could leave your life and come back when your wife is too old and uninterested in physical intimacy. This way, we would all get our time."
Philip's brain simply stopped.
She'd said it so naturally. So casually. As if she'd merely calculated the most efficient solution to a complex problem.
The shock hit first. Then came the realization that of course it made sense from her perspective—unconcerned with moral boundaries, Natalia's mind treated their situation as just another problem requiring a solution. And her solution worked, if you ignored the moral implications entirely.
Natalia could wait decades. She wouldn't age. Would look exactly as she did now when Philip was old and gray and his hypothetical wife had long since lost interest in physical intimacy. But would she still find an aged Philip lovable?
Despite the absurdity of it, something made the hairs on the back of his neck stand up—even as his heart swelled with affection for this strange, beautiful, impossible woman trying so hard to find a way to be with him.
Because she actually could afford to wait.
And that was terrifying.
She wasn't bound by the same constraints that governed human existence.
With Natalia's arms around him and her matter-of-fact proclamation of eternal devotion hanging in the air, Philip confronted a truth he'd been subconsciously avoiding:
If freed from dependence on their master's life force, Familiars possessed far greater potential than humans.
Part 2
Dawn broke cold over Albecaster, the kind of cold that spoke of summer's death and autumn's approach—sharp enough to make breath visible, persistent enough to seep through even military-grade wool. Lilianna sat astride Artemis, her white destrier, at the intersection of Merchant's Row and Industrial Avenue, where the wide boulevard created a natural chokepoint between the outer districts and the city proper.
Behind her, sixty cavalry formed a living wall. Three rows deep, horses shoulder-to-shoulder, creating a barrier of muscle and discipline that stretched across the entire street. Their crimson uniforms caught the first rays of sun breaking over the rooftops, turning her regiment into a river of blood and gold. Steam rose from the horses' flanks, their breath creating halos in the thin morning air. Each rider sat with parade-ground precision, sabres sheathed, firearms holstered—a statement of force held in perfect restraint.
Lilianna herself was a study in controlled authority. Her flame-red hair had been braided into a severe military plait that emphasized the aristocratic lines of her face rather than softening them. The cold had brought color to her cheeks, making her amber-gold eyes burn even brighter against her pale skin. The dawn light painted her in shades of copper and gold, as if the sun itself recognized its kindred. Her uniform—tailored to emphasize broad shoulders and narrow waist—moved with her breathing, each exhale creating a small cloud of vapor that caught the horizontal sunbeams.
"Steady," she called, her melodious voice carrying with parade-ground clarity. "Hold the line. No one advances without my order."
Three hundred yards ahead, the mob had gathered.
It wasn't the mindless chaos of earlier riots. This crowd had organization—banners, chanters, people positioned with tactical awareness. Perhaps five hundred strong, maybe more. Workers in patched coats. Students in academic scarves. Women in practical dresses. The desperate and the idealistic, united by rage at a system that had taken too much for too long.
They'd been there all night, Lilianna knew. Their faces showed exhaustion mixed with desperate determination. But dawn had brought reinforcements—fresh protesters emerging from the tenements behind them, swelling their numbers.
They chanted. Threw insults that echoed off the low-rise office buildings flanking the street. But they didn't advance. Not yet. The cavalry's presence—and more importantly, Lilianna's reputation—held them back.
For now.
But the standoff was hardening. Neither side willing to back down. The rioters, emboldened by numbers and righteous anger, pressed closer. The cavalry, disciplined and determined, refused to yield an inch of ground.
The dawn light made everything surreal—shadows still clinging to the buildings while the street itself blazed with horizontal sunbeams. It painted the scene in stark contrasts: light and dark, order and chaos, violence held at bay by the thinnest margin of restraint.
That's when Lilianna saw her.
Third row from the front, partially obscured by the crowd. A young woman wearing an impeccable high-collared blouse in cream silk, the kind with intricate lace detailing at the throat and delicate pearl buttons running to mid-chest. The dawn light made the fabric almost luminous. Even in riot conditions, she maintained that professional dignity. Her dark hair was pinned in a practical bun. Her face was contorted with fear and anger in equal measure, clutching a protest sign that read "JUSTICE FOR THE FALLEN."
Recognition hit Lilianna like physical impact.
Dorothea. From her Administrative Law course. The one who'd posted brilliant analyses to the discussion forums, whose arguments about legal reform had made Lilianna actually reconsider positions she'd heard from Clara. They'd never met in person—but Lilianna had recognized her from her display picture. On the other hand, Lilianna had never uploaded a profile photo, had kept her true identity carefully hidden behind the anonymity of remote learning.
