Part 1
White ceiling. Antiseptic smell. Rhythmic beeping.
Lilianna's eyes opened to unfamiliar surroundings, every muscle screaming. The hospital room materialized in fragments—pale walls, morning light through gauze curtains.
Then memory crashed over her.
BOOM. Cannons firing. Three buildings disintegrating into dust blooms that turned dawn golden into apocalyptic gray. The sniper infiltrating afterward. Someone deliberately waiting.
Crack. Crack. Crack.
Mana-gun fire from the crowd, from windows. Davison beside her one moment, chest exploding the next, body hitting cobblestones with that wet, meaty sound.
"Return fire! Suppressing fire!"
Her cavalry responding with mechanical precision. Then the firebombs—bottles trailing smoke, liquid fire spreading across cobblestones, catching horse legs.
Then came the motorcar—modified, reinforced, barreling toward her formation.
"PART FORMATION! CANNONS, TARGET THAT VEHICLE! FIRE NOW!"
The cannonball struck dead-center. But it had already cut its path—twelve bodies launched into the air, crushed or thrown before the cannons stopped it. Bodies twisted unnaturally, launched sideways. Blood bloomed across pristine silk.
After that, pure chaos. More gunfire, more firebombs, men dying, horses screaming. She'd kept commanding until reinforcements swept through with brutal efficiency.
Then silence. Bodies everywhere.
And Lilianna had known, with terrible certainty, her career was finished.
Now tears pricked her eyes. Her hand moved instinctively toward her service pistol—but there was only hospital gown and empty air.
Everything Clara had worked for. Every string her aunt pulled. All destroyed.
And Philip. What would he think?
Tears came then, hot and unstoppable.
A toilet flushed.
Lilianna's body went rigid. Someone had been in the washroom listening to her cry.
The door opened.
Clara emerged, and the sight was so unexpected Lilianna's breath caught. Her aunt looked exhausted—perfect coiffure disheveled, makeup mostly worn off, elegant dress wrinkled from a long night in hospital chairs. But her eyes—those sharp, calculating eyes—were red-rimmed and swollen.
Clara had been crying too.
"Aunt Clara," Lilianna's voice came out broken.
Clara's face crumpled. All that aristocratic composure fell away. She crossed the room in three quick strides and gathered Lilianna into her arms with fierce, barely suppressed terror.
"My darling girl," Clara breathed against Lilianna's hair, voice thick with tears. "My brave, foolish, perfect girl. I thought—when they brought you in—I thought—"
She couldn't finish. Her body shook with sobs she'd clearly held back all night.
Lilianna clung to her aunt like a drowning woman to driftwood. "I'm so sorry. Everything you worked for—I've destroyed it all. I've failed you—"
"Hush," Clara commanded gently. "You have nothing to apologize for. Nothing."
"But the protest, the casualties—"
"Were not your fault." Clara pulled back just enough to cup Lilianna's face, forcing their eyes to meet. Her gaze was fierce. "You were given an impossible situation. A powder keg waiting to explode. The moment agitators opened fire from the crowd, there is no turning back."
"The higher-ups will blame me."
"Leave those to me." Clara's voice regained its steel but remained tender. "All of it. The inquiries, investigations, political maneuvering. I will handle everything."
She stroked Lilianna's flame-red hair with surprising tenderness. "You're not alone anymore, my darling. You have me. And I will move heaven and earth before I let them destroy you."
The words broke something in Lilianna's chest. A single tear escaped.
"How could I ever repay you?"
"You can repay me," Clara said gently, "by pursuing your happiness. By serving your duty to the Empire with honor and integrity. Just as nobles who enjoy our privileges should do, in return for the trust and honor the Empire has placed in us." She paused. "That's all I ask. Live well. Be happy. Serve honorably. That will be payment enough."
Lilianna nodded, unable to speak past the lump in her throat.
A knock interrupted them.
Clara's demeanor transformed instantly, wiping away tear tracks and settling into elegant composure. "Come in," she called, voice perfectly modulated.
A nurse entered, eyes widening as she registered exactly who occupied the room. Her posture straightened to almost military attention.
"Your Grace," she addressed Lilianna with deep deference. Then, turning to Clara with equal respect: "Lady Clara. You have visitors. Lord Philip Redwood and Duchess Margaret Redwood and an attendant."
