Part 1
General Dugu's office was a study in contradictions.
The room occupied the southeastern corner of the War Office's third floor—a location that, prior to the bombing, would have commanded a spectacular view of the capital's skyline. Now, temporary barriers covered the shattered windows, and the faint scent of smoke still lingered in the air despite the building's sophisticated ventilation enchantments.
The office itself was spartan to the point of austerity. No paintings adorned the walls. No decorative plants softened the corners. No personal photographs cluttered the desk. The furniture consisted of exactly three pieces: a desk of unvarnished oak, a chair of simple design, and a single visitor's seat that looked deliberately uncomfortable—the kind of chair that discouraged lengthy meetings.
And yet, despite this aggressive minimalism, the room radiated power.
Perhaps it was the sheer size—large enough to host a small parade, yet containing almost nothing. Perhaps it was the quality of what little existed—the desk, upon closer inspection, was crafted from century-old Yorgorian heartwood, worth more than most officers' annual salaries. Perhaps it was the woman who occupied it.
General Dugu sat behind that desk in an immaculate uniform pressed to knife-edge precision, bearing exactly the minimum decorations required by protocol—no more, no less. Her dark hair was set loose. Her face, soft and beautiful as it was, bore an expression of total concentration.
Before her sat a crystalline sphere the size of a grapefruit, from which three-dimensional holographic reenactments of recorded past events were cast into the air around it.
She was watching the bombing. Again.
Not the explosion itself—she had seen that a hundred times already, had memorized every fragment of debris, every trajectory of shrapnel, every pattern of the pressure wave's expansion. The forensics teams had already concluded their preliminary analysis: a sophisticated device, military-grade components, professional assembly. Explosive power limited by its size, designed to be hard to detect. The work of trained operatives, not amateur revolutionaries.
The high command had already begun claiming foreign involvement. State-sponsored terrorism, they called it.
But what held her attention now was something far more interesting.
The blonde woman.
Dugu manipulated the orb with precise gestures, rewinding the recording to thirty seconds before detonation. The projection showed the War Office's grand entrance stairs—dozens of people ascending and descending, carriages pulling up to discharge passengers, the ordinary chaos of imperial bureaucracy in motion.
And there, at the bottom of the stairs, stood the woman in question. Tall. Blonde. Stunningly beautiful in a way that seemed almost artificial in its perfection. She stood beside a carriage, her posture relaxed, her attention apparently fixed on the building's facade with the idle curiosity of a first-time visitor.
Then—and Dugu had watched this moment forty-seven times now—something changed.
The woman's head turned. Not casually, but with the sharp precision of a hunting hawk acquiring a target. Her body shifted, weight transferring to the balls of her feet. Her eyes tracked upward, following something on the stairs that Dugu couldn't identify no matter how many times she reviewed the footage.
And then she moved.
Dugu slowed the playback to one-tenth speed, watching the blonde woman's ascent moment by moment. The acceleration was inhuman. From standing start to full sprint in less than a second. Each stride covered an impossible distance. She wove through the crowd with fluid grace, never breaking momentum, never colliding with the oblivious civilians around her.
She was running up the stairs.
Toward the explosion.
Right before it happened.
Dugu paused the recording, her dark eyes narrowing. The timestamp was unambiguous: the woman had begun her sprint a full 1.5 seconds before the device detonated. At the moment she started moving, the bomber was still alive, still talking with the guards at the entrance.
She knew, Dugu thought, her mind racing through possibilities. She knew it was going to happen before it happened.
The tactical implications crystallized with cold clarity. The woman was affiliated with the bombing operation—that much seemed certain. But something had gone wrong. A target she needed alive had wandered into the blast radius. An oversight in planning, perhaps, or an unexpected variable that forced emergency improvisation.
She resumed playback at normal speed, watching the woman reach her target—a man in officer's uniform, descending the stairs with the unhurried gait of someone whose survival had never depended on his own reflexes.
The tackle was textbook. Better than textbook.
Weight low, arms wrapping, momentum converted into a controlled lateral roll that placed the woman's body between the man and the blast origin. She had never seen the maneuver executed with such fluid precision.
The shockwave arrived half a heartbeat later. Debris peppered the woman's back—Dugu watched the impacts, the blood blooming across expensive fabric—but she never flinched. Never shifted to reduce her exposure. Never loosened her grip even as shrapnel tore into her flesh.
