Part 1
The gardens of Albecaster House existed in a crystalline bubble of impossible tranquility—a jarring contrast to the inferno that had consumed the capital for the past two days.
Philip stood on the marble terrace, his morning tea growing cold in trembling hands as he watched butterflies perform their delicate waltz among roses. Somewhere behind him, a fountain sang its eternal song of privilege, each droplet catching the morning light like scattered diamonds. The sun painted everything in shades of honey and emerald that belonged in some master's oil painting, not in a city where smoke still rose from the suburbs like incense offered to indifferent gods.
It was obscene, Philip reflected with a shudder.
Two days since Wonder Park. Two days since Julian Kensingwall's blood had painted cobblestones crimson while revolutionary slogans echoed through tear gas and screams.
Two days since he'd learned that beauty and privilege provided no armor against bullets.
The morning broadcasts had been merciless in their accounting. Seventeen cities experiencing "civil disturbances"—a euphemism that sanitized the reality of mounted police charging through crowds, of children trampled in the panic, of shopkeepers watching generations of work burn. Casualty figures that climbed with each update like some perverse auction. First Minister Arthur appearing on every mirror-screen in the Empire, his theatrical charm stretched thin over steel as he promised that "order will be restored quickly with necessary force."
And order had been restored within hours with brutal efficiency in the inner districts of Albecaster, where the rich and powerful lived behind walls of privilege thick enough to muffle screams. Meanwhile, the rest of the city still raged on.
"Master," Natalia materialized at his elbow with that unsettling grace she'd perfected, making him nearly drop his teacup. She wore a morning dress of yellow that should have looked demure but somehow transformed her into a nymph out of a painting. The morning sunlight rendered the fabric translucent in ways that revealed the shadow of her figure beneath—the curve of her hip, the length of her legs, the generous swell of her bosom that strained against the delicate fabric.
Philip's mouth went dry. His pulse, already elevated from anxiety, began hammering for entirely different reasons.
She tilted her head in that peculiar way that meant she was analysing his biological responses. "Your breathing has become irregular, Master. This could signal either respiratory distress or... ah." A slight flush colored her cheeks. "Sexual arousal. Given the dilation of your pupils and the direction of your gaze, I calculate an 87.3% probability of the latter."
"I was admiring the garden!" Philip managed, his voice climbing an octave as he forcefully redirected his attention to a thoroughly mundane rose bush. "The flowers are particularly... leafy today."
"Roses don't technically have leaves, Master. They have leaflets arranged in compound formations." She stepped closer, close enough that her warmth seeped through his morning coat. "Also, you've been staring at that same plant for eight minutes and thirty-seven seconds. This indicates either horticultural fascination or what they term 'brooding pensively.'"
Despite the knot of dread in his chest, Philip found his lips twitching toward a smile. "The latter, definitely."
"Excellent!" Her face brightened with genuine delight. "Then I shall brood alongside you. I've been practicing my melancholic expressions based on 'The Accomplished Lady's Guide to Emotional Display, Volume Three.'"
She proceeded to demonstrate a catalog of expressions ranging from 'wistful longing' to 'tragic contemplation,' each more endearing than the last. The performance was somewhat undermined by how she'd unconsciously pressed herself against his side, her remarkable bosom creating a warm pressure against his arm that made coherent thought increasingly challenging.
"That's... very thorough research," Philip managed weakly.
"Lydia says I still look constipated rather than contemplative," she confided, then paused dramatically. "But I'm learning that timing is—" another pause "—everything." She peered up at him hopefully. "Was that better?"
"Getting there," Philip said, fighting not to drown in those impossibly blue eyes or think about how her lips were so close that—
The morning shattered.
Not with an explosion, but with something far more ominous—the rhythmic thunder of hundreds of hooves striking cobblestones in perfect synchronization. A sound that belonged to different centuries, when cavalry charges decided the fate of nations.
The songbirds fell silent mid-trill. Even the fountain seemed to hesitate.
Philip's teacup froze in his hand as his eyes tracked toward the estate's gates. Through the ornate ironwork, past the regiment of guards who'd suddenly straightened to attention, he saw them approaching like something out of legend made terrifyingly real.