Dorothea's face—intelligent, passionate, terrified—burned itself into Lilianna's memory. This was what Margaret had talked about. The mob wasn't faceless. They were people. People with futures and dreams and legal aspirations and beautiful blouses they'd probably saved weeks to afford.
People she might have to order her cavalry to—
The crack of a mana-gun split the morning air.
Lilianna's body moved before her mind registered the sound. Years of training, countless hours of reaction drills, the Wetdin bloodline's legendary reflexes—all of it coalesced into pure instinct. She felt the minute change in air pressure, the infinitesimal displacement that her enhanced senses tracked with unconscious precision. Her head shifted as her entire body reflexively arched back.
The bullet passed three inches from where her temple had been a second before.
Beside her, Lieutenant Morrison made a wet, choking sound.
Lilianna turned in her saddle, already knowing what she'd see but hoping desperately she was wrong.
Morrison toppled from his horse, hands clutching uselessly at the crater in his neck where the bullet had continued its trajectory after missing her. Blood—so much blood—sprayed across his white horse.
"SNIPER!" Lilianna's voice cut through the sudden chaos, her tactical training taking over, her arm shooting out to point. "Rooftop, northwest—third building, flat roof, third-floor elevation!"
The words left her mouth with parade-ground precision. Pure reflex. Identifying the threat. Giving her troops the information they needed to—
The world roared.
The deep, earth-shaking BOOM of mana-cannons. Not distant. Not from some other unit.
From behind her.
From her troops.
The building—the one she'd just identified—simply disintegrated. The top three floors collapsed inward with terrible finality, stone and steel and glass cascading down in an avalanche of destruction. The shockwave hit a second later, hot wind carrying the scent of pulverized masonry and something acrid that made her eyes water. Dust billowed up, turning the pristine dawn light into something hellish and orange.
Then the building beside it began to crumble.
And the one beside that.
Lilianna's mind went blank with horror.
No.
She wheeled Artemis around, her eyes finding the artillery positions she'd ordered established two blocks back. Standard tactical deployment. Covering fire capability. She'd approved it herself.
The cannon crews were already reloading with efficient, disciplined precision. Their faces showed grim satisfaction—they'd eliminated the threat to their commander. Exactly as they'd been trained to do.
Exactly as her words had commanded them to do.
Part 3
The castle rose from the rolling hills of the Francimonican countryside like a monument to excess disguised as refinement. Once the ancestral seat of the Montbeau dynasty, the castle had been transformed into one of the world's most exclusive wineries—a place where bottles sold for more than modest estates and privacy came at a premium reserved for those who could afford absolute discretion.
Its grand cellars stretched deep underground, carved from limestone over centuries, their vaulted ceilings supported by columns so ancient they predated the Empire itself. The air was cool, perpetually maintained at precisely fourteen degrees, thick with the scent of aging oak and fermenting grapes. Rows upon rows of bottles lined the walls, their labels bearing dates that stretched back generations, each one a liquid investment worth more than most men earned in lifetimes.
But tonight, the deepest chamber—accessible only through a series of increasingly secured doors, each requiring biometric authentication concealed within antique mechanisms—served a purpose far removed from oenophilia.
It had been a full week since the riots started.
The Prince reclined in a leather wingback chair that had once belonged to a Francimonican emperor, his posture affecting casual ease while his mind calculated with the precision of a master strategist. He wore an immaculately tailored suit of midnight blue, his cane—that theatrical prop that concealed advanced mana-focusing technology—resting against the chair's arm. Before him, a crystal glass of wine caught the amber light from enchanted sconces that provided illumination without heat or flame.
"Exquisite," he murmured, swirling the wine with practiced appreciation. "The Montbeaus always understood that truly great things require patience, careful cultivation, and the willingness to let lesser specimens rot on the vine."
Three male Familiars stood at attention near the wine racks, each a masterpiece of summoned perfection, each representing a distinct aesthetic ideal. They wore simple white shirts and dark trousers, their postures perfect, their expressions serene. The first possessed bronze skin and classical heroic proportions—muscular handsomeness that belonged on ancient statuary. The second embodied refined aristocratic elegance with pale skin and lean, fencer's build. The third displayed features of far eastern ancestry with delicate bone structure and quiet grace.
"Ladies," the Prince said with businesslike efficiency, "I've selected these three to serve us this evening. As you know, I'm a perfectionist in all things—including hospitality. Each represents a distinct aesthetic ideal." He gestured toward them as one might indicate fine sculptures. "Please, select whichever you prefer to attend you during our discussion."