Panic flooded through Lilianna. Philip. Here. Now. When she looked like absolute hell.
She frantically searched for a mirror, running hands through her hair. "I can't—I need to—do I look—"
"Shh," Clara soothed, amusement dancing in her eyes. "You look beautiful, darling. A bit worse for wear, but authentically so."
She leaned close, whispering: "Besides, darling... men find vulnerability irresistible. And Philip Redwood is already half in love with you. Let him see you like this, and he'll be completely lost."
Lilianna's face went absolutely crimson.
Clara smiled knowingly and turned to the nurse. "Please send them in. But only for a short visit—Her Grace needs her rest."
The nurse bobbed a hasty curtsy and practically fled.
The door opened after a brief interval.
Margaret entered first.
Clara, who had been settling back with elegant composure, went absolutely still.
The woman who glided through that doorway bore only passing resemblance to the aunt Margaret Clara had last seen a year ago. That Margaret had been withering—a sickly woman in her sixties whose former war injuries were catching up, whose body had never recovered from the fall five years ago that shattered her hip and caused permanent brain damage. The event inspired countless conspiracy theories. Clara had watched her aunt hobble with a cane, watched the tremors in her hands, the vacant moments when the brain damage showed.
This Margaret moved with perfect aristocratic grace, dove gray dress impeccable, reddish-white hair perfectly coiffed. Her posture was completely straight—the authoritative elegance of her heyday, walking with almost alluring confidence. She looked forty, not sixty. And she was... actually attractive. Genuinely, arrestingly so. Just like she once was.
Clara's mouth opened slightly. Her eyes widened—genuine shock cracking through decades of practiced composure. For a woman who prided herself on never being surprised, this was embarrassing.
She recovered in perhaps two seconds but Lilianna had seen it. Had seen her unflappable aunt rendered speechless.
Behind Margaret came Philip, wearing a simple riding jacket, face showing real worry for Lilianna's wellbeing.
And finally Natalia, impossibly beautiful in cream dress, golden hair catching morning light like a halo, sapphire eyes surveying the room with peculiar intensity.
Clara stood, finding her voice though it emerged slightly higher than usual. "Aunt Margaret." The words came out almost reverent. "How wonderful to see you again. You look... remarkably well."
The understatement of the century, delivered with perfect aristocratic restraint.
Margaret's lips curved in a knowing smile—she'd clearly anticipated this reaction—but said nothing about her transformation. This wasn't her moment. She was here for Lilianna.
"Dear Clara," Margaret replied with warm affection, crossing to embrace her niece. "It's so good to see you too. It must have been terribly hard on you, keeping vigil all night. Thank you for caring for our girl."
"It's what I should do," Clara said, recovering her equilibrium though calculation still flickered in her expression. "Family looks after family."
Margaret squeezed Clara's hands before turning to the bed. "My darling Lilianna," she said softly, approaching and taking Lilianna's hand. "When we heard what happened—oh, my dear, I've been so worried."
"Aunt Margaret," Lilianna managed, voice still hoarse. "I'm so sorry you had to—I didn't intend—"
"Hush. You have nothing to apologize for. What you did yesterday was extraordinary. You held the line that prevented the Empire from descending into chaos."
Philip moved closer, still looking somewhat shell-shocked but forcing himself to focus. He kept his eyes deliberately on Lilianna's face, trying not to notice how the morning light caught her hair.
"Lilianna," he struggled for words. "Are you alright? Truly?"
The genuine concern in his voice made tears prick her eyes again. "I'm fine. Just tired."
"You're not fine," he said bluntly, and something in his tone—the raw honesty—made her look up and meet his eyes. "What you went through... that's not something anyone should experience."
The words cracked something in her chest. A single tear escaped.
Natalia moved then, gliding forward with uncanny grace. She produced a handkerchief—pristine white silk with delicate embroidery—and gently wiped the tear away with surprising tenderness.
"You were very brave," Natalia said softly, melodious voice carrying quiet sincerity. "I don't understand much about military things, but... Philip was very worried when he heard the news. I think you must be very strong to have survived something so terrible."
She tilted her head slightly. "I'm not very good at comforting people yet. I hope that was... appropriate?"
Despite everything, Lilianna felt a surprised laugh bubble up. There was something utterly disarming about Natalia's earnest concern. "Thank you. That's very kind of you."