"Master," Natalia's entire demeanor shifted, her body coiling with predatory readiness. "Significant military formation approaching. Heavy cavalry, based on the acoustic signature. Approximately... sixty units. No, more. They're maintaining parade precision but their weapons are live." Her hand found his arm, fingers tightening possessively. "This is either an honor guard or an occupation force."
"Still?" Philip breathed, remembering the reports of suburban pacification.
"The outer districts remain... contested," Lydia said, appearing with her usual impeccable timing, though Philip noticed the slight tension in her shoulders. "But this isn't about the riots. Look at the formation—that's not crowd control. That's a statement. And in times like these, only cavalry can move through angry streets without being stopped by barricades or overturned carriages. Horses go where motor vehicles cannot."
Through the gates, the column became visible.
They moved like a single organism, horses and riders flowing in perfect synchronization. But these weren't the half-starved nags of the mounted police or the sturdy-but-mundane mounts of regular cavalry. These were destriers—massive warhorses bred for generations to carry armored knights into battle. Each one stood at least seventeen hands high, muscles rippling beneath coats groomed to mirror brightness. They moved with barely restrained violence, as if the pavement itself might shatter beneath their hooves.
The riders matched their mounts—not mere soldiers playing at ceremony, but warriors who wore their uniforms like second skins. Men and women both, faces carved from determination and recent violence, sitting their saddles with the easy grace of those born to horseback. Their red uniforms, trimmed in gold, carried the kind of wear that spoke of actual combat rather than parade ground drill.
"Estate guards responding," Natalia reported, her enhanced senses tracking movement Philip couldn't perceive. "Twelve... no, sixteen taking defensive positions. But they're not treating this as a threat. Recognition protocols." Her head tilted. "They're preparing to receive nobility."
Indeed, Philip could see the Duke's security forces emerging from concealed positions around the grounds, their modern weapons held at ready but not raised. Several actually straightened to attention, offering crisp salutes to the approaching column.
"That standard," Lydia breathed, and Philip heard something in her voice he'd rarely encountered—genuine surprise. "That's the Wetdin crest."
"Wetdin?" Philip's mind raced through half-remembered lessons, fragments of social education that Lydia had drilled into him. The Duchy of Wetdin—ancient, prestigious, and utterly ruined. Their last duke had died in disgrace, leaving astronomical debts and a twenty-year-old daughter to inherit nothing but obligations.
"The young duchess, Lilianna," Lydia confirmed, her expression unreadable. "Newly vested but drowning in debt."
But Philip wasn't listening anymore. Because at the head of the formation, he saw her.
The impact was physical, visceral, like being struck in the chest by something beautiful and terrible in equal measure.
She rode a destrier of pure white—not the mundane white of ordinary horses, but something that seemed to glow with its own inner light. The beast stood eighteen hands at minimum, responding to her with absolute devotion. Yet the horse became mere background to its rider.
Her hair was flame made manifest—copper that flowed down her back in waves that defied gravity, catching and transforming sunlight. Her face held full lips curved in a slight smile and eyes that struck like physical blows even from fifty yards away. Not quite gold, not quite amber, but something between that seemed to shift with her mood, currently burning with an intensity that made Philip's knees weak.
She wore a military uniform of deep crimson trimmed in gold, tailored from fabric that moved like liquid while maintaining perfect military bearing. The jacket emphasized broad shoulders and a narrow waist before flaring over hips that—Philip forcibly redirected his gaze upward, only to notice how the uniform emphasized a figure that achieved impossible balance.
She sat her destrier with natural grace that made the massive warhorse seem an extension of her own body, one hand holding the reins with casual expertise while the other rested on the pommel of a cavalry saber that showed actual wear.
Philip felt something twist in his chest—recognition without memory, déjà vu so intense it bordered on pain. The way she moved, the tilt of her head, the particular way she surveyed her surroundings...