Professional, Dugu acknowledged, and the word carried weight she rarely granted. Exceptionally trained. Possessing either complete disregard for self-preservation or absolute certainty in her own abilities.
The professionalism of the bomb. The superhuman capabilities of this woman. The coordination implied by her foreknowledge.
If this was indeed foreign state-sponsored terrorism—as the high command claimed—then this woman was the proof. A foreign operative of the highest caliber, embedded within imperial territory.
But such a conclusion would have enormous implications. It would justify military responses. It would require diplomatic consequences. Possibly even war.
Dugu was not the sort of officer who provided such claims lightly.
I need to verify this.
Ten minutes later, Beatrice Dugu stood at the base of the War Office's secondary staircase—a servants' passage that had survived the bombing intact—her uniform jacket removed and her sleeves rolled to the elbow.
Lieutenant Chen watched from a respectful distance with an expression of carefully cultivated blankness. He had learned early in his assignment that questioning the General's methods was an excellent way to find oneself transferred to a supply depot in the Southern Dominion.
"Time me," Dugu ordered, settling into a runner's crouch.
"Ma'am?"
"From my first step to the tenth stair. Count the seconds."
Lieutenant Chen, wisely, did not ask why. He simply raised his pocket chronometer and nodded.
Dugu exploded into motion.
She took the stairs three at a time, pumping her arms, driving with her legs, pushing herself to maximum acceleration.
"Two point three seconds, ma'am."
Again. Two point one.
Again. Two seconds flat.
By the fourth attempt, she had plateaued at one point nine seconds, and her breathing had grown ragged despite her conditioning.
The blonde woman had covered the same distance—through a crowd, while starting from a dead stop, while apparently tracking a threat—in approximately 1.5 seconds.
Dugu straightened, wiping her brow with the back of her hand. Lieutenant Chen had developed the carefully vacant expression of a man calculating exactly how many years remained until his pension.
In her entire career, she had never encountered anyone—man or woman—who could outperform her in pure physical capability. She had trained with special forces units. Competed against decorated soldiers. Sparred with contact sport athletes. Always faster. Usually stronger.
And this woman had done something Dugu couldn't replicate no matter how hard she tried.
No civilian moves like that. No ordinary soldier, either.
The verification was complete. Whatever this woman was, she represented capabilities that placed her firmly in the category of elite foreign operative.
"Thank you," she said. "I'll summon you when needed."
Back in her office, Dugu pulled up the frozen image again. The woman remained arched protectively over the man, back riddled with shrapnel, expression fierce with concentration rather than agony.
What makes you so important?
The question was directed at the man—the protected target whose survival had apparently been worth risking an operative of this caliber. Dugu's eyes moved from the woman to the carriage beside her, tracing the details she'd overlooked in her focus on the blonde.
The crest on the carriage door.
Her breath caught.
The Redwood family crest.
No.
Her hand moved almost against her will, zooming the image, enhancing the resolution on the man's face. Some part of her hoped the higher clarity would disprove what her instincts were already screaming.
It didn't.
"Oh my dear Philip," she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper. "Is that really you?"
The face was his. Older than she remembered—though only three years had passed—but still recognizably his. The same bone structure beneath the added weight. The same set to the jaw.
But the image held her gaze a moment longer, and despite her legendary discipline, a second question escaped her lips:
"What happened to you?"
The words hung in the empty office like an accusation. Or perhaps a lament.
They had met at the Military Academy—she a girl from an immigrant family, her father having worked his way up through the civil service before marrying an Avalondian lady from six generations of proud military tradition. He the scion of one of the Empire's most powerful families. By every metric of social calculus, they should never have exchanged more than formal pleasantries.
She remembered it with crystalline clarity: fumbling with the starched collar of her new dress uniform before the academy's opening ceremony, painfully aware that her uniform was standard-issue while the aristocratic students around her wore tailored versions with flawless finishings. She had felt so utterly out of place—a middle-class girl playing at soldier among the Empire's elite.
And then he had appeared at her elbow, already immaculately attired, as comfortable in military finery as she was not.
"Tricky things, these collars. Took me weeks to master them properly." A warm smile, completely devoid of condescension. "Philip Redwood, by the way."
She had stared at him—this grandson of a duke who was speaking to her as though they were equals—and said the first thing that came to mind:
"Beatrice Dugu. And I'm fairly certain weeks of practice defeats the purpose of offering help."
He had laughed. Actually laughed, as though she had said something genuinely clever rather than unintentionally insulting.