Natalia's face lit up with pure, delighted relief. "Oh good! Philip has been teaching me about how to help people who are upset."
She glanced at Philip with such open affection that Lilianna felt her heart twist.
Clara, watching this exchange, seemed to recalibrate her assessment. Then Natalia turned to her with those sapphire eyes.
For a long moment, the two women regarded each other—Clara with aristocratic calculation, Natalia with that peculiar analytical intensity that always seemed just slightly off.
Then Natalia's expression shifted. Something flickered across her face—uncertainty, perhaps, or the realization she was being evaluated.
"I am Natalia, nice to meet you, Lady Clara. I'm Philip's mistress," Natalia announced with perfect clarity and zero embarrassment.
The room went absolutely silent.
Philip's face cycled rapidly through several shades of red before settling on something approaching purple.
Margaret's eyebrows rose so high they nearly disappeared into her hairline. Her lips pressed together in what might have been suppressed laughter.
Clara's composure shattered spectacularly. Her mouth fell open. She blinked once. Twice. Three times. Her hand, which had been gracefully gesturing, froze mid-air in what might have been the aristocratic equivalent of a system crash.
"I—" Clara started, then stopped. Her eyes darted to Margaret as if seeking confirmation she'd actually heard correctly.
Lilianna, despite her exhaustion, felt a wholly inappropriate giggle threatening to bubble up. Seeing Clara—Clara Wetdin—rendered utterly speechless was something she'd never witnessed.
Natalia, seemingly oblivious to the chaos, continued with earnest sincerity: "Though I should clarify—Philip owes no exclusive obligation to me whatsoever."
"Natalia," Philip interrupted desperately, voice strangled. "Perhaps we should—that is—you don't need to—"
"But Lady Clara seemed curious about my identity," Natalia said, turning to Philip with apparent confusion. "You told me it's polite to answer unasked questions when someone is clearly wondering."
"Yes, well, there's clarity and then there's—" Philip gestured helplessly, face now approaching shades not normally found in nature. "Diplomatic clarity versus... whatever that was."
Margaret, clearly deciding to rescue her embarrassed grandson, stepped forward smoothly. "My dear Natalia, your directness is quite refreshing. But sometimes, we need to leave the spotlight to someone else."
"Oh! I am sorry. I didn't mean to grad the spotlight."
Philip had buried his face in one hand. "It's fine…"
Clara had recovered somewhat, though a slight flush still colored her cheeks. "Well," she said, voice regaining smooth control though still carrying bewilderment, "that was certainly... illuminating, Miss Natalia. And please, call me Clara." She paused, lips twitching. "I am Lilianna's aunt and Margaret's niece."
A young hospital attendant wheeled in a mana mirror on a mobile stand. "Apologies, Your Grace, my ladies, my lord. Lady Clara asked me to bring this in."
He positioned the mirror, activated it with a touch, and bowed himself out quickly.
The IBC logo materialized, dissolving into a tense announcer.
"—continuing coverage of what officials are now calling the Empire's worst civil unrest in a decade. We go live to our correspondent in Albecaster—"
Clara moved closer, expression sharpening. Margaret's posture straightened almost imperceptibly.
The correspondent appeared before a ransacked storefront, smoke rising from buildings behind him. "Thomas, the situation here has deteriorated dramatically. What began as political protests has been increasingly affiliated with widespread looting and property destruction."
He gestured to the damaged shop. "This pharmacy in an area covered by protesting crowds was broken into just two hours ago. Many civilian businesses in the area had suffered similar property damage and theft."
The image cut to footage of masked figures smashing windows.
"What's particularly disturbing is that looting had been spreading beyond areas of covered by active protests to involve areas where officers have been pulled away to manage protests elsewhere."
Margaret's expression had gone very still. Clara's eyes narrowed.
"And it's not just property crime. Authorities have confirmed at least seven targeted killings across three cities in the last twenty-four hours—professional assassinations using the chaos as cover."
The image shifted back to the studio. "Marcus, we're receiving reports of particularly disturbing developments regarding yesterday's incident at Merchant's Row. Can you confirm?"
"Yes, Thomas. According to the official preliminary investigation—completed with remarkable speed—the modified motorcar wasn't targeting the Duchess of Wetdin or the protestors."
Natalia's head tilted, sapphire eyes focusing with unusual intensity.