"She looks like the painting," Natalia observed with her usual innocent directness. "The portrait of the young Duchess Margaret in the entrance hall. The same aura of controlled violence wrapped in impossible beauty." She paused, then added thoughtfully, "The same type that made you stare at that portrait for twelve minutes when we arrived, Master, with your pulse elevated and pupils dilated in patterns consistent with sexual attraction directed at a maternal figure, which textbooks suggest might indicate unresolved psychological—"
"That's quite enough analysis, thank you!" Philip interrupted, his face burning.
As the column drew closer, Philip caught more details—the way her flame-hair had been left deliberately loose, the slight smile playing at her lips, the casual perfection of her posture.
She turned her head, scanning the estate, and for one crystalline moment her eyes found his across the distance.
The impact was immediate and overwhelming. Philip felt his heart stutter, restart at double speed, then skip beats entirely. Heat raced through his body—not comfortable warmth but something closer to fever. His mouth went dry. His hands trembled.
Her eyes assessed him in an instant, catalogued him, weighted and measured him against some standard he couldn't fathom. And in them, just for a heartbeat, he saw something flicker. Recognition? Longing? The emotion vanished before he could identify it, replaced by that slight smile.
Then something else crossed her features—a flash of something that might have been disappointment, gone so quickly Philip wondered if he'd imagined it. As if she'd been looking for something in his face and hadn't found it.
She held his gaze for another heartbeat, then looked away with deliberate casualness. But Philip caught the slight tension in her shoulders, the way her fingers tightened on the reins.
The System materialized on his shoulder as a tiny cupid, complete with bow and heart-tipped arrows, visible only to him. "Oh my, oh my, OH MY! Philip, that woman just made your cardiac rhythm chart look like a seismograph during an earthquake! Your testosterone levels just spiked so hard I think you grew chest hair! And the way you're looking at her—somewhere between worship and wanting to do things that you failed to do with Natalia the other day."
Philip couldn't even argue. Every cell in his body seemed oriented toward the approaching duchess like iron filings toward a magnet.
"Also," the System continued gleefully, "I'm detecting some serious unresolved sexual tension here. She looked at you like someone viewing a feast while starving, then remembered she's supposed to be on a diet."
The column had reached the main gates now, and Philip watched as the guard captain—a veteran who'd served in three wars—actually took a step back from the sheer presence Lilianna projected. She didn't even look at him, simply sat her destrier with perfect stillness while one of her officers, a severe woman, dismounted to handle the formalities.
"The Duchess of Wetdin," Natalia murmured, her analytical mind clearly working overtime, "commands her forces as an actual military leader, not a ceremonial position. Note the way they maintain formation even at rest, the way they watch her for signals. They follow her not from obligation but from genuine loyalty." Her grip on Philip's arm tightened further. "She's dangerous, Master. Beautiful people usually are."
The gates swung open with a groan of ancient hinges, and the column began moving through with the same impossible precision. As they entered the grounds proper, Lilianna's destrier performed a small unnecessary leap, just a moment of pure equestrian joy that made her hair fly out behind her like a banner of flame. She laughed, the sound carrying across the morning air like silver bells, and Philip felt his knees actually buckle.
"You should probably remember to breathe, Master," Natalia suggested helpfully. "Oxygen deprivation won't improve your conversational abilities."
Philip managed to pull air into his lungs, though it did little to calm the riot in his chest.
"Why," he asked weakly, "do I feel like I know her? Like I've seen her before, but... not like this?"
Lydia's expression had gone very carefully neutral—the face she wore when she knew something but was calculating how much to reveal. "Perhaps because beauty like that leaves an impression, Master Philip. Even glimpsed once, it would be... memorable."
But there was something in her tone, a carefully hidden note that suggested she knew more than she was saying. Philip filed that away for later investigation.
The column had reached the circular drive before the main entrance now, and Lilianna raised one hand. The entire formation stopped instantly, horses and riders becoming still as statues. The sudden silence was deafening.
She remained mounted, surveying the estate with those remarkable eyes, and Philip could have sworn he saw her nostrils flare slightly—not distaste but something else. Like a predator scenting prey. Or perhaps a woman catching the scent of something she'd been hunting for a very long time.
