Part 1
The morning sun crept through the oval window of Kendrick's bedroom suite, casting long shadows across Asharian rugs that had witnessed three centuries of Nernwick births, deaths, and everything in between. The ancestral estate sat forty miles from the nearest settlement, nestled in the remote valleys of northern Avalondia where the family's first duke had claimed land when magic still ran wild through the forests. Here, where no curious eyes could witness his degradation, General Kendrick Nernwick sat imprisoned in an elaborate wheelchair that cost more than most houses.
The chair itself was a masterpiece of contradictions—intricately carved mahogany inlaid with mother-of-pearl depicting scenes of cavalry charges, its wheels crafted from enchanted silver that moved with supernatural smoothness. Every surface gleamed with the kind of obsessive perfection that only unlimited wealth could achieve. Yet for all its beauty, it remained what it was: a cage on wheels for a man who'd once led charges that made history.
Kendrick stared at his hands, willing them to close properly around the crystal water glass on the side table. His fingers, perfectly manicured and unmarred by even the faintest scar, trembled as they attempted the simple motion. The glass slipped, caught, slipped again. His face—that impossibly beautiful face that the Empire's finest surgeons had rebuilt with meticulous care—contorted with rage.
"F-f-fucking... piece of..." The words came out broken, stuttering, his tongue refusing the elegant commands his brain still tried to issue. Once, he'd delivered speeches that made grown men weep with patriotic fervor. Now he couldn't even curse properly.
The irony wasn't lost on him, even through the fog of brain damage that made thinking feel like swimming through honey. They'd restored his beauty perfectly. The half of his face that was thoroughly disfigured by the attack was fully restored through experimental procedures involving stem cells, magical reconstruction, and techniques so advanced they didn't have names yet. When he looked in the mirror now, only the faintest web of scars remained, visible only in certain lights, adding what the nurses called "a distinguished air."
Distinguished. As if he were some aging academic rather than a twenty-seven-year-old who couldn't wipe his own ass without assistance.
His legs, encased in perfectly tailored trousers that hid the mechanical braces beneath, refused to bear his weight for more than seconds at a time. The neural pathways had been "successfully reconstructed," the doctors claimed, but success apparently meant different things to different people. He could feel everything—every. Single. Thing. Every brush of fabric was overwhelming, every temperature change excruciating. But control? Coordination? Those had been deemed "secondary priorities" in the reconstruction process. But the truth was, such technology didn't exist in the empire.
It was partly because in the Avalondian Empire, looking whole mattered infinitely more than being whole.
A soft knock interrupted his bitter contemplation. Before he could form the words to refuse entry—a process that would take thirty seconds of concentrated effort—the door opened with practiced smoothness.
Elora glided in, carrying a silver tea service that caught the morning light like captured stars. She'd dressed carefully, he noticed with the part of his brain that still functioned properly. A cheerful yellow day dress that suggested springtime and hope, her golden hair arranged in a simple style that reminded him of their childhood, before everything had become about appearances and advancement.
"Good morning, Kenny," she said, using the childhood nickname she'd abandoned years ago. Her smile was radiant, practiced, perfect. Only someone who'd known her for twenty-seven years would notice how it didn't quite reach her eyes, how her fingers gripped the tray just a fraction too tightly.
"D-don't... call me... th-that," he managed, each word a minor victory against his uncooperative mouth.
"Of course," she replied smoothly, setting the tray on the small table positioned perfectly for his limited reach. "I've brought your favorite—the Celestial Blend imported from the UES."
She poured with steady hands, though he caught the slight tremor when she thought he wasn't looking. The steam rose between them like incense, filling the space with the scent of jasmine and something indefinably precious.
Outside the oval window, the Nernwick lands stretched endlessly—rolling pastures where their ancestors had bred the cavalry horses that had helped forge an empire, a lake that sparkled like scattered diamonds in the morning sun, forests that held secrets older than the family name. It was beautiful, peaceful, and absolutely suffocating.
"The ph-physical... th-therapist..." Kendrick started, then stopped, exhausted by the effort. His hands clenched uselessly in his lap, the perfect fingers refusing to form proper fists.
"Says you're making wonderful progress," Elora finished brightly. Too brightly. "Dr. Hawthorne believes you'll be walking independently within the year."
Walking. As if that were the summit of ambition for a man who'd once vaulted onto charging horses mid-gallop, who'd danced through ballrooms with such grace that women had literally fainted.