"Instead, investigators believe the vehicle was aimed at Lieutenant Geoffrey Stirlingbottle, scion of the Stirlingbottle banking dynasty, positioned in the formation's third rank."
Natalia spoke up, her voice carrying that peculiar blend of innocence and precision. "Isn't that remarkably efficient? A complex investigation involving a modified vehicle, coordinated attack patterns, identifying a specific target from a sixty-person cavalry formation—all concluded in less than twenty-four hours?"
She tilted her head. "Lydia taught me that thorough investigations typically require extensive evidence analysis, witness interviews, forensic examination. Especially since determining intent would require analyzing the vehicle's trajectory, interviewing surviving witnesses in extreme distress, and ruling out alternative targets. Even with optimal cooperation, that should take at least seventy-two hours for preliminary findings. This is... statistically anomalous."
Clara's expression flickered—surprise, reassessment, and something approaching respect.
Philip's face had gone slightly pink. "Natalia has been learning about investigative procedures."
"Evidently," Margaret murmured, eyes dancing.
The broadcast continued. "The Office of Home Security has issued a statement calling the situation 'rapidly deteriorating' and 'requiring immediate intervention.'"
The image cut to a stern-faced official. "We must learn from our allies' experiences. The Continental Republic recently employed effective paramilitary intervention to restore order during a similar burst of widespread unrest. The safety of law-abiding citizens must be our paramount concern."
Margaret made a soft sound—not quite a laugh, more an exhalation of weary recognition. "They're setting the stage for a crackdown."
Lilianna's head snapped toward her great-aunt. "How do you know?"
Margaret met her gaze with eyes that had seen six decades of imperial politics. "From being old, my dear, and saddled with years of experience. After all, some things never change."
She gestured toward the mana mirror. "First, you let the situation deteriorate—or help it deteriorate. Make the public frightened. Then you point to international examples of 'successful' resolution—usually the Continental Republic. Then you appoint a committee to 'study' the issue, which provides cover for decisions already made. Finally, you deploy overwhelming force and call it regrettable necessity."
She smiled without humor. "I've watched this recipe prepared at least seven times in my lifetime. The ingredients vary—sometimes labor strikes, sometimes religious tensions, sometimes independence movements—but the procedure remains identical."
Clara had been watching Margaret with profound respect. "And they'll need a face and a tool to garner support and implement their crackdown plan. Someone they can promote rapidly to demonstrate effectiveness."
"Precisely." Margaret's gaze moved to Lilianna. "A young, photogenic cavalry officer who held the line against impossible odds. Who can be elevated as both symbol and executioner."
Lilianna felt cold. "They're going to use me."
"They're going to offer you a chance," Clara corrected gently. "Glory or scapegoating. Hero or villain. And darling, we're going to ensure you choose glory."
Philip had moved closer to the bedside. He reached into his jacket and produced a small wrapped package. "These are for you. I remembered you mentioning you liked dark chocolate at dinner."
Their fingers brushed during the exchange—just a moment's contact—but Lilianna felt that familiar spark. She caught the way his breath hitched, saw the color rise in his neck above his collar.
This is ridiculous, he thought. She's exhausted, traumatized, and you're thinking about how her fingers feel. Get yourself together.
"Thank you," Lilianna said softly, meeting his eyes. "For the chocolates. And for coming. And for... everything."
"Master Philip was very particular about selecting them," Natalia offered helpfully. "We visited three different shops before he found the right ones."
"Natalia," Philip interrupted, face reddening, "perhaps we don't need the complete documentary?"
"Oh! Was I doing excessive detail again?"
"That's the one," Philip confirmed weakly.
Margaret stood gracefully. "Perhaps we should let Lilianna rest now."
She moved to embrace Lilianna gently. "Rest well, my dear great-niece. And know that you have our support—mine, Philip's, and yes, even Natalia's."
"My full support," Natalia confirmed with simple sincerity.
As they moved toward the door, Philip lingered. He reached out hesitantly, then made a decision and took Lilianna's hand.
"Get well soon," he said quietly, voice carrying intensity that made her pulse quicken. "The city needs you."
Before Lilianna could respond, he released her hand and turned to follow the others. Natalia paused in the doorway, looking back with genuine concern.
"I hope you feel better soon. You seem like a good person. Philip thinks so too."
Then they were gone.
Clara stood by the window, staring after them with an expression of complete bewilderment that slowly transformed into something more calculating.