Her gaze swept across the terrace where Philip stood with Natalia and Lydia, and this time when their eyes met, she didn't look away. Instead, she held his gaze with an intensity that made the morning seem to pause, her lips curved in that slight smile that carried an edge of something that made Philip's blood sing and his instincts scream in equal measure.
Then she did something that made every other thought evaporate from Philip's mind.
She dismounted—not simply, but with art. She swung one long leg over her destrier's back with fluidity that seemed to defy physics, landing with a cat's grace. Her uniform settled around her, and she took a moment to adjust her saber with casual precision.
Then she began walking toward the entrance, and Philip discovered that if he'd thought her impressive on horseback, on foot she was mesmerizing.
She moved like a dancer who'd learned her steps on battlefields, each stride perfectly measured. Her flame-red hair swayed with each step, catching the light. The uniform, which had seemed perfectly tailored while she rode, now revealed itself to be almost scandalously form-fitting while maintaining complete propriety—a paradox that made Philip's head spin.
"I should probably mention," Natalia said quietly, her voice carrying an odd note, "that this woman was serving water at Wonder Park two days ago."
Philip's brain, already struggling, completely shut down. "What?"
"The refreshment stand. Near the carousel." Natalia's eidetic memory was absolute in its precision. "Same facial bone structure. Same unusual eye color. Same ratio of features. She wore common clothes and had her hair pinned up, but mathematical certainty confirms identity."
The cognitive dissonance was staggering. This goddess of war and beauty had been serving water to overheated tourists?
"You're certain?" Philip managed.
"Perfect visual recall, Master. It's the same person. Though I note she seems... different now. A complete different aura."
Philip watched Lilianna approach, his mind racing. A duchess working incognito as a servant. But why? And why did she look at him with such intensity, as if she knew him, as if she'd been waiting for something?
Part 2
Meanwhile, four hundred miles away in the Osgorreich Imperium, the cathedral's soaring vaults swallowed light rather than reflected it.
Centuries of stained glass—once brilliant with saints and emperors—had been reduced to geometric patterns of shadow, filtering the afternoon sun into something cold and institutional. The space was enormous, easily capable of holding three thousand worshippers in its prime, but now it held only silence and twenty-seven figures arranged in a careful semicircle.
None of them sat in the pews. Those had been removed long ago, when this place ceased being a house of worship and became something else entirely. Now they stood around a circular arrangement of chairs—high-backed, ornate, positioned with mathematical precision—each one angled so its occupant's face remained perpetually half-shadowed, caught between the weak light filtering through damaged glass and the deeper darkness of the transept.
A man could stand here for an hour and never see a complete face. Only fragments. A jaw here. The curve of a cheekbone there. Eyes that caught the light like predators watching from underbrush.
In the center of the circle, a projection sphere hovered—modern mana-technology rendered obscene by its presence in this ancient space. Its crystalline surface pulsed with barely contained energy, casting shifting blue-white light across faces that instinctively turned away, maintaining their careful anonymity.
"Play it again," commanded a voice from the shadows. Male, older, carrying the weight of authority worn so long it had become natural as breathing. "From the beginning. Every word."
One of the figures—impossible to tell if male or female, young or old—touched a rune on their chair's armrest. The sphere blazed brighter, and the image materialized.
Wonder Park. Two days ago. The footage was remarkable in its clarity—professional grade, not the grainy amateur recording one might expect from a civilian's personal capture device. Multiple angles, in fact, as if someone had positioned cameras throughout the plaza specifically to record this moment.
The scene played out with terrible inevitability. Julian of House Kensingwall, honey-haired and handsome, approaching a beautiful blonde woman. The initial charm. The escalating presumption. And then—
"Stop there," commanded another voice, this one female, sharp as a judge's gavel. "That precise moment."
The image froze. Julian's hand gripping the woman's wrist, his face contorted with aristocratic rage. Behind him, his bodyguards formed a threatening wall. And his voice, captured with crystal clarity:
"You stand there and lecture me about dedication? About contracts and reliability? You—a nobody's whore—dare to choose that pathetic excuse for a man over me?"
Silence in the cathedral, broken only by the faint echo of those words reverberating off stone that had heard confession and absolution for six hundred years.
"Continue," said the first voice.