"St-stop it," he said suddenly, the words clearer in his anger. "Stop pr-pretending this is... is... n-normal."
Elora's perfect composure cracked, just for an instant. He saw the real her then—exhausted, grieving, desperate. But she pulled it back together so quickly he almost doubted what he'd seen.
"I'm not pretending anything," she said softly. "I'm simply having morning tea with my brother."
"Your br-broken brother. Your path-pathetic—" He couldn't finish. The word wouldn't come, and the frustration of it made him want to scream. Instead, he swept his arm across the side table in a motion that would have been commanding once but now was merely clumsy.
The crystal glass flew, but instead of the satisfying crash he'd intended, it tumbled harmlessly onto the rug, rolling to a stop against the wheelchair's silver wheel.
Elora didn't even flinch. She'd seen too many of these outbursts over the past weeks. Instead, she simply bent, retrieved the glass, and placed it back on the table as if nothing had happened.
"You're not pathetic," she said firmly. "You're injured. There's a difference."
"The m-mighty G-General ... Broken," he spat, using the cruel nickname he'd overheard from a servant who'd been dismissed immediately after. "C-can't even break a f-fucking glass pr-properly."
"Kendrick—"
"Give me... s-space," he said suddenly, turning his chair with the small joystick he could barely manage. The motion was jerky, undignified, nothing like the smooth pivot he intended. "I n-need... alone. Please."
She stood slowly, smoothing her skirts with hands that wanted to reach for him instead. "Of course. I'll... I'll be in the library if you need anything."
"El-Elora," he called as she reached the door. She turned, hope flickering in her eyes. "I... I..." But the words—'I'm sorry,' 'I love you,' 'thank you for not giving up on me'—all of them tangled and died in his damaged brain, leaving only, "The t-tea. It's... good."
She smiled then, a real smile that made her look seventeen again, before they'd understood what the world would demand of them. "I'll bring more tomorrow."
She closed the door with practiced quiet, maintaining her composure through the hallway, past the portraits of Nernwick ancestors who'd died gloriously in battle rather than living as shadows of themselves. Only when she was certain she was alone did she lean against the cold stone wall, pressing her palms against her eyes to hold back the tears that threatened to overwhelm her.
She'd barely composed herself when the sound shattered the morning quiet—crystal exploding against stone. Not the failed attempt from before, but a successful destruction. He'd managed it, finally, probably using both hands and every ounce of his limited strength.
Elora didn't move to investigate. She knew better. This was his victory, small and bitter as it was. Tomorrow she'd find the shards carefully swept up by servants who'd learned to navigate around their master's rages. Tomorrow she'd bring new glasses, pour more tea, and pretend that watching her brilliant brother struggle to perform basic tasks wasn't killing her by degrees.
But today, she let him have his small destruction, his tiny rebellion against a body that had been so perfectly restored on the surface and so thoroughly betrayed beneath.
The Nernwick estate had weathered centuries of triumph and catastrophe. It would survive this too, she told herself.
They both would.
But even as she told herself that, tears streaming down her face seemed to be voicing their disbelief.
Part 2
The streetcar lurched forward with all the grace of a drunken rhinoceros, its brass pistons hissing like angry cats as Philip gripped the worn leather strap overhead. The vehicle's enthusiasm for sudden acceleration sent him sliding sideways on the polished wooden bench, his shoulder bumping into Natalia on one side and Lydia on the other. Not that the collision with Natalia was exactly unpleasant—quite the opposite. Even through their carefully chosen "commoner" disguises, her warmth seeped through the coarse fabric, and that subtle vanilla scent that always clung to her skin was taking his concentration for a ride.
Lydia shifted closer, her voice barely a whisper against the streetcar's mechanical symphony. "Remember your posture, Mr. Philips. You're holding yourself too straight—clerks develop a slight stoop from leaning over ledgers."
Philip adjusted accordingly, letting his shoulders round forward just enough to look naturally tired rather than aristocratically upright. The threadbare clerk's vest itched in places he didn't know could itch, but at least it was authentic.
"And you, my dear niece," Lydia murmured to Natalia, her tone that of a doting aunt offering gentle guidance, "keep your eyes down more often. A modest young lady on her first proper outing wouldn't gawk so openly, no matter how fascinating the sights."
Natalia immediately dropped her gaze to her gloved hands, though Philip could see her practically vibrating with the effort of not observing everything around them. "Yes, Aunt Lydia," she said softly, playing her part with endearing determination.