Stop.
Dugu forced her attention back to the frozen image, jaw tightening against the flood of memories.
Focus. The mission. What is the operative's mission?
The tactical picture reassembled itself with cold clarity. A foreign operative of exceptional capability, embedded close to a member of one of the Empire's most powerful families. The bombing had been real—people had died—but the operative's priority had been protecting Philip Redwood at any cost.
Infiltration, she concluded. The protection wasn't an emergency improvisation. It was the entire point.
She could see it now. The operative had positioned herself as Philip's protector. The bombing provided the perfect opportunity—a staged act of heroism that would cement trust, gratitude, even affection. What better way to embed yourself within a ducal household than by saving the heir's life?
And from that position of trust, with access to the Redwood network, the ducal connections, possibly military intelligence through the Duchess's contacts...
The implications made her blood run cold. Not just for the Empire—though the security breach was catastrophic—but for Philip himself. He had no idea what had attached itself to him. No idea that the woman who'd saved his life was almost certainly using him as an access point to one of the most powerful families in the realm.
One of the most powerful families...
The phrase triggered something. A memory she'd spent three years learning not to touch.
Cherry blossoms.
No. Not now.
But the memory surged forward despite her resistance, as vivid as the day it happened.
A forest of cherry trees in full bloom, their branches heavy with blossoms so pale they seemed almost white in the dappled afternoon light. Petals drifting down around them like pink snow, catching in her raven hair, settling on the shoulders of her uniform.
And Philip's arms around her, holding her close in an embrace that left no space between them.
She remembered how her heart had hammered against her ribs. How every nerve in her body had been alive, hyperaware of every point of contact between them. The warmth of him through the fabric of their uniforms. The way she had fit against him as if she had been designed to occupy that exact space.
She had been so young. So achingly, foolishly young.
"I know I'm not good enough for you," she had whispered, the words tumbling out before she could stop them. "You're nobility, and I'm just... a commoner who happened to test well."
"Beatrice—"
"Let me finish." She had pressed one hand against his chest, right over his racing heart, drawing courage from its rhythm. "I know I'm not good enough. Not yet. But I will be. I will work harder than anyone. I will rise through the ranks until I am someone worthy of standing beside you."
Her voice had dropped to barely above a whisper.
"So please... just give me time. Wait for me. And I promise... I will become someone you deserve."
His response still echoed in her memory with painful clarity.
"Listen to me," he had said, tilting her chin up, forcing her to meet his eyes. "I don't care about titles or lands or what anyone else thinks of you. Or of us."
He had pressed his forehead against hers, their breath mingling in the space between them.
"We will always be together," he had murmured. "No matter what."
No matter what.
The promise had felt sacred. Unbreakable.
And then, two years later, he had broken it.
She remembered his face that day—that terrible, gentle expression. The one people wore when they were about to hurt you for your own good.
"You deserve better than me," he had said. The words she had once spoken to him, twisted and thrown back. "I would only hold you back."
She had wanted to scream at him. To demand explanations. To ask how someone could promise no matter what and then simply... walk away.
Instead, she had done what she always did when the world proved itself cruel: straightened her spine, lifted her chin, and refused to let him see her break.
And then, mere months later, news of him dating Lady Rosetta had reached her.
The bitterness had been volcanic. She had thrown herself into her career with the fury of someone with something to prove. Every promotion, every commendation, every battlefield victory became evidence—evidence that she was better off without a man who made promises he couldn't keep.
She had become everything she had promised beneath those cherry blossoms. Youngest Major. Youngest Colonel. Youngest General. Trusted advisor to the First Minister.
And he...
A humorless smile crossed her face as she studied the frozen image—Philip Redwood, overweight and oblivious, being protected by a foreign operative who was almost certainly playing him for a fool.
"You who took my heart for a ride," she murmured to the image. "How does it feel to have your heart taken for a ride?"
The words tasted bitter. Satisfying and bitter, all at once.
Enough.
She pressed the button on her desk.
Her aide appeared within seconds. "Ma'am?"
"Three matters requiring immediate attention."
Chen produced his notebook, pen poised.
"First: Contact the Special Operations Division. I want a surveillance team assigned to the Redwood residence in Albecaster. The target is this blonde woman residing there. If she leaves the estate for any reason, I want to know immediately." She paused. "Absolute discretion. No confrontation, no detection. The household must remain entirely unaware they're being observed."