The scene progressed. Julian's rant about proper places. About dedication. About commoners forgetting their station. His gesture to his bodyguards. The casual wielding of power like a club, meant to crush and humiliate.
The image stopped again, this time frozen on Julian's face—imperious, contemptuous, radiating the absolute certainty that he would face no consequences because people like him never did.
"And now," said the female voice, "show them what happened next."
The sphere shifted, displaying different footage. News broadcasts. Protest signs. Crowds filling streets in seventeen cities, all chanting variations of the same themes:
"DOWN WITH UNEARNED PRIVILEGE"
"NOBLES OUT—PEOPLE IN"
"NO MORE PARASITES"
One of the shadowed figures leaned forward slightly, catching just enough light to reveal an expensive cravat and nothing more. "The coordination is remarkable," he observed. "Seventeen cities simultaneously. That requires organization far beyond what we've seen from previous labor movements or reform agitators."
"The Continental Republic's intelligence apparatus," suggested another voice, younger, with an accent that suggested education abroad. "They've been working to destabilize the Empire for years. This could be their latest operation."
"Perhaps." The first voice—the one with authority—remained unconvinced. "Or perhaps they simply took advantage of an opportunity that our dear young Julian provided on a silver platter."
A bitter laugh from somewhere in the shadows. "He couldn't have done more damage if he'd been actively working for the revolutionaries. Every word out of his mouth confirmed exactly what the Republic's propaganda has been saying about us for the past decade."
"The middle classes are getting ideas," observed an older voice, gravelly with age and cigarettes. "Thirty years ago, that girl would have accepted his offer with gratitude. Fifteen years ago, she might have hesitated but ultimately submitted to reality. Now?" A pause. "Now she refuses to his face and walks away. The entire social contract is unraveling."
"Because fools like Julian keep pulling at the threads," snapped the sharp female voice. "Power exercised blatantly is power dying. He stood there in a public plaza, surrounded by commoners, and reminded everyone exactly why they hate us. He performed a masterclass in how to transform ambivalence into active revolution."
Movement in the shadows—someone shifting in their chair. "What Julian said wasn't wrong, though. The middle classes are forgetting their place. The natural hierarchy is being eroded. Someone needs to remind them—"
"Yes, someone does," interrupted the authoritative voice—the one the others deferred to. "But not like that. Not with public spectacle. Not with theatrical cruelty that gets captured by a dozen recording devices and broadcast to every mirror-screen in the Empire within hours."
He paused, letting the lesson sink in.
"Power maintained in obscurity endures. The more blatantly you wield it, the faster you lose it. This is elementary statecraft, and yet young Julian demonstrated all the subtlety of a drunken peasant with a hammer."
Another figure, this one further back in the shadows, spoke up. "The timing is suspicious, Your Imperial Highness. Those recordings were remarkably well-positioned. Multiple angles, perfect audio clarity despite the noise of the amusement park. And then distributed with remarkable efficiency through channels that reached protest organizers across the continent within hours."
Murmurs of agreement rippled through the assembly.
"Someone leaked it," stated the sharp female voice. "Someone wanted this footage in the public domain. Wanted Julian to become a symbol."
"Obviously." The Prince shifted slightly. Somewhere in the darkness, a cane tapped against stone. "The question is: who? And more importantly, who was already in position to capitalize on it so quickly?"
"The girl?" suggested someone. "The one Julian accosted. She could have arranged the recording, then leaked it to—"
"No." The Prince's voice carried absolute certainty. "She was genuine. You could see it in her confusion, her complete lack of understanding of the social dynamics at play. She wasn't performing for cameras. She simply... was."
A pause, heavy with unspoken implications.
"Besides," the Prince continued, something almost like amusement entering his tone, "I believe I already know who she is."
The cathedral held its breath.
"You're certain, Your Imperial Highness?" asked the older, gravelly voice.
"Reasonably. Though confirmation will take time. She's... well-protected." The Prince tapped his cane again, a meditative rhythm. "But she's not our concern. Finding who leaked the footage—that's critical. Because whoever did so wasn't just embarrassing Julian. They were lighting a very specific fuse, with full knowledge of how the explosion would spread."