"Better," Lydia approved quietly, then raised her voice to a normal conversational level. "Such crowds today! But then, young people do enjoy their Sunday outings, don't they?" She smiled benignly at the elderly couple across from them, who nodded in agreement.
The old woman leaned forward conspiratorially. "Taking your niece and her date somewhere special?"
"Wonder Park," Lydia replied with just the right touch of middle-class pride. "Mr. Philips here has been promising to take my niece for weeks now. Finally saved enough for the tickets." She patted Philip's arm with practiced maternal affection. "Working so hard at the counting house, aren't you, dear?"
"Yes, Miss Larington," Philip managed, fighting the urge to laugh at how smoothly Lydia wove their cover story.
The elderly woman's eyes crinkled with approval as she glanced between Philip and Natalia. "How lovely to see proper courtship these days. So many young people rush things now." Her gaze lingered meaningfully on Natalia's modest dress and veil. "And how refreshing to see a young lady maintaining her modesty. Very proper."
"My niece is rather shy," Lydia explained, the perfect image of a protective aunt. "This is only their third outing together. But Mr. Philips had been ever so patient."
The System materialized on Philip's shoulder as a tiny fairy, visible only to him, wearing what appeared to be a miniature working-class cap and overalls with what seemed like nothing underneath. "Oh, this is delicious! Lydia's got the whole carriage eating out of her hand. Method acting at its finest!"
Through the streetcar's grimy window, Albecaster's morning rush unfolded in all its chaotic glory. Steam-powered velocipedes puttered alongside horse-drawn carts, their riders wearing goggles against the mana-infused smog. A vendor pushed a cart of phosphorescent fruit, the apples glowing faintly blue from preservation charms. Overhead, blue mana transmission lines crackled between buildings.
And the people embodied the Empire's vast diversity. Philip had been so worried about Natalia's veil drawing attention, but now he saw how foolish that concern had been. A group of monks from the subcontinent glided past in saffron robes, their heads wrapped in elaborate turbans. Behind them, an Asharian lady in a full niqab haggled with a flower seller, only her kohl-rimmed eyes visible. Two merchants from eastern lands exchanged business deals while checking their mana phones, the devices flickering with soft light. A woman from the Northern Kingdom walked past, her facial tattoos glowing faintly with protective wards, intricate jewelry catching the light with each step.
Avalon's capital was a living tapestry of the Empire's vast reach and cosmopolitan nature, and one more veiled woman hardly merited a second glance.
Well, mostly.
Because despite the veil obscuring her face from the bridge of her nose down, Natalia was still drawing subtle looks. The dusty-blue day dress Lydia had procured—intentionally a size too large and utterly shapeless—couldn't quite hide the natural grace of her movements or the way she held herself with unconscious elegance. Every bump of the streetcar that sent other passengers stumbling, she absorbed with fluid adjustment, like a dancer maintaining perfect balance.
More telling was the way her eyes glowed with barely contained excitement behind the veil. She hadn't stopped observing since they'd boarded, her head making small, controlled movements as she catalogued every new sight through downcast lashes. Every time the streetcar jolted, she pressed closer to his side—ostensibly for balance, perfectly appropriate for a shy young lady with her beau.
"Philip," she whispered, remembering not to call him Master, her breath warm against his ear, "the thermodynamic efficiency of these steam pistons is remarkably poor. I calculate only—"
Lydia's fan tapped gently against Natalia's wrist—a subtle reminder. "The weather is quite pleasant today, isn't it?" she said conversationally, redirecting the topic to something appropriately mundane.
"Oh yes, Aunt," Natalia responded, catching on quickly. "Very... pleasant. The sunshine is... sunny."
The System cackled. "Sunny sunshine! Poetry in motion! Someone get this girl a thesaurus!"
"Wonder Park—Main Gate!" the conductor bellowed.
Philip stood, automatically offering Natalia his hand. She took it with demure hesitation that would have fooled anyone who hadn't seen her earlier enthusiasm—rising with that liquid grace that made even disembarking from a streetcar look like choreographed art.
As they joined the queue to exit, Lydia moved close to both of them, speaking in an undertone that wouldn't carry to other passengers. "Remember—you're a modest couple from the merchant district. Third date, properly chaperoned. Philip works at a counting house, Natalia helps in her father's shop. Be affectionate but restrained. And whatever you do," her eyes found Philip's with gentle warning, "don't let her analytical commentary get too loud."