"Understood, ma'am. Designation?"
The standard practice was to choose something neutral, forgettable.
Instead, she heard herself say: "Operation Sunflower."
A flower that always turned toward the sun. Watching. Waiting.
If Chen found the name unusual, his expression betrayed nothing. "And the second matter, ma'am?"
"The upcoming appointment with Miss..." She paused, the name catching unexpectedly in her throat.
"Miss Natalia, ma'am," Chen supplied smoothly. "At the Redwood residence. Your office sent out the request earlier today."
Natalia. So the creature had a name.
"I want our finest personnel from Special Operations present—plainclothes, unobtrusive, but positioned to respond to any contingency. The room is to be fully warded against exotic capabilities before my arrival." Her voice remained level, professional.
"Understood, ma'am."
"Which brings me to the third matter." She turned to face him directly. "Despite these precautions, Miss Natalia is to be treated as an honored guest. Refreshments appropriate for a lady of standing. Comfortable seating. Pleasant atmosphere." Something flickered across her usually impassive features. "We are conducting an interview, Lieutenant, not an interrogation. I want her at ease. People reveal far more when they feel safe than when they feel threatened."
"Of course, ma'am." Chen made a final notation. "Shall I arrange the usual diplomatic courtesies?"
"Use your judgment. You've arranged enough functions to know what puts people at ease." She returned to her desk, her back to him. "That will be all."
"Yes, ma'am."
Chen's footsteps retreated toward the door. Just before he reached it, Dugu spoke again—her voice carrying a note her aide had rarely heard.
"And Lieutenant? This matter remains between us until I determine otherwise. No reports filed, no communications logged. Is that clear?"
A brief pause. "Perfectly clear, ma'am."
The door closed softly behind him.
General Dugu remained at her desk, staring at the frozen image of Philip Redwood beneath the protective embrace of a creature that shouldn't exist within imperial borders.
Philip... what have you gotten yourself into?
Part 2
Philip drifted toward consciousness like a man swimming up through warm honey—slowly, reluctantly.
Something soft was pressed against him. Warm. Yielding.
His sleep-addled mind tried to make sense of it in fragments: heat along his entire left side, a weight across his chest, silk whispering against his chin… and, most prominently, a plush, insistent pressure snugged tight against his upper arm—soft enough to give, heavy enough to remind him it was real.
Wait.
His eyes snapped open.
Golden hair filled his vision. Natalia had somehow, during the night, transformed him into her personal body pillow. Her head rested in the crook of his shoulder, her arms wrapped around his torso with possessive determination, and her leg—bare from mid-thigh down where her nightgown had ridden up—was hooked over both of his, pinning him to the mattress with surprising effectiveness.
The thin silk of her nightgown did absolutely nothing to diminish the sensation of her generous bosom compressed against his arm. Every breath she took created a subtle shift of softness that sent signals racing through Philip's nervous system.
His body responded by initiating its own morning rituals.
"Good morning, Master."
Philip nearly jumped up from the bed if not for Natalia pinning him down.
Natalia's eyes were open—those impossibly blue eyes—watching him with an expression of serene contentment that seemed entirely at odds with their intimate position.
"You're awake," Philip managed, his voice emerging as an undignified croak.
"I have been for approximately two hours," she said as she snuggled closer, her bosom shifting against his arm in ways that threatened to make his little morning tent reach a new historical height. "I was monitoring your vital signs. Your heart rate remained elevated throughout the night—likely residual stress from yesterday's events—but stabilized approximately forty minutes ago. I determined that the optimal strategy was to remain still and allow you to complete your natural sleep cycle."
"You've been lying here for two hours... watching me sleep?"
"Monitoring," she corrected gently. "There's a distinction. Watching implies passive observation. Monitoring implies active assessment of relevant variables." Her hand moved to rest over his heart, her touch feather-light through his nightshirt. "Your cardiovascular rhythm is quite soothing, incidentally. Very regular. Though I confess I experienced some concern during the REM cycles—your breathing became irregular, and you made small distressed sounds. Were you experiencing unpleasant dreams?"
Philip's face heated. He had absolutely been experiencing dreams, though "unpleasant" wasn't quite the word he'd use. Several of them had featured the very woman currently pressed against him, engaged in activities that would make Lydia very impressed.
"I don't remember," he lied.