"We need to trace the distribution channels," suggested the younger voice with the foreign accent. "Find the original source of the recording, identify who had access to Wonder Park's surveillance systems—"
"Already being done," interrupted the Prince. "I have people investigating. What we need to discuss now is damage control. Specifically..." The cane tapped more sharply. "What to do about Julian."
The temperature in the cathedral seemed to drop.
"The Marquis of Kensingwall should be informed," said someone from the far side of the circle. "His son's actions have created a crisis. He should—"
"No." The Prince's voice cut through with finality. "Lord Julian has become a symbol. The revolutionaries are using his face on their propaganda posters. They're chanting his name in the streets as a curse. He represents everything they're fighting against, and his continued survival—should he recover from his injuries—would only fuel their fire."
Silence. The kind that came when terrible things were being decided with calm pragmatism.
"An accident," continued the Prince, his voice conversational, as if discussing weather. "Tragic. Unexpected. Medical complications from his injuries at Wonder Park—those wounds were quite serious, after all. Such things can be so unpredictable." He paused. "Leave no trails. None at all. Better to martyr him quietly than let them make him a symbol of living oppression."
Heads nodded in the shadows. Consent without voice. Agreement to murder wrapped in euphemism and political necessity.
"There is one other matter," said a new voice—female, older, carrying the particular authority of someone who'd spent decades navigating court politics. Not the sharp female voice from before, but something smoother, more aristocratic. "The Duchess of Wetdin."
The Prince turned slightly, his silhouette shifting. "Ah yes. The young Lilianna. What of her?"
"She's been quite active these past few days," continued the older woman. "Led her cavalry personally in suppressing riots in three districts. Showed remarkable tactical competence. The Imperial Police command is quite impressed—they're already discussing a formal commission, possibly command of an entire regiment."
"A reformist," scoffed someone from the shadows. "Another idealistic youth who thinks she can fix the Empire with goodwill and proper governance."
"Was," the Prince corrected gently. "Past tense. Before she learned how the world actually works." He moved forward slightly, just enough for light to catch the seal on his cane's head. "The Wetdin family was once our greatest asset. Six centuries of guardianship to conservative values, until this last generation got swept up by the global tide of liberalism."
He paused, letting that sink in.
"But young Lilianna has received an education her father never had. She's learned what betrayal tastes like. How it feels when people who owe their fortune to your father's support won't even contribute to your father's funeral. When supposed friends cross streets to avoid the embarrassment of acknowledging you. When the boy who stole your heart with a passionate kiss"—his voice carried dark amusement—"later chooses your best friend instead, and both expect you to celebrate their happiness."
Uncomfortable shifting among the assembly. Several had been at Oliver's funeral—or rather, hadn't been.
"She was nearly homeless," the Prince continued, each word placed with precision. "The mighty Duchy of Wetdin, reduced to a twenty-year-old girl who had to choose between pride and survival. She chose survival. That's the kind of pragmatism we can work with."
"But can we trust her?" asked the sharp female voice from earlier.
"Trust?" The Prince's laugh was dust and shadows. "What matters is alignment of interests. And right now, Lilianna's interests align with ours. She has nothing left but her aristocratic privileges—the very system these riots seek to dismantle. Every reform Arthur proposes threatens her last remaining assets. Every mob in the streets reminds her how quickly privilege can be stripped away. She understands, now, that sentiment is a luxury only the powerful can afford."
He tapped his cane once, and the projection orb flared to life. Images cascaded through the air: Lilianna leading cavalry through burning streets, her face set in grim determination. Lilianna at her father's funeral, standing alone while rain soaked through her only black dress. Lilianna signing documents with hands that shook from hunger, selling ancestral lands for fractions of their value.
"Look at her," the Prince commanded. "Really look. See the idealist dying in those eyes? See it replaced by something harder, hungrier? That's evolution. She's becoming what her bloodline always was before sentiment clouded their judgment."
"Indeed, Your Imperial Highness," said the aristocratic female voice—the new speaker. There was something proprietary in her tone, something that suggested personal investment. "The girl has learned what reality demands. She's at a perfect inflection point. Her old worldview—the idealistic notion that nobility meant responsibility and virtue—has been shattered. She's vulnerable. Available for... proper education about how the world truly functions."