Lady Seraphina studied the three with the practiced eye of a connoisseur, a slight smile playing at her lips. She moved closer to the pale, elegant one, trailing her fingers along the wine rack as she circled him appraisingly. "That one will do nicely, Your Imperial Highness." Her voice carried a note of satisfaction, as if she'd just selected the perfect piece at an art auction.
Lady Constance's gaze flickered across the three familiars. For the briefest moment—so quick it might have been imagination—something tightened around her mouth. Then her expression smoothed to practiced neutrality, though her hands clasped together slightly too tight. "The bronze one, if it pleases Your Imperial Highness." Her tone was crisp, professional, deliberately avoiding looking directly at her selection.
"Excellent choices." The Prince nodded to the eastern-featured familiar, who moved immediately to his side. "I trust they'll provide adequate service. The latest summoning techniques ensure they find genuine fulfillment in their roles—quite remarkable, really. They experience authentic satisfaction in serving, in being appreciated for their function. Osgorrotian magic never ceases to impress."
The familiars moved to their assigned positions, their movements fluid and precise. Each wore an expression of quiet contentment, as if serving wine in a secret meeting were the highest calling imaginable.
Lady Seraphina's familiar began pouring with perfect grace, and she watched the wine cascade into her glass with evident appreciation. "Your Imperial Highness's attention to every detail is admirable, as always."
"Details matter," the Prince replied simply, accepting his own pour with a slight nod to his familiar. "In hospitality as in statecraft. Now then—shall we address the matters at hand?"
The shift in his tone was immediate, transitioning from host to strategist without preamble. Lady Constance visibly relaxed, setting down her wine to consult her leather-bound notebook with evident relief, her pen already moving across the page.
"The riots in Albecaster and other cities," the Prince began. "They've been rather more persistent than some anticipated. But persistence has its uses."
"The latest reports suggest they're gradually losing momentum," Lady Constance offered, not looking up from her notes. "But the aftermath will be complicated. Years of court cases, millions in potential settlements. Many of these protesters were professionals—lawyers, academics, journalists. They documented everything, maintained just enough restraint to make prosecution difficult."
"The homeland's litigation culture," Lady Seraphina added with theatrical distaste, gesturing with her wine glass. "Unlike the colonial territories where such matters can be... simplified." She took a deliberate sip. "These people maximized their political impact while staying just inside legal boundaries. Infuriatingly clever, really."
The Prince set down his wine with deliberate precision. "That's precisely the problem. Too much bureaucratic inefficiency. Too much hindrance in the form of excessive accountability." His voice carried quiet venom. "If the reformers succeed in exporting this accountability to the colonial territories, the cost of governance will become unsustainable. Soon we'll hear renewed calls for decolonization."
He stood, pacing between the wine racks, his cane tapping rhythmically against ancient stone. The three familiars adjusted positions seamlessly, maintaining service while staying perfectly clear of his path. Shadows from the enchanted sconces danced across the vaulted ceiling, making the ancient limestone seem alive.
"The Empire faces a danger it hasn't confronted in decades. The contagion of republican values, the erosion of necessary hierarchies, the mistaken belief that civilization can be maintained through consensus rather than order." He turned to face the women, the light catching the silver handle of his cane. "It falls to us to stop and reverse this decline."
His voice took on an edge of cold certainty. "Idealists never understand that true greatness requires sacrifices and unpopular choices. Choices the masses will never appreciate, decisions that may be condemned contemporaneously but celebrated in hindsight."
Lady Seraphina leaned forward, animated now. "But Your Imperial Highness, doesn't that mean we should work to end the riots more quickly? If they continue, colonial populations might be emboldened. Our inability to maintain order in the homeland could be seen as weakness—or worse, as a new tolerance."
"An excellent point," the Prince agreed, returning to his chair. His familiar moved forward immediately with the wine bottle, anticipating the need. "Which is precisely why it's time for the riots to end. After all," his smile showed teeth as he accepted the pour, "what I was waiting for has been achieved."
Both women straightened, attention sharpening. Lady Constance's pen paused mid-notation.
"Lady Blaric informed me this morning," the Prince continued, savoring each word like fine wine, "that the Duchess of Wetdin finally crossed the threshold in one of the confrontations. Used the kind of force that leaves evidence, witnesses, legal exposure."
He swirled his wine, watching amber light play through the liquid. "There's no going back for her now. She's evolved from idealistic cavalry captain to someone who's made some hard choices. Someone who understands that preservation sometimes requires actions that look brutal to those who've never had to maintain civilization against the mob."