"Curious. Your pupil dilation suggests otherwise." Natalia tilted her head, studying him with that analytical intensity that somehow managed to be both unnerving and adorable. "But I won't press. Miss Lydia has explained that humans often prefer to maintain privacy regarding their subconscious processes."
Thank God for Lydia.
"How are you feeling?" Philip asked, desperate to redirect the conversation. "Your injuries—"
"Fully healed." Natalia smiled brightly, and before Philip could react, she sat up—the motion causing her nightgown to slip off one shoulder revealing her flawless collarbone—and twisted to show him her back. "See? Perfect as new."
Philip stared. Where yesterday there had been deep wounds, now there was only smooth, unmarked skin. As if the shrapnel had never touched her.
Philip took in a deep breath. Truly impressed.
"Miss Lydia explained that blue mana removes the constraints my healing would normally face from your physiology, Master." Natalia turned back to face him, her expression thoughtful. "It means I could heal much faster than humans—even instantaneously if there's enough blue mana available. The speed depends entirely on how much I have access to."
She settled back against the pillows, studying him with an expression that shifted from clinical assessment to something softer.
"Which brings me to reconsider my assumptions about relative durability." Natalia's voice took on that particular quality it held when she was working through complex ideas.
"Oh?"
"Specifically, the relationship between injury and recovery time."
Philip waited, uncertain where this was going.
"When I was previously injured—before Miss Lydia's blue mana conversion—my wounds healed slowly. Days, for far less grievous wounds. I assumed this was the natural state of Familiars." She tilted her head, that analytical gesture Philip had come to know so well. "I thought, 'Well, Master and I heal at comparable rates. This must simply be how physical recovery functions for all beings.'"
"And now?" Philip asked, though he suspected where this was heading.
"Now I realize I was operating under a flawed assumption." Natalia sat up slightly, her expression intensifying with the focus she displayed when a puzzle piece clicked into place. "The slow healing wasn't a Familiar's natural state—it was a consequence of subsisting on its summoner's green mana."
Her grip on his hand tightened.
"But yesterday, with sufficient blue mana..." She touched her back absently, where just the previous day shrapnel had torn through skin and muscle. "Miss Lydia provided adequate mana, and my wounds simply... ceased to exist. The tissue regenerated in seconds. The metal fragments were expelled. Complete restoration."
Philip nodded slowly. "I remember. It was remarkable."
"No, Master. You misunderstand." Natalia leaned closer, her voice dropping to something between wonder and dawning horror. "It wasn't remarkable. It was normal. Normal for what I actually am. What I should have been capable of all along."
"I... hadn't thought of it that way."
"Neither had I. Until yesterday." Her eyes widened slightly with the wonder of discovery.
She looked down at her hands, flexing her fingers experimentally.
"Which forced me to recalculate my base assumptions." Her voice dropped, taking on an almost reverent quality. "Familiars don't heal slowly. Humans heal slowly. Familiars constrained by human energy sources heal slowly because they're operating within human parameters. But given adequate independent power..."
She trailed off, her gaze distant.
"Natalia?" Philip prompted.
"Master, I believe I have been significantly underestimating the differential between human and Familiar capabilities." She turned to look at him, and something in her expression made Philip's stomach tighten. "All this time, I thought we were... similar. That I was simply a slightly enhanced version of human baseline. Stronger, yes. Faster, certainly. But fundamentally operating within the same framework of limitations."
Her voice grew quieter.
"I was wrong."
The morning light seemed to dim slightly. Or perhaps that was Philip's imagination.
"The shrapnel that would have killed you," Natalia continued, her tone clinical now, cataloguing, "caused me inconvenience. The impact that would have perforated your vital organs, caused catastrophic hemorrhage, terminated your existence within minutes... gave me wounds that closed almost instantaneous with abundant energy input."
She met his eyes, and Philip saw something shift in those sapphire depths—a dawning awareness that felt almost like watching a child realize they could break their toys if they squeezed too hard.
"All this time, I assumed we were comparably vulnerable. That protecting you came at proportional cost to myself. That my sacrifice and your sacrifice carried equivalent weight." Her voice dropped lower, almost ominous. "But we are not equals in this regard, Master. Not even close."
Philip felt a chill run down his spine. There was something in her tone—something utterly inhuman—that reminded him, for the first time in weeks, that the beautiful woman beside him was not, in fact, a woman at all.
"...I can protect you so much better now!" Natalia declared with joy.
Philip blinked.