"That," she said finally, "was the most extraordinary young woman I have ever encountered."
"She's something, isn't she?" Lilianna agreed softly.
"She wasn't threatened by you. Not even slightly." Clara turned, eyes sharp with analysis. "Most women in her position would show some sign of jealousy. But she seemed genuinely pleased that Philip was concerned about you."
She returned to her chair, expression thoughtful. "And that introduction...."
Clara settled back. "Either remarkably naive or remarkably clever, and I'm not certain which. Announcing herself as his mistress with such directness—it either shows complete social incompetence or brilliant tactical maneuvering. Either way, she's neutralized any whispers by addressing them explicitly."
Clara bent down and pressed a kiss to Lilianna's forehead. "I'm so proud of you, my darling girl. Never forget that."
Then, adding with a slight smile: "Oh, and darling? That boy is absolutely smitten with you. Use it wisely."
Part 2
The carriage wheels clattered against cobblestones with rhythmic precision, morning light filtering through gauze curtains to cast soft patterns across velvet upholstery.
Margaret sat with that effortless grace unusual for someone in their sixties, gazing out the window with quiet contemplation while looking every bit the forty-year-old beauty she resembled.
Natalia cataloged architectural details with her characteristic intensity—then the sound reached them. A low rumble that might have been thunder if the sky weren't perfectly clear. Voices. Hundreds, perhaps thousands, rising and falling in rhythmic chants that carried despite the distance.
Natalia's head snapped toward the sound with complete focus. She shifted in her seat, pressing closer to the window on Philip's side.
Her body molded against his as she leaned across him for a better view, one hand bracing against his thigh for balance, her remarkable bosom pressing against his arm. Her face ended up inches from his, golden hair spilling across his shoulder like silk curtains.
"What is that sound?" Natalia asked, lips so close to his ear he felt the words.
From across the carriage, Margaret made a sound suspiciously like suppressed laughter. When Philip glanced at her, he caught the tail end of an expression that could only be described as smugly satisfied—like a chess player watching their opponent walk into a carefully laid trap.
She's enjoying this.
Philip cleared his throat, which emerged strangled and a pitch higher than intended. "Protests. We're passing near the inner city's edge. The barricades are about two streets over."
The carriage slowed as they passed by an intersection. Through the window—and around Natalia's very distracting proximity—Philip could see where pristine streets gave way to controlled chaos. Law enforcers stood in rigid formation behind wooden barricades, mana-rifles at ready.
The chanting clarified: "Bread and jobs! Bread and jobs!"
"Say no to parasites and invaders!"
Natalia tilted her head, bringing her face even closer. "Why are they protesting about jobs? The Albecaster Times reported Avalondia's unemployment at only 4.8% last quarter. That's near full employment by historical standards."
Her hand remained on his thigh.
"Official statistics," Margaret interjected gently, amusement evident in her voice though she carefully avoided looking at them, "often fail to capture the full picture. Particularly the regional, age, and class disparities."
Philip seized on the economic discussion to divert his attention away from Natalia's proximity.
"It's a convergence of dysfunction," he managed. "The people who need money most—young families with children—face the worst unemployment. Many supposedly 'employed' people are actually underemployed, working multiple jobs just to survive. Then inflation—basic goods cost twenty-five percent more than two years ago while wages stagnated. Being employed starts feeling like effective unemployment."
"Your cardiac rhythm just accelerated by eighteen percent," Natalia observed with scientific precision, turning those sapphire eyes on him from approximately three inches away. "Are you anxious about the economic situation?"
"No!" Philip said, far too quickly and far too loudly.
Margaret definitely laughed that time, though she tried disguising it as a polite cough.
"Simultaneously," Philip continued desperately, "benefits are being slashed because multiple agencies and large charities are effectively insolvent. Welfare, food banks, housing assistance, even many local governments—all running dry."
Natalia fell silent for a split second, then understanding dawned on her face and she smoothly kept quiet.
"But surely the Empire has resources?" she asked after a measured pause.
"Being drained faster than they can be replenished. Jobs are hemorrhaging overseas." Philip finally found his rhythm again. "The Continental Republic deploys blue mana-powered Familiars in white-collar sectors—finance, legal research, administration, among others. These Familiars process documents twenty times faster than humans, never truly need rest, rarely make errors. Consequently, in-house white-collar positions are increasingly replaced by service agreements where these functions are remotely provided by firms in Continental Republic with same quality at a fraction of the costs."