The gates of Wonder Park loomed before them—twin iron arches fashioned to look like a grinning dragon's maw, with mechanical eyes that tracked visitors as they entered. Beyond, Philip glimpsed a wonderland indeed: towering rides powered by contained lightning elementals, carousel animals that moved on their own between riders, vendors selling confections that defied gravity.
Natalia's fingers tightened on his arm. "Oh, Philip," she said, clearly pleased with herself for remembering to use just his name, "how exciting this all is!" The forced casualness of her tone made it somehow more endearing.
Philip couldn't help but smile. "I'm glad you're enjoying yourself... dear."
They passed through the gates, and Natalia actually gasped—a sound of pure wonder that made Philip's chest tighten. The park spread before them in a riot of color and sound. To their left, a massive carousel spun, but instead of horses, mechanical gryphons and jeweled dragons bobbed and weaved, occasionally spreading their wings with dramatic flair. Children shrieked with delight as the dragons breathed harmless colored smoke.
"The mechanical articulation!" Natalia breathed, then caught herself. "I mean... how pretty!"
Lydia smiled indulgently, playing the doting aunt to perfection. "First time at an amusement park, dear? Philip, you should have brought her sooner." She gave him a gently reproving look that any passerby would read as familial concern rather than strategic coaching.
"I wanted to save up for it properly, Aunt," Philip replied, falling into the rhythm of their deception. "Make it special."
Before anyone could respond, a shower of sparks erupted overhead. A phoenix made entirely of flame magic soared across the sky, part of the hourly show, leaving a trail of golden embers that turned to flower petals before they reached the ground.
Natalia made a sound that was half squeak of delight, half suppressed analysis. "How beautiful! The... the colors are so vivid!"
"Come on," Philip said, gently tugging her toward the midway. "Let's try everything."
They started with the Test of Strength—a towering contraption where players hit a pad with a mallet to ring a bell. But this version included magical resistance that adapted to each player's force, making it equally challenging for everyone.
Philip swung with moderate success, the bell ringing at "Admirable Effort!"
Natalia studied the mechanism for exactly four seconds while Lydia distracted the operator with questions about the weather. Then she struck with calculated precision. The bell not only rang but played a full victory fanfare while fireworks spelled "MAGNIFICENT!" in the air.
"How?" Philip demanded, though he was grinning.
"I... I don't know!" Natalia said with exaggerated innocence. "Beginner's luck?"
"Your young lady has quite the arm," the operator said with a wink. "Must be all that shop work, eh?"
"Oh yes," Lydia agreed smoothly. "Kneading dough builds wonderful strength. Her father owns a bakery, you see."
They moved on to the Hall of Mirrors, where each reflection supposedly showed a different possible future. Philip saw himself as various versions—a merchant, a soldier, a scholar. But in every reflection, a golden-haired figure stood beside him. He glanced at Natalia's mirrors and saw her as a teacher, an inventor, a mother—that last one made his heart skip—but always with a dark-haired man whose face was obscured but whose stance was achingly familiar.
"Interesting," Natalia murmured quietly, her scientific curiosity warring with the need to stay in character.
At the ring toss, run by an elderly man with a magnificent mustache, Natalia missed every throw with suspicious consistency until Philip stood behind her, guiding her arm. The proximity—her back pressed against his chest, his hand over hers—sent his concentration scattering like startled birds.
"Like this," he said, voice rougher than intended.
She turned her head slightly, and he could see her smile behind the veil. "Your proximity is... helpful," she said softly.
"Very proper form," Lydia commented to the elderly operator, maintaining their cover. "They've been taking Sunday walks together for two months now. Such a sweet couple."
They won a stuffed dragon that breathed bubbles, which Natalia clutched with poorly disguised reverence.
As the afternoon wore on, Philip found his thoughts crystallizing with painful clarity. Every quiet laugh from Natalia, every moment her hand found his, every time she forgot to be analytical and just existed in pure joy—it all confirmed what he already knew. His heart was irrevocably hers.
But Elora. The thought of her was like a stone in his stomach. Beautiful, brilliant Elora who'd stood by him through disgrace and danger. Who even now sat vigil at her brother's bedside, Kendrick's mind possibly damaged beyond repair from his peace mission. She deserved better than a man whose heart belonged to another.
I have to tell her, Philip thought as they paused to watch a puppet show where the marionettes moved without strings, controlled by tiny air spirits. Short-term pain is better than long-term deception.