Lady Constance's eyes lit with understanding, her pen moving rapidly again. "So we will offer her support? Legal resources, shield her from the inevitable inquiries?"
"Precisely," the Prince purred. "We'll ensure she emerges not just unscathed, but celebrated as a defender of civilization. But…" his voice hardened, "through the process, her name will be forever tied to these actions. If liberal values ever dominate the Empire's future, everything that elevates her now becomes ammunition against her. Her only security lies in ensuring the old order endures."
"Her fate will be bound to ours," Lady Seraphina said slowly, a smile spreading across her face as she grasped the elegance of the trap. "If we thrive, she thrives. If we fall, she falls with us."
"Precisely." The Prince raised his glass in mock toast. His familiar moved forward to refill it with perfect timing. "Young Lilianna has inadvertently met the eligibility criteria to join us. Though she doesn't realize it yet."
He set down his glass with finality. "Now, regarding our other operations. Lady Constance—Julian. When will we release the news?"
Lady Constance flipped through her notebook, finger tracing down a page. "My people in the press offices are ready to move. We're framing it as tragic medical complications from his injuries at Wonder Park. Head trauma can be unpredictable." She looked up, seeking approval. "We have doctors prepared to confirm the medical narrative. I can have it released within twelve hours of your authorization."
"Good. Release it tomorrow morning. Let it dominate the news cycle just as the riots are losing steam." He turned to Lady Seraphina, who was studying her wine glass with a knowing expression. "And our other matter? The... infiltration of the protests?"
Lady Seraphina's smile was thin, predatory. "Proceeding as planned, Your Imperial Highness." She set down her glass and leaned back, clearly enjoying this part. "Our people embedded in various criminal organizations have been advising their mob leaders on the opportunities presented by the chaos. Gang leaders in seventeen cities now believe—entirely of their own volition, of course—that the protests provide excellent cover for profitable activities."
"The beauty of it," Lady Constance added, still consulting her notes, "is that the criminals don't even know they're being influenced. Our assets have spent years building trust as strategic advisors. The gang leaders think they're making shrewd business decisions."
"And our assets themselves?" the Prince asked. "Remind me of the security protocols."
"Absolutely compartmentalized," Lady Seraphina assured him, her tone becoming more businesslike. "Each asset has been explicitly instructed not to participate in any criminal activity themselves—only to advise. They maintain their positions as trusted strategists, never exposed to direct risk. And should a gang leader ever suspect disloyalty..." She paused delicately, gesturing to her throat. "They're equipped to avoid interrogation. Permanently."
The Prince nodded approvingly. "And their motivation for such dangerous work?"
"The same as always, Your Imperial Highness." Lady Seraphina's expression softened slightly—perhaps the closest to genuine emotion she'd show. "They're handpicked from impoverished regions across the world. Their families—wives, children, elderly parents—have been relocated to comfortable circumstances. Good homes, excellent schools, medical care, stable incomes. All legitimate, all documented as humanitarian assistance from various charitable foundations."
"The families have no idea what their husbands and fathers do," Lady Constance continued, making a notation in her book. "They thought they were simply lucky. Meanwhile, the assets understand implicitly: their families' security depends on their continued service." She glanced up. "After forty years of loyal service, both they and their families can retire to comfortable obscurity with enough wealth to live well. Their families never need to know what bought their prosperity."
"Elegant," the Prince murmured. "Loyalty purchased not through fear alone, but through hope. Through genuine love for family."
He stood again, moving to stand between the two women, his expression calculating. Lady Seraphina watched him with evident interest, while Lady Constance's posture straightened instinctively. "So our criminal elements are already moving into position. When can we expect visible incidents?"
"They're positioning now," Lady Seraphina confirmed, her voice taking on the tone of someone delivering good news. "We should see first visible incidents within forty-eight hours. Enough time for media to be in place—Constance will ensure reporters will be conducting interviews with shopkeepers and residents in affected areas, ostensibly to humanize the protest's impact. The cameras will be ready to capture the chaos."
"Perfect." The Prince's smile was cold satisfaction. "The public won't distinguish between legitimate protesters and opportunistic criminals. They'll all become 'the mob' in collective consciousness. And then I'll speak publicly. A grand address calling for unity, for restraint, for dialogue. I'll position myself as the reasonable voice advocating for peaceful resolution."
Lady Constance looked up from her notes, a slight crease between her brows, her pen hesitating. "And if it doesn't work, Your Imperial Highness? If the protests continue despite your appeal?"
