A peculiar figure stood facing the massive dragon on the lower deck: a woman engulfed in a mysterious, crackling purple flame. The familiar pulse of power emanating from her left the dragon somewhat perplexed.
It was undeniably the presence of a dragon, yet this strange creature lacked the overwhelming, oppressive might of the ones it usually encountered. In fact, her aura felt surprisingly immature—like that of a mere child.
Taking in her height, which was roughly the same as Talulah's, the dragon couldn't help but wonder if she was looking at some kind of stunted, oversized hatchling. Growing that big with so little strength to back it up... what a pitiful thing.
The dragon's slightly contemptuous glare hit Eblana right where it hurt. When had anyone ever dared to look down on her with such blatant disdain? Was this beast actually scoffing at her?
"Please, calm your fury," Eblana said, drawing upon her unique instincts to communicate with the massive creature. "I offer my sincere apologies for the foolish actions of these men. I only ask that you withhold your wrath, lest things become difficult for all of us..."
Though she couldn't fathom why the beast regarded her with such distaste, a strange, instinctual connection told her they shared a common thread. Sadly, the feeling wasn't mutual. The dragon merely turned its head away with cold indifference, utterly ignoring her.
Yet, it seemed to grasp the meaning behind her words. Instead of pressing its attack on the terrified crew, the creature snapped its wings shut, kicked off the steel plating, and launched into the open sky, vanishing into the clouds above.
Eblana turned back to the trembling soldiers. "You had best report this to the Duke. Though I doubt it will seek out its master to complain, it would be unwise to keep him in the dark after bringing about such a disaster."
"This was indeed an oversight on our part, and for that, I offer my solemn apologies to you both," the Duke of Iron stated, his voice smooth and steady as the news reached his ears. His posture remained impeccably composed, as if the reckless blunder had nothing to do with him at all.
To prove his sincerity, the old man even produced their sole trophy from the entire debacle—a tiny, single scale no larger than a fingernail, pried loose only after burning through several heavy blades.
Jeanne stared at the minuscule object, unsure whether to feel pity or amusement. To be entirely honest, such a thing was of little consequence to them. If the old Duke was truly that interested, Jeanne wouldn't have minded selling him a few pounds of dragon scales as a novelty gift.
Truth be told, the scale possessed almost no research value whatsoever. Kal'tsit had already analyzed a chunk of it back in the lab, only to conclude that its sole practical use was having holes drilled through it to assemble heavy plate armor.
Realizing the extreme measures Wellington's men had taken just to retrieve this pathetic scrap, Jeanne and Talulah exchanged a brief, helpless glance.
"We didn't bring any formal gifts for our visit today," Jeanne offered with a generous wave of her hand, casually dismissing the incident. "Since things turned out this way, consider that scale our gift to you."
Duke Wellington appeared genuinely surprised by the gesture. He hadn't expected her to surrender the sample so readily.
Then again, a single scale held far less scientific weight than a blood sample or living tissue. Without a proper biological baseline to work from, its practical value to his researchers was virtually nonexistent.
"Let us return to our previous topic," Jeanne said, not dwelling on the dragon's antics. After all, the beast was currently circling high in the sky directly above them, perfectly safe and sound. "It seems you care deeply about the fate of the Taran people. If that is true, why did you stand by and permit the tragedy at Hillock County to unfold?"
The question brought the conversation back to its true core. Both women had mentally prepared themselves for this discussion; any meeting with the Duke of Iron was bound to revolve around the Taran cause.
At Jeanne's words, the Duke's friendly demeanor vanished, replaced by a stern, unyielding expression. He set the dragon scale aside on the tea table, his knuckles whitening slightly as he gripped his cane.
"I trust you both understand that some events cannot be halted merely because I disapprove of them," the old man said, his voice laced with a convincing edge of sorrow and frustration. "What transpired in Hillock County was entirely beyond my sphere of control. That territory does not fall under my domain."