Yet even as he thought it, another voice whispered: If you must marry someone else, wouldn't Elora be perfect? Someone who truly loves you, fulfilling her dream...
But that was the problem. Anyone who truly loved him would be hurt by sharing him. The thought of such an arrangement made his stomach turn.
"Philip?" Natalia's voice drew him back. "You seem distressed. Your expression has changed in a concerning manner."
Before Philip could respond, Lydia intervened smoothly. "He's probably just thinking about the expense. But don't worry, today is about making memories." She smiled warmly at them both, though her eyes held understanding. "Why don't you two get some ice cream? I'll rest here on this bench. My old bones aren't what they used to be."
"Would you like some too, Aunt?" Philip offered.
"How thoughtful. Strawberry, if they have it."
They found a bench near the fountain depicting Queen Titania. Natalia sat primly, hands folded, the picture of modest femininity while still somehow radiating barely contained excitement. Philip joined the queue at the ice cream cart. The line was modest—a mother with three children, an elderly couple, two giggling teenage girls.
He was debating between flavors—what would Natalia prefer? Something traditional or exotic?—when a gust of wind, unusual for the mild spring day, swept through the plaza.
He heard gasps and turned to see Natalia's veil had blown away entirely, snagged on the fountain's sculpture twenty feet away. She sat frozen, one hand raised to her face, as the entire plaza seemed to stop breathing.
The effect was instantaneous and profound. Her impossible beauty, unleashed without warning, hit the crowd like a physical force. The golden hair that caught the afternoon sun like spun light. The perfect symmetry of her features. Those impossibly blue eyes that seemed to hold depths of innocence and ancient wisdom in equal measure. The way her lips parted in surprise—
The ice cream vendor dropped his scoop. A woman walking by stumbled into her husband. The teenage girls in line made sounds that were half gasp, half squeal.
And then, as if drawn by invisible strings, a figure pushed through the gathering crowd. A young man, clearly noble by his bearing and the quality of his clothes—velvet jacket with gold embroidery, boots that probably cost more than most people's annual salary. His entourage of bodyguards materialized from the crowd like sharks scenting blood.
Philip was too far away to intervene immediately as the noble approached Natalia with the confidence of someone who'd never been denied anything. He swept off his hat—a ridiculously expensive creation with a peacock feather—and bowed with practiced flair.
"My lady," his voice carried across the plaza, pitched to be heard by everyone. "I am Julian, son of the Marquis of Kensingwall, nephew to the Duke of Gossex, second cousin to the Imperial Treasurer." He flicked his honey-colored hair with a gesture that had probably melted hearts across the Empire. "I find myself utterly captivated. Would you honor me with your company this evening? Perhaps dinner at the Imperial Hotel? I have a private box at the opera tonight—'The Maiden of Mist.' They say it's magnificent, though not nearly as magnificent as you."
The crowd held its breath. Natalia tilted her head with that peculiar bird-like curiosity she had when encountering something new.
"You're performing a courtship ritual," she observed with scientific interest. "How fascinating. Your pupil dilation suggests genuine attraction, though your prepared speech indicates this is practiced behavior."
Julian blinked, clearly not expecting that response. But he recovered with the smooth practice of someone used to navigating society. "Your perception is as stunning as your beauty. All the more reason we should become better acquainted. Your aunt," he gestured dismissively at Lydia, who had risen from her bench with controlled alarm, "surely wouldn't object to you experiencing the refined lifestyle you clearly deserve."
The condescension dripped from every word. Several people in the crowd gasped at his presumption.
Lydia started forward, her expression carefully controlled but her pace urgent.
But Natalia stood first, smoothing her modest dress with unconscious grace. She smiled—that devastating innocent smile that Philip had seen her deploy when she didn't quite understand social situations but was trying her best.
"Thank you for your offer, Lord Julian. Your peacock feather is very shiny and your boots have excellent craftsmanship. However, I must decline."
The plaza went silent. Julian's face cycled through surprise, confusion, and then indignation. "Might I inquire as to why? Surely a lady of your beauty deserves better than..." his gaze swept dismissively over her simple dress, "whatever circumstances currently constrain you."
Natalia's head tilted again, and Philip saw the exact moment she deployed what she must have thought was a perfectly logical and efficient explanation.
She pointed directly at Philip, still frozen in the ice cream queue with coins in his hand and his mouth hanging open.
"Because I am his mistress."