The sterile air of Granada Military Command still clung to the twins, a phantom chill long after the dispatch from Degwin Zabi had been sealed away. Tanya's words—"They're pulling us apart."—echoed in Lelouch's mind, but his own pragmatic response, "This was never about our unity. It's about where we fit into their war," had already set the trajectory for their separate paths. Selene, the enigmatic aide, had watched them with a flicker of something akin to sorrow in her eyes. But her silence was an unspoken command: the will of the Zabis was absolute.
Solomon
The transition to Solomon, the "Iron Fortress" of the Zeon military, was jarring. The air here wasn't sterile, but electric—charged with the roar of engines, the clang of steel, and the rhythmic thunder of mobile suit trials. Tanya von Zehrtfeld, schooled in precision and protocols, was now immersed in the brutal cadence of war's forge. Her assignment under Dozle Zabi's Vanguard Force was not an observation—it was an induction.
Captain Elran, a veteran with skin like worn leather and eyes sharpened by a thousand battles, was her immediate superior. Gruff, broad-shouldered, and reeking of oil and grit, he was unimpressed by her clean uniform and impeccable records.
"So, the brass sends us a strategist," he grunted, eyeing her like a dog sniffing an intruder. "You think you can rewrite war from a data pad, von Zehrtfeld?"
Tanya met his gaze without flinching. "If your methods are flawless, Captain, my role becomes observational. If not, then I ensure lives are spared by refinement."
Elran snorted, amused despite himself. "We'll see."
What followed were weeks of relentless drills. Tanya embedded herself with a Zaku II prototype squadron, not as a pilot, but as the node connecting cockpit data to strategic adjustment. Re-entry burns, zero-g skirmishes, breach-and-clear simulations under artificial gravity—every scenario was brutal, real, and meticulous.
A pivotal test came during a simulated colony breach under stress conditions. Heavy artillery protocols caused Zaku units to stall in tight corridors. Panic flared in the control room. Tanya, analyzing the patterns with cold precision, spotted a blind spot in the simulated enemy's flank.
"Pilot Mila," Tanya cut through the comms, bypassing Elran with seamless authority, "Divert to Sector Gamma-Nine. Weak resistance. Choke point ahead will trap your unit."
Elran bellowed, but Mila—a former LED team veteran—trusted Tanya's instinct. Mila's team moved, flanked, and turned the simulation's tide. Debriefing was tense.
"You overstepped," Elran growled, jaw tight.
"I advised based on live data," Tanya said coolly. "And prevented failure."
He had no retort. What followed was a slow thaw. She began attending tactical reviews, advising on maneuver patterns and pilot feedback cycles. Elran grumbled, but he listened.
In rare respites, Tanya gravitated to Mila, whose calm strength gave grounding to theory. Over ration packs and coolant-coffee, Mila spoke of battle.
"You see patterns, von Zehrtfeld," Mila said, pointing to a live readout, "but every dot on that screen has a name, a heartbeat. A home."
Tanya listened, and changed. Her analyses began to reflect not just optimal trajectories, but pilot morale, exhaustion thresholds, and psychological stressors.
Dozle Zabi noticed.
He attended debriefings unannounced, looming like a mountain of muscle and steel. Yet his eyes were sharp. Tanya's precision, her surgical logic, drew his attention.
After a series of flawlessly executed drills, Dozle summoned her.
"von Zehrtfeld," he rumbled, placing a massive hand on her shoulder, "you don't hesitate. You strike when others freeze. That's steel. That's command. You're ready."
In her eyes: not triumph, but quiet resolve. She was no longer a shadow of her twin. She had forged herself in Solomon's fire.
---
That night, Tanya stared at the cold stars through the reinforced viewport. Somewhere far, far from Solomon, Lelouch was staring at the same sky. She remembered his voice, always calm, always three steps ahead. "We move like a blade," he once told her. "You strike, I guide."
The blade had been split. But not dulled.
---
Zum City
In contrast to Solomon's grit, Zum City suffocated with velvet opulence. Crystal chandeliers hung above ancient war banners. Voices were hushed behind silk curtains, and strategy was whispered behind smiles.