The Prince's smile widened, becoming something almost playful—but with edges sharp as broken glass. "As you know, my dears, I leave nothing to chance. There are contingencies within contingencies." He paced back to his chair, his familiar already waiting with the wine bottle. "If reason fails, then public sentiment will demand what reason could not achieve. The people themselves will beg us to restore order by any means necessary. And then we'll ensure the Duchess of Wetdin receives the honor of that particular task."
His voice dropped, taking on an edge of dark satisfaction as he accepted another pour. "More blood on her hands. More evidence of her effectiveness. More reason for rapid promotion through ranks. And more footage that will play very differently depending on the values of the Empire. She'll be simultaneously celebrated and condemned—her only safety lying in ensuring the celebrants remain in power."
"The elegance of this strategy is remarkable, Your Imperial Highness," Lady Seraphina said with genuine admiration, raising her glass slightly in salute.
"It's not elegance," the Prince corrected gently, swirling his wine. "It's necessity. The Continental Republic and our own reformers manipulate rules and public opinion to achieve their goals. We simply do it better. We understand that true power doesn't come from being loved—it comes from making people believe they chose what you wanted them to choose all along."
He returned to his chair, settling into it with the air of a man satisfied with his preparations. "But I cannot stress this enough: discretion remains paramount. Everything must appear organic, spontaneous." His gaze moved between the two women, hard and uncompromising. "The infiltration must remain discrete. The media manipulation must seem like natural coverage. The legal support for the duchess must appear as civic-minded assistance, not political patronage. Route it through one of the oversea charitable foundations—perhaps establish a fictitious admirer of the Duchess who wishes to support young patriots in uniform."
His expression grew grave, and even Lady Seraphina's theatrical confidence dimmed slightly. "One traced connection, one leaked communication, one asset who cracks under interrogation before using their final option—and everything collapses. The reformers would have their scandal, their proof of conspiracy. We'd lose not just this battle but more."
"We understand, Your Imperial Highness," both women said in unison, Lady Constance closing her notebook with a decisive snap while Lady Seraphina set down her empty wine glass.
"Good." The Prince relaxed slightly, sipping his wine. "Then let's proceed. Constance, release Julian's death tomorrow morning. Coordinate with media to ensure maximum coverage while maintaining the tragic narrative. Seraphina, I want confirmation of first criminal incidents within forty-eight hours. Make sure our assets understand the timeline."
"And the duchess?" Lady Constance asked, tucking her notebook into her leather portfolio.
"Let Clara handle her niece. She's been cultivating that particular relationship for months." The Prince's smile returned, satisfied and cruel. "The girl still believes she's making her own choices, pursuing her own path. Clara's art lies in ensuring every 'choice' leads exactly where we need it to go. Lilianna's predictability is one of her most valuable qualities."
He stood, signaling the meeting's conclusion. The familiars moved immediately to assist. Lady Seraphina's chosen familiar offered his arm with fluid grace, which she accepted with a pleased nod, trailing her fingers along his forearm with casual possessiveness. Lady Constance's familiar approached with the same serene expression, and she took his arm with practiced politeness, though she kept her gaze carefully forward, her jaw slightly tight.
"A few more weeks," the Prince said, almost to himself, watching pieces align in his mind's eye. "A few more weeks of careful management, and we'll have converted crisis into opportunity. The riots will end with public support for stronger order. The duchess will be irrevocably bound to us. And the reformers will have spent their political capital achieving nothing but validating our warnings about the mob's dangers."
He looked at the two women as they prepared to depart through separate concealed exits—another security layer, ensuring they'd never be seen together. "Remember: discretion above all. No traceable communications. No documented meetings. Disruption magic for all gatherings. We are ghosts shaping the world."
They nodded and departed, Lady Seraphina with a theatrical flourish of her skirts, Lady Constance with efficient precision, leaving the Prince alone with his three familiars in the ancient cellar.
He sipped his wine slowly, savoring both the taste and the satisfaction of watching carefully laid plans reach fruition. The familiars stood at perfect attention, their expressions content, their postures suggesting they wanted nothing more than to serve in this cold stone cellar at the whim of a man who viewed them as particularly attractive furniture.
Advanced summoning techniques, he'd told the ladies. Create the desire to serve, and service becomes its own reward.
He raised his glass to the absent ladies, to the duchess who didn't know she was being cultivated, to the gang leaders who thought themselves clever opportunists, to the assets with cyanide in their teeth and families they'd never see again if they failed.
"To necessary choices," he murmured to the empty air. "And to those wise enough to make them."
The familiars said nothing, their contentment absolute, their service perfect.
Just as he'd designed it to be.