His delivery was flawless, his tone bearing all the hallmarks of a statesman grieving over a tragedy beyond his reach.
Yet neither Jeanne nor Talulah bought a single word of it. The old Duke's acting was superb, certainly enough to fool an outsider, but they had walked the bloodstained streets of Hillock County themselves. They had spoken with the survivors and witnessed the aftermath firsthand. They were hardly naive enough to be swayed by a few performative words.
"When stripped of pretense, that affair was merely a calculated test by the other nobles to gauge my stance," the Duke continued, his voice dropping into a chill, pragmatic register. "Even if I had used my authority to suppress it this time, they would have simply orchestrated another incident elsewhere. Rather than letting their scheme succeed in secret, it was far better to let the tragedy of Hillock County become the spark that ignites our cause—fueling the Taran flames until they burn hotter than ever. Only then will the sacrifices of those fallen Tarans truly carry meaning."
It was a chillingly cold declaration. Stripped of its grand rhetoric, the Duke was admitting that he viewed the lives of his fellow Tarans as disposable assets—pawns to be nudged toward a violent end if it served his broader strategic ends.
The realization did not surprise either of them; they had long suspected as much. To a veteran commander like Wellington, the common folk were simply a resource to be spent, no different from ammunition or supply crates.
Jeanne's eyes darkened with disgust at his casual disregard for human life. Besiade her, Talulah's brow furrowed tightly. Even though she had anticipated this answer, hearing it spoken aloud so callously still repulsed her.
"I can see you despise my methods," the Duke noted calmly, reading their expressions with ease. He had long since deciphered the character of the two women before him. "However, from where I sit, it was the only logical choice. I do not enjoy the luxury of your freedom. Standing at the pinnacle of power means I represent far more than just my own desires."
To his eyes, the two young women were still hopelessly idealistic. They had achieved remarkable feats at a young age, yes, but such starry-eyed morality was a dangerous liability in the real world.
Luck could not shield them forever. Relying on moral purity to intervene at just the right moment was a foolish, unrealistic way to navigate the ruthless world of high politics.
Had Jeanne known what was passing through the old man's mind, she would have looked at him with profound pity. Her journey had never been a matter of blind luck; she succeeded because she possessed the uncanny ability to cheat, knowing with absolute certainty which path led to the right outcome.
"I am sorry, but I cannot accept your perspective," Talulah stated firmly, her voice ringing with quiet steel. "No matter the justification, I will never treat the lives of innocent people as leverage for a grander design."
Her words sounded hopelessly naive to the Duke's seasoned ears, but he dismissed it with the indulgence one granted to the young. Age had a way of carving away such ideals, and he felt no urge to debate a child on the harsh realities of governance.
He took a slow, deliberate sip of his tea, perfectly content to let the silence stretch.
"Perhaps you are right in principle," the old man said with a slight shake of his head, dismissing the argument entirely. "But reality offers no room for moral high ground, nor did it permit me to act differently. You may judge me as cold or indifferent if you wish; what is done is done, and dwelling on it changes nothing."
The blunt dismissiveness left little room for rebuttal. Officially, his hands remained clean, and a few harsh words at a private tea table meant nothing in the grand scheme of Victorian politics.
"The past is set," Wellington continued, leaning forward as he steered the conversation toward his true objective. "However, that tragedy laid bare the brutal reality of how Tarans are treated within this empire. Tell me... what do you intend to do moving forward?"
This was the question he truly cared about. The future of the Taran people was deeply intertwined with his own ambitions, and the presence of these two powerful figures could drastically alter the board.
"Once you have evacuated that initial group of Tarans, how do you plan to handle those who remain trapped across Victoria?" the Duke asked, his sharp eyes locking onto theirs. "What of those living in squalor who dream of returning to their homeland? Do you intend to rescue only a single batch and wash your hands of the rest, leaving whatever follows to chance?"