Natalia's expression had transformed completely. Gone was the ominous intensity, replaced by something radiant and earnest—like a student who'd finally solved a particularly vexing equation.
"Don't you see, Master? All this time, I was handicapped! Operating at diminished capacity! My protective calculations were constrained by assumptions that no longer apply!" She clasped both his hands now, practically vibrating with enthusiasm. "But with proper blue mana access, I can sustain damage that would kill you dozens of times over and simply... continue functioning! I can intercept projectiles, absorb explosions, shield you from virtually any physical threat without meaningful cost to myself!"
"I..." Philip's brain was still catching up to the tonal whiplash. "That's... your takeaway from all this?"
"Of course!" Natalia beamed at him. "You're fragile, Master. Terrifyingly fragile. Made of soft tissue and breakable bones and blood that doesn't stay inside when it should." She said this with the same tone one might use to describe a beloved but accident-prone pet. "And I am made of something else entirely. Something that can take bullets and shrapnel and explosions and emerge functional within seconds."
Her smile softened, becoming something tender.
"Before yesterday," Natalia continued, her analytical tone warming with something deeper, "my protective calculations were constrained by an assumption of mutual mortality. If I sacrificed myself to save you from a lethal threat, I would be eliminated, leaving you unprotected for your remaining lifespan. The mathematics were troubling—my death in your defense would actually increase your cumulative lifetime risk exposure."
Philip stared at her for a long moment, completely stunned.
"That's... a very practical way of looking at it," Philip managed.
"But now." Her eyes brightened with something approaching excitement. "Now I understand that the parameters have changed. My injury yesterday would have killed a human several times over. Yet I am here, fully functional, ready to resume my protective duties." She squeezed his hand. "Do you understand what this means, Master?"
"I'm... not sure I do?"
"It means my expected utility has increased dramatically." She sat up straighter, warming to her topic with the enthusiasm of a financial analyst presenting a particularly elegant model. "Previously, in a scenario where I interposed myself between you and a lethal threat, there was significant probability that it would effectively lead to an single-instance coverage."
Philip blinked. "Single-instance?"
"I could save you once, possibly twice, before the cumulative damage exceeded my survivability threshold." Natalia nodded seriously. "But with accelerated regeneration, the model changes entirely. My protection coverage for you becomes renewable rather than consumable."
Philip wasn't sure how to respond. It seemed too surreal.
"It's like an insurance policy," Natalia beamed. "Consider: before yesterday, I was a policy with a strict lifetime coverage cap—once cumulative claims exceeded my durability threshold, coverage would terminate permanently. One major incident, perhaps two, and my reserves would be exhausted." She nodded seriously. "Now I'm effectively a policy with unlimited claims and automatic benefit restoration after each incident. Your cumulative lifetime risk exposure drops by—" she paused, eyes going slightly distant as she calculated "—approximately sixty-three percent, assuming standard aristocratic lifespan and my projected recovery rates."
The System materialized at the foot of the bed, dressed in what appeared to be an actuary's outfit complete with green visor and sleeve garters. She was consulting a clipboard with exaggerated concentration.
"Her math is actually quite sound," the System observed. "Though she's being generous with your life expectancy projections."
What do you mean? Philip thought.
"Well." The System flipped through her papers. "She's assuming standard aristocratic male lifespan—approximately eighty-five years given modern magical medicine. But that's for aristocrats who maintain reasonable fitness levels." She looked up, her expression innocent. "You, my dear Host, are somewhat... below that baseline."
I'm not that out of shape.
"You get winded climbing stairs, darling. The servants have started taking bets on how many floors you can manage before you start panting."
They have NOT.
"Three. The current record for consecutive floors is nine. Jen from the kitchen staff has fifty dollars riding on you making eleven by summer."
Philip's face burned. Before he could compose a response, Natalia continued her analysis.
"Of course, the projections are sensitive to several variables." She tilted her head thoughtfully. "Your current physical condition does introduce some complications. Miss Lydia estimates your cardiovascular capacity at approximately sixty-eight percent of optimal aristocratic baseline, which increases your vulnerability to certain threat categories—specifically those requiring rapid evasion or sustained physical exertion."
"Sixty-eight percent seems... generous," the System murmured, making a note.
"However," Natalia brightened, "this is actually good news for my protective utility calculations. Your reduced baseline fitness means you're more dependent on external protection, which means my value proposition increases proportionally. If you were in peak physical condition, my marginal protective contribution would be lower. Your current state maximizes my relevance."