Lelouch von Zehrtfeld, now military attaché to Garma Zabi, was adrift in a sea of decorum and deception. It was a theater—and he, its reluctant playwright.
Garma Zabi embodied youthful nobility: eloquent, charming, and dangerously naive. To his court, Lelouch was another tool; to Lelouch, Garma was a chess piece yet unaware of the board he stood upon.
"Another mind for the council," Garma said cheerfully. "You don't believe battles are won by spirit, von Zehrtfeld?"
"Only if spirit is paired with foresight, Your Highness," Lelouch replied, bowing. "Unrestrained valor is the cousin of ruin."
He never contradicted. He questioned.
"If we commit our forces here, what becomes of the supply chain?"
"What if the enemy intends to draw us into a prolonged siege?"
Garma began to see the patterns. Slowly, he relied on Lelouch's logic. Simulations grew more refined. Successes became frequent—yet Lelouch never took credit. He allowed Garma to bask in the praise, to believe he'd seen the path himself.
Selene was always there. Silent. Observing. Sometimes her gaze held quiet approval. Other times… unease.
After one particularly complex briefing, Garma clapped Lelouch on the back. "Your insights are invaluable. I've never seen victory presented so elegantly."
Lelouch smiled, thinly. Inside, the weight pressed harder. He was not forging a leader—he was shaping a symbol. A mask. A bright flame prepared for the pyre.
---
Lelouch walked alone down a long, sterile corridor that hummed with the quiet undertones of military life—a stark contrast to the chaos of emotions still surging within him. The polished floors gleamed under artificial lights, casting a silver sheen that made the place seem alive. Each step felt heavier, the air coiling around him like a shroud; the weight of the von Zehrtfeld legacy pressed down harder with every breath.
As fate would have it, he crossed paths with Char Aznable, the rising star of Zeon—a man whose reputation admiration for talented pilot like tanya. He turned as Lelouch approached, and for a moment, the corridor seemed to hold its breath.
"Ah, Lelouch von Zehrtfeld," Char greeted, his voice smooth—silk hiding a blade. "Nice to see the von Zehrtfeld legacy alive and well. How was your meeting with Garma?"
Lelouch met his gaze without flinching. "Informative. Garma's ambitions are… substantial."
"There's no shortage of ambition in Zeon," Char replied, the corner of his mouth curving into a smile that never reached his eyes. "He's eager, but eagerness can blind."
A tension curled in the air. Lelouch watched Char carefully—the way his gaze drifted, never resting too long, as though seeing battles beyond the present. "He smiles like a man watching a house burn," Lelouch thought.
"I've heard things," Char continued casually, "about your tactics. Calculated. Audacious. Dangerous."
Lelouch tilted his head slightly. "Danger is the constant shadow of potential. I accept it."
Char chuckled, the sound sharp against the corridor's sterile quiet. "Confidence like yours is a blade. Use it well—or risk bleeding from your own edge."
"What do you think of the future, von Zehrtfeld?"
Lelouch answered with care. "The future is a canvas. Those with vision shape it. I intend to paint in bold strokes."
"An artist, then," Char mused. "But every artist has a frame. Stretch too far, and the painting tears. What limits will you accept?"
"I believe the frame can be reshaped as needed," Lelouch replied, his voice firm. "Boundaries are constructs. Risks redraw them."
A flicker of respect touched Char's faceu under the mask—then vanished.
"Just be careful, Lelouch," he said, stepping back. "Even the boldest artist can become lost in their own masterpiece."
"Thank you for the warning," Lelouch replied. "But I don't intend to get lost."
As Char walked away, Lelouch stood alone once more. The corridor stretched before him, lit in sterile white. Yet the echo of Char's words lingered, like smoke. Even behind the most charming smile, there could be fire.
Somewhere on Solomon, Tanya would've recognized the same kind of flame.
---
One night, Lelouch received a report. Zaku field evaluations near the outskirts of the Loum sector. Vanguard force deployments overlapping with experimental regiments.
He traced the flight path on the map, fingers hovering over projected convergence points. Their paths, diverged by decree, were bending again.
He exhaled, slowly. "The war will reunite us. One way or another."
The stars beyond Zum City blinked with cold indifference.