New images: Lilianna's cavalry charging protesters. Bodies falling. Blood on cobblestones. And through it all, Lilianna's face—beautiful, terrible, utterly committed to the ugly necessity of maintaining order through force.
"She's learning that pretty ideals mean nothing when the mob howls for blood," the Prince observed. "That sometimes preservation requires brutality. That power isn't about being loved but about being feared enough to be obeyed."
"You're cultivating her," said someone with dawning understanding.
"Not me," the Prince replied. "Her dear aunt."
The aristocratic female voice spoke again, and this time there was satisfaction in the words. "My niece has always been... promising. Strong. Beautiful. Capable. But she was soft, corrupted by my brother's romantic notions about noble duty. It took considerable effort to strip away those illusions, to show her the world as it truly is rather than as she wished it to be."
Several members shifted uncomfortably. They recognized that voice now. Duke Oliver's sister, who'd married into extraordinary wealth while her brother had squandered the family fortune on quixotic ventures and false friends.
"You've been molding her," the Prince said. It wasn't a question.
"I've been allowing her to see reality," Clara corrected smoothly, her voice carrying the polish of decades among the upper classes. "Every friend who borrowed money and vanished. Every 'family friend' whose mistresses my brother funded, who then wouldn't contribute a penny to his funeral. Every door that closed in her face because poverty is contagious among our class. I simply... ensured she understood the lessons being taught."
She shifted slightly, and for a moment the light caught the edge of a perfectly tailored suit, the glint of jewelry that cost more than most estates.
"Did you know," she continued conversationally, "that Lilianna had to sell her mother's jewelry to bury her father? That she went five days without eating because she was too proud to beg? That she worked as a common servant at an amusement park, hoping no one would recognize the Duchess of Wetdin serving water to tourists?"
The revelation hung in the air. Several members exchanged glances—so that's where the girl had been during her mysterious absence from society.
"I paid her debts eventually," Clara said. "Gave her options. But I made sure she understood the price. Made sure she knew that sentiment is luxury only the powerful can afford. That love, friendship, honor—these are all just currencies, and she'd been spending what she couldn't afford. The world had taught her the lesson; I simply ensured she learned it thoroughly."
"Cruel," murmured someone.
"Necessary," Clara countered. "We Wetdins were once proud guardians of traditional values, stalwart defenders of the natural order. Yet for two generations, we wasted our votes on progressive nonsense, on reforms that weakened the very system that gave us power. My brother believed he could make the world better through kindness and generosity. Instead, he destroyed himself and nearly destroyed our house entirely. His daughter needed to learn that virtue without power is merely self-destruction dressed in prettier clothes."
"You propose extending an invitation to her to our gatherings?" someone asked.
"Not immediately—she's not ready yet," Clara replied. "She still has residual sentiment, still clings to fragments of her father's idealism. But soon. Let her serve in the Imperial Police first. Let her see how the common masses actually behave when given the slightest chance at power—the looting, the violence, the mindless destruction. Let her dirty her hands with the necessary violence of maintaining order, let her see the gratitude of the mob she protects. And then..." Clara's voice took on a satisfied tone. "Then we invite her into our confidence. Show her that there are others who understand what must be done, who aren't afraid to make hard choices. Who recognize that civilization requires hierarchy, and hierarchy requires those willing to defend it."
"She's young," cautioned the gravelly voice. "The young ones tend toward reformist thinking. All that idealism about making things better."
"She's also pragmatic," Clara countered. "She chose survival over pride. That's the first step. And unlike my brother, she's learning these lessons before she has power to waste. By the time she takes her seat in the Upper House, she'll understand exactly what's at stake and what must be done to preserve it. She won't make his mistakes."
The Prince tapped his cane thoughtfully—a slow, measured rhythm that echoed through the cathedral's vast emptiness. "I agree with the invitation proposal," he said finally. "We'll need every vote we can secure for the coming legislative battles. The girl's five votes could prove decisive."