He was getting into it now, his mind engaging with the problem even as Natalia's body pressed harder against his as she became increasingly mesmerized by his analysis.
"Meanwhile, manufacturing jobs flee to the United Eastern States. Their factories operate almost entirely with Familiars specializing in skilled labor, overseen by small teams of experienced workers. Combined with their most integrated supply chain in the world, they're flooding the world with goods that outshine comparable products at a fraction of the cost. The Continental Republic responded by raising high tariff barriers against all imports—and our manufacturing sector became collateral damage. Our deindustrialization has been happening for decades, but now it's supercharged by both tariffs and mass Familiar deployment across the globe."
Natalia's eyes widened further with fascination, her analytical mind clearly racing.
"Finally," Philip continued, "Osgorreich's elderly care and companion Familiars are flooding global service industries—polite, obedient, infinitely patient, costing a fraction of human wages. Despite the Empire's Familiar ban, many elderly care institutions tapped into the new trend by offering offshore retirement homes and resorts for Avalondians, effectively diverting job opportunities overseas."
"So it's a comprehensive job loss spiral," Natalia breathed, the feel of her breath against his neck temporarily derailing Philip's train of thought.
"I—yes. Precisely." He swallowed. "And many displaced service workers from regions where Osgorreich's Familiars are rapidly establishing themselves migrated to the Empire, willing to work for wages local workers can't accept without lowering their current standard of living. This adds fuel to existing anti-immigration sentiments."
Natalia was quiet, clearly processing. Then she said with clear embarrassment, "So Familiars are the source of all these problems?"
"No, dear." Margaret's smile was gentle but firm. "The Familiars aren't the problem. The problem is how to correctly adapt and incorporate them. Just as the steam engine wasn't a problem but rather, when correctly harnessed, catapulted the Empire to the height of its powers."
"Yes. So the pressing issues is how to fund programs supporting workers impacted by the transition," Philip continued, picking up the thread. "Which brings us to the wealth tax debacle. The government tried taxing the wealthy to cover budgetary shortfalls, but capital is mobile. The wealthy simply relocated assets overseas. The tax ended up reducing total revenue while rekindled the flame of colonial independence movements."
"How so?" Natalia asked.
"Because the tax was implemented Empire-wide," Margaret added helpfully, "leading to global capital flight from many colonial territories. Major projects were cancelled, investment talks collapsed. Local nationalists conveniently scapegoated the tax for economic ills that were actually decades in the making, largely due to overreliance on specific sectors such as resource extraction or finance."
"So that explains why the colonies are demanding subsidies," Natalia said, picking up the analytical thread, "at the precise moment when Avalondia is broke. As compromise, they've suggested subsidies could come as free movement—allowing their youth to emigrate to wealthier parts of the Empire for work."
"But those jobs no longer exist and the richer regions, such as the Avalondian homeland, have neither surplus jobs nor the popular sentiment to back such policy," Philip confirmed. "So independence movements grow in colonies while Avalondian homeland citizens demand we shed colonial burdens and implement mass deportation."
"And the Familiar ban," Margaret added quietly, "means we can't compete economically with nations embracing mass deployment of Familiar labor. It also meant a massive exodus of the most talented summoners from the Empire towards the Continental Republic or UES. We're suffering massive brain drain in the field of the future."
Natalia went very still against him. When she spoke, her voice carried particular sadness.
"The protesters aren't wrong. They're describing genuine economic pressures causing real harm. Shouldn't the authorities try to find actual solutions instead of suppressing their protests?"
She shifted again, unconsciously making herself comfortable by leaning more fully against Philip. Philip's arm responded reflexively to wrap around her waist.
"Because suppressing symptoms without addressing the root causes seems cost-ineffective long-term," Natalia continued with clinical precision. "The grievances will snowball. Pressure builds until it explodes again, probably worse. Like a steam engine without pressure release valves."
"You're absolutely right," Margaret said with sadness. "But there's no simple solution. These issues contradict each other. Fix one, worsen another. Lower taxes to attract capital? Can't fund benefits. Raise benefits? Need higher taxes, which drives capital flight. Allow Familiar labor? Destroy domestic jobs. Ban Familiars? Fall further behind, lose jobs to foreign competition anyway."