Philip stared at her, trying to decide whether to be touched or insulted.
"Also," Natalia added, her voice softening, "your projected natural lifespan without my protection is approximately forty-five years, accounting for hereditary factors, lifestyle considerations, and the elevated threat environment associated with your social position."
"Forty-five years?" Philip's voice cracked slightly.
"Indeed. Which means without adequate protection, your expected termination would occur well below the aristocratic average." Her hand found his cheek, her touch impossibly gentle. "But with my enhanced protective capabilities, I project I can extend that to at least seventy-five, beyond which lifestyle modifications might be needed."
"Lifestyle modifications?"
"Less pastry consumption, primarily. And perhaps some light cardiovascular exercise. Miss Lydia has suggested—"
"Natalia." Philip caught her hand against his cheek, overwhelmed by a sudden surge of emotion. Here was this extraordinary being—powerful beyond human comprehension, beautiful beyond reason—lying beside him in the morning light, earnestly calculating how to ensure his longevity through a combination of supernatural protection and dietary intervention.
It was absurd. It was clinical. It was presented with all the romantic flair of an actuarial table.
And it was the most touching thing anyone had ever said to him.
He pulled her close, wrapping his arms around her and pressing his face into her golden hair. She made a small sound of surprise, her body going briefly rigid before melting against him with that boneless grace she employed when she wanted to maximize contact surface area.
"Master?" Her voice was muffled against his chest.
"Yes?"
Natalia snuggled closer, her arms tightening around him. "Your heart rate has elevated to approximately one hundred and twenty beats per minute, which suggests heightened emotional engagement. Also, your body temperature has increased—" she paused "—there appears to be additional blood flow occurring in your lower extremities."
Philip's face ignited.
"If you are experiencing desire for physical intimacy, Master, I should note that such activities would not be advisable given your current medical status." Her brow furrowed with what appeared to be genuine concern. "The physician prescribed rest for your concussion. Based on my reading of various instructional texts, you should avoid any physical exertions during this recovery period."
"Natalia."
"It could potentially lengthen your recovery time." She looked up at him with those guileless blue eyes. "I would strongly advise against it."
Philip's face had achieved a shade of red typically reserved for emergency warning signals.
"However," Natalia continued thoughtfully, "if the urge is urgent, I could propose a compromise. Extended intimate embracing—such as we are currently engaged in—could possibly partially satisfy the thirst without exertion."
A sharp knock at the door saved Philip from further embarrassment.
"Master Philip." Lydia's voice carried through the wood, professionally neutral but with an undertone of tension. "I apologize for the interruption, but we have a... situation."
Philip had never been so grateful for an interruption in his entire life—either of his lives.
"Enter," he called, his voice approximately two octaves higher than normal.
Natalia simply sat up and began smoothing her hair with the composure of someone who had been discussing the weather rather than carnal compromise solutions.
Lydia stepped inside, her eyes performing a quick assessment of the scene—Philip's crimson face, Natalia's disheveled nightgown, the rumpled bedding—and wisely chose not to comment. Her face arranged itself into that particular configuration Philip had learned to recognize as controlled alarm.
"General Dugu's office has responded to the Duchess' request to relocate the interview. She has agreed to conduct it here at the estate."
The mention of Dugu's name cut through Philip's embarrassment like ice water.
"Here? She's coming here?"
"Within the hour." Lydia's gaze flickered to Natalia. "She accepted the explanation that Miss Natalia's injuries and your concussion made travel inadvisable. However, she was... quite insistent that the interview proceed today."
Natalia sat up smoothly, her expression shifted to focused attention in the space of a heartbeat. "I shall prepare myself."
"Natalia." Philip caught her hand. "I don't want you doing this alone. I should be there—"
"You really shouldn't." Her voice carried unexpected firmness. "You suffered a concussion, Master. The physician prescribed complete rest. Moreover, your presence would also raise questions about why you feel the need to supervise a routine interview." She squeezed his hand.
"She's right, Master Philip," Lydia added. "Your attendance would seem defensive. However..." She paused delicately. "I could accompany Miss Natalia as her chaperone. Given her injuries and... claimed cognitive effects... it would be entirely appropriate for a household governess to ensure her wellbeing during official questioning."
Philip looked between them—the inhuman entity he loved and the woman who'd served his family for decades—and felt a complex mixture of fear and gratitude.
"Keep her safe," he said to Lydia.