He rose—not fully into the light, but enough that his silhouette became clear. Tall, broad-shouldered, leaning slightly on an ornate cane. His face remained perfectly positioned in shadow, but his bearing spoke of decades wielding power.
"Make no mistake," the Prince continued, his voice carrying to every corner of the ancient space, "these riots are just the beginning. Arthur will use this crisis to push reforms. Popular sentiment will demand action. We'll see bills proposed—further reduction of aristocratic privileges, higher taxes on landed estates, expansion of suffrage, deregulation benefitting the bourgeoisie. The usual revolutionary nonsense dressed up in legislative language."
He tapped the cane more sharply, commanding absolute attention.
"We must be ready. Every vote matters. Every voice in Parliament becomes critical. The Wetdin votes, properly guided, could be the difference between preserving the natural order and watching it collapse into mob rule."
"And if she refuses?" asked someone from the shadows. "If she chooses the reformist path despite her disillusionment? If her father's idealism proves more resilient than we anticipate?"
The Prince's silhouette shifted—something that might have been a shrug.
"Then we'll deal with her accordingly. But I don't believe that will be necessary. Clara has done excellent work breaking the girl's illusions. And reality will continue teaching its lessons—every riot, every attack on nobility, every piece of reform legislation will remind her that the mob doesn't want justice. It wants revenge. And when people realize that compromise means being devoured more slowly, they tend to choose survival over sentiment."
He turned slightly, addressing the assembly as a whole.
"Continue monitoring her progress. Provide opportunities for her to distinguish herself—public recognition for her riot suppression, perhaps a commendation from the Imperial Police. Build her reputation as a defender of order, a pragmatist willing to make hard choices. And when the time is right, when she's seen enough of humanity's ugliness and the mob's ingratitude, Clara will extend the invitation. Won't you, my dear?"
"With pleasure, Your Imperial Highness," Clara replied, her voice carrying satisfaction. "My niece will understand, in time, that this is where she truly belongs. Among those who understand that power isn't about being loved—it's about being willing to do what others won't, to preserve what must be preserved. The Wetdin bloodline didn't endure six centuries by accident. It endured because we understood that civilization requires gardeners willing to prune away the rot, no matter how unpleasant the task."
She paused, and when she spoke again, her voice carried a note of almost maternal pride—twisted, perhaps, but genuine in its way.
"She doesn't know it yet, but I'm saving her. Just as I'm saving our family name. My brother's way led to ruin. My way will lead to restoration. And when history is written, they'll remember that the Wetdins returned to their proper role—not as beloved benefactors, but as necessary guardians of the natural order."
The silence that followed was one of agreement, of shared understanding among those who'd learned that power required willingness to be despised by those you ruled. That civilization was built not on love but on hierarchy, maintained not through consent but through the careful application of force wrapped in propriety's velvet glove.
"Then we are decided," the Prince said, his voice carrying finality. "Young Julian will suffer unfortunate complications from his injuries. The Duchess Wetdin will be cultivated for eventual recruitment. And we will prepare for the legislative battles ahead. This meeting is concluded. Return to your duties, and remember—power in obscurity is power that endures."
The projection sphere dimmed, and the figures began dispersing into the shadows from which they'd emerged, each one careful to leave no record of their presence, no trail connecting them to this place or this gathering.
Clara Blaric remained for a moment longer, staring at the now-dark sphere where her niece's image had been displayed. A slight smile played at her lips—satisfaction mixed with something that might have been genuine affection, however twisted by pragmatism and the ruthless logic of survival.
"Sleep well tonight, dear Lilianna," she murmured to the empty air. "Enjoy your moment of triumph, your recognition as a defender of order. Dream of restoring our family's glory through heroism and virtue. But know that I'm preparing a different path for you—one that will truly restore what was lost. Not through the delusions that destroyed your father, but through the cold clarity that preserves power."
She turned and walked into the shadows, her footsteps echoing off ancient stone, leaving only silence and the faint scent of expensive perfume in her wake.
In the darkness, the cathedral returned to its eternal vigil—keeping secrets, as it had for centuries, of those who met in shadow to decide the fate of millions who would never know their names or understand the chains being forged in their name.