"But there is a way," Philip heard himself say.
Both women turned to look at him with surprise.
"I've been thinking about this all morning. On the ride to the hospital. I couldn't stop analyzing it." He took a breath, very aware of how it made his chest expand against Natalia's weight. "The entire crisis stems from one technological breakthrough—the successful implementation of blue mana by two global superpowers to power Familiars at industrial scale."
Natalia's eyes lit up with that particular fascination she displayed when analyzing complex systems.
"Before blue mana," Philip continued, "Familiars were constrained by summoners' green mana. By nature, they were limited in number, lifespan, and work capacity. Even talented summoners could only sustain perhaps four Familiars for limited periods with their green mana—certainly not extravagant enough to employ Familiars for mundane tasks like ordinary labor. So the Empire's ban didn't create competitive disadvantage. Familiars couldn't operate at industrial scale anyway."
"But that changed," Margaret said quietly, something shifting in her expression. Sharpness. Engagement. As if he'd said something surprising.
"Completely changed," Philip confirmed. "Now Familiars can be mass-summoned since summoners merely need to summon and transfer rather than continuously sustain. Familiars can be sustained indefinitely on blue mana, work around the clock without food or rest. Perfect employees if you ignore morality—which many nations did."
He leaned forward slightly, warming to his theme.
"So the question isn't whether to resist change. It's how to embrace it properly. The Empire became dominant in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries by fully embracing the Industrial Revolution while others hesitated. Yes, steam engines displaced craftsmen. Yes, there were social upheavals, riots, genuine suffering."
"But long-term gains dwarfed short-term disruptions," Natalia breathed, having gone very still as her analytical mind raced. "You're suggesting we replicate that pattern with Familiar integration."
"The key isn't resisting technological change—that's fighting the tide of history." Philip's voice grew more confident. "The key is embracing it while managing social side effects in fair, morally acceptable ways."
Margaret was staring at him now with an expression he couldn't quite parse. Astonishment? Reassessment? As if seeing him—really seeing him—for the first time.
The weight of realization hit him: the old Philip, whose body he'd inherited, had been nothing like this. Probably a wealthy dilettante without a substantive thought beyond glory and women. The contrast must be staggering.
"So here's what I've been considering," Philip continued. "First, eliminate the Familiar ban. Not merely eliminate it—actively legalize Familiars while granting them basic rights and protections that make their employment morally defensible."
"Define basic rights," Margaret said, tone neutral but eyes laser-focused.
Natalia had gone completely motionless against him, her brilliant mind clearly engaged.
"Limited legal personhood," Philip said. "Right to refuse genuinely dangerous work. Right to maintenance and repair. Protection from arbitrary destruction or abuse." He paused. "And most critically—right to minimum wage compensation."
"But Familiars don't need money," Natalia said, confusion evident. Then her eyes widened as she worked through implications. "Oh. Oh. The economic function. You're creating artificial cost floors to prevent a exploitative race to bottom."
"Precisely," Philip said, absurdly pleased she'd grasped it immediately. "Mandate all employed Familiars to receive minimum wage, equivalent to human workers' minimize wage. Apply standard income tax—say thirty percent. The additional tax revenue flows to government coffers to fund transition programs. Whatever specific skill-adjustment and income-support programs are needed. As to what those programs are… the government would need to do an investigation."
He was warming to the topic now, barely noticing how Natalia had unconsciously laced her fingers through his. "The key is ensuring that even during the transition period, livelihoods aren't significantly or drastically debased."
"So the after tax portion of a Familiar's wage," Natalia said, working through it, "covers her operational costs. Such as cost of blue mana for sustenance and cost for repair and housing."
"Which means employers only prefer Familiars when there are genuine productivity gains," Philip confirmed. "By setting Familiar minimum wage equal to human minimum wage, we ensure Familiars are only employed when they genuinely add more value than human workers—rather than employing them simply because they can be fully exploited."
"And displaced workers?" Natalia asked softly, her thumb unconsciously stroking the back of his hand.
Philip tried very hard not to think about that thumb. "Initial income support programs during transition while enrolling them free of cost in programs that retool their skills for new jobs created by the economic transition. For example, Familiar maintenance personnel, Familiar trainers, Familiar management supervisors, and related fields. We're not artificially preserving old jobs. We're helping people adapt while ensuring smooth transition."
Margaret was nodding slowly but said cautiously, "The theory is elegant. But implementation would face substantial problems. For one, any additional tax revenue might be insufficient to fund the programs. Second, the minimum wage would put us at a cost disadvantage against foreign competitors. Third, how do we define who's impacted by the transition and therefore qualifies for programs? If a youth entering the workforce can't find a job, should he be considered a victim of the transition that might have eliminated jobs he could have obtained otherwise? If he's considered a victim without directly losing a job to Familiar introduction, then many more—maybe even millions—would qualify for income supplements. And there are numerous other political and incentive-related issues."
"Most importantly, there is the issue with the immediate funding gap," Margaret pointed out.
"Issue sovereign debt on international markets," Philip said. "Not backed by general tax revenue—investors don't trust that given our fiscal mess. Instead, backed by specific resource excavation rights in colonial territories. Yorgoria's timber and minerals, rare earths, offshore drilling along some African colonies."
"You're collateralizing the colonies," Margaret said carefully.
"I'm creating investment incentives that automatically generate jobs," Philip corrected. "If Avalondia succeeds in using bond-raised capital to smooth the Familiar transition and realizes long-term gains, then paying off the bonds in the future should be manageable. If for some reason the economic benefits don't materialize and Avalondia defaults, bondholders can only recover by exercising excavation rights—meaning they must invest in building mines, purchasing equipment, hiring local miners. Either way, economic activity increases."
Natalia had gone absolutely silent, her mind clearly running through scenarios at superhuman speed. Her grip on his hand tightened unconsciously.
"The elegance is in its self-correcting mechanisms," she finally breathed, voice carrying wonder. "In this scenario, bond default creates mandatory foreign direct investment."
She turned to look at him with admiration, and Philip found himself drowning in those sapphire eyes from approximately two inches away.
"That's genuinely beautiful," she whispered. "The systemic design is beautiful."
"I—thank you?" Philip managed, acutely aware of his hammering heart.
"That's remarkably comprehensive," Margaret said slowly, genuine intellectual respect in her voice, "for someone supposedly started thinking about it just this morning."
She paused, something flickering across her face—memory of who Philip used to be, perhaps. "I'm... genuinely impressed, my dear. Truly."
The way she said it carried weight. This wasn't polite aristocratic flattery. This was authentic surprise from someone who'd clearly expected nothing from her grandson.
"However," Margaret continued, tone shifting to caution, "you need to understand—implementation would encounter complications reality never includes in theoretical models. More fundamentally, any reform affects the intricate balance of political power and vested interests."
She leaned forward, expression serious. "Reform by nature is transformative. Success brings fame, popular backing—power—to whoever's credited with the reform. That makes reform inherently threatening to established structures. And your changes would inevitably harm parties currently benefiting from the system's flaws."
"So there will be resistance," Philip said.
"Enormous resistance—possibly lethal," Margaret confirmed. "And here's the cruelest paradox: the very people who must approve and implement reforms are precisely those whose interests benefit the most from the current status quo."
She smiled without humor. "Why would a Parliamentary committee member earning five thousand Avalondian Dollars vote to reform the system that gave them that salary regardless of how inefficient that system might be? Why would someone making five thousand annually accept fifty percent pay cuts—even if morally right—except when they can clearly see that the alternative is losing everything?"
Her voice grew heavy with decades of observation. "That's why reforms only happen during existential crises, when consequences of not reforming become crystal clear even to corruption's beneficiaries. When the choice becomes 'accept reform or lose everything'"
"But often," Margaret continued softly, "by the time crisis is severe enough for entrenched interests to accept reform... it's too late. Damage is done. The system collapses anyway, with or without reform. And the collapse is often far more destructive and rapid than envisaged beforehand."
"So I would suggest you keep your ideas to yourself for now. For your own safety and the safety of those around you." Margaret leaned in, tone serious. "Until the right moment emerges."
The carriage had turned onto the broad avenue leading toward the ducal townhouse. Protests were distant now, fading into background rumble.
"But... but we can't just do nothing, right?" Philip said. "Or else wouldn't we be the very people who will lose everything when the system collapses and burns?"
"That, my dear," Margaret said with a sweet smile, "is precisely why half our holdings are outside the Empire."
Philip stared at her in disbelief.
"Let's just call it insurance," Margaret said, that smile never wavering.