Part 1
The last handshake was the hardest.
Admiral Morrison—Commander of the Imperial Southern Fleet, sixty-three years of distinguished service, decorations enough to sink a dinghy—gripped Arthur's hand with the precise pressure of a man delivering a message without words. His eyes, cold and measuring, held Arthur's gaze for exactly two seconds longer than protocol demanded.
We are in the same boat now, that gaze said. And we both know it.
"First Minister." Morrison's voice carried the gravel of a thousand shouted orders across windswept decks. "The Empire is fortunate to have such decisive leadership in this hour of crisis."
"The Empire's security is my sole concern, Admiral." The words emerged smooth as polished marble. "I trust the military will exercise appropriate restraint."
Morrison's smile didn't reach his eyes. "Of course, First Minister. As always."
Arthur watched the procession of brass file out—ten generals and admirals representing every branch of the Imperial armed forces, boots striking marble in perfect rhythm. Admiral Chan. General Hartick. Marshal Wetdin. One by one, they passed through the doorway, each offering a crisp nod that somehow felt like a reminder.
The heavy oak doors swung closed with a sound like a coffin lid settling into place.
For three heartbeats, Arthur held his position—spine straight, shoulders squared, chin lifted at the angle that projected authority. Then, as if strings had been cut, his left leg buckled.
His hand shot out, catching the edge of his desk with a grip that turned his knuckles white.
"Sir."
Dianna's voice came from the corner where she had stood throughout the meeting—silent, observing, documenting. Now she moved toward him, her tall frame crossing the room with urgent efficiency.
"Don't." Arthur held up a hand, forcing himself upright through sheer will. "I'm fine."
"With respect, sir, you nearly collapsed."
"I nearly collapsed. I didn't actually collapse. There's a difference." He managed a thin smile. "Rather like the difference between a constitutional crisis and a military coup. Subtle, but meaningful."
Dianna didn't smile back. Her red hair, usually pinned with severe precision, had loosened slightly—a sign of the tension she'd been suppressing. Her glasses sat slightly askew, and her eyes—those sharp, analytical eyes that missed nothing—carried something Arthur had rarely seen in them before.
Fear.
"You watched the broadcast," Arthur said, moving toward the window. His reflection stared back—a man in his mid-thirties who looked far older. The handsome features that had graced countless magazine covers seemed drawn, the sharp blue eyes carrying shadows that no amount of theatrical charm could dispel.
"I watched it." Dianna's voice was carefully controlled. "So did several hundred million citizens."
"And what did you think of my performance?"
"I think..." She paused, choosing words with unusual care. "I think you just declared martial law in the homeland for the first time in living memory."
Arthur pressed his palm against the cool glass. "State of Emergency across the empire. Martial law in metropolitan areas. Not in some distant colonial possession where such measures could be implemented with minimal accountability. In Albecaster itself. In cities where citizens haven't seen soldiers patrolling their streets for decades."
"Sir... what have we done?"
"What they left me no choice but to do." He turned to face her. "Tell me, Dianna—what did you observe during that meeting? Before I signed?"
She consulted the notes she'd been taking throughout. "Twenty-eight explosions reported. Not just the War Office, but military installations across the empire—barracks in Yorgoria, naval facilities in the Southern Dominion, ammunition depots stretching from Africa to the Far East. Coordinated. Simultaneous."
"And what was your assessment of the damage?"
"Symbolic provocations, primarily." Dianna's brow furrowed. "Mostly property damage. Casualties in the dozens, not thousands."
"Precisely." Arthur's voice dropped. "The response is grotesquely disproportionate to the provocation. Unless..."
"Unless the provocation was merely pretext."
Arthur felt a flicker of grim satisfaction. She sees it too. "Did you notice the communications General Hartick produced? From Prime Ministers and Viceroys across the empire?"
"All urgently requesting emergency powers." Dianna's eyes narrowed behind her glasses. "The language was remarkably similar."
"Almost as if drafted from a common template. Before the final bomb detonated." Arthur moved to his desk, touching the documents he'd signed thirty minutes ago. The ink was barely dry. "They arrived with those communications already prepared, Dianna. Every colonial administrator singing the same tune, using the same phrases, making the same urgent demands. That level of coordination doesn't happen spontaneously."
"You're saying this was orchestrated."
"I'm saying the military couldn't impose martial law of their own accord—they needed civilian authority to sign. So they exploited, possibly even allowed, a minor crisis, prepared their demands in advance, and presented me with a choice that wasn't really a choice at all." He laughed bitterly. "Morrison actually said it to my face: 'Declare emergency powers. Or risk our country falling into chaos while you dither over constitutional niceties.'"
"That's..." Dianna's professional composure cracked slightly. "Sir, that's essentially a coup."
"A soft coup. The kind where everything remains technically legal, where concerned military leaders respond to genuine attacks by requesting appropriate authority to protect imperial citizens." Arthur's voice took on a mocking edge. "The narrative writes itself. And if I'd refused? After the recent defection of a large number of pro-worker lawmakers, my government essentially depends on military-affiliated lawmakers to remain in office."
He sank into his chair, suddenly exhausted.
"So we've been outmaneuvered," Dianna said quietly.
"Positioned," Arthur corrected. "Outmaneuvered implies a game already lost. This is an opening move. Now we must consider our response."
Dianna moved to her customary position beside his desk, pulling out her notebook. The familiar motion seemed to steady them both—crisis demanding focus, professionalism reassembling.
"What do you need, sir?"
"First, context." Arthur steepled his fingers. "Help me think through the political landscape. Parliament will erupt tomorrow. My own party will fragment—we both know the fault lines have been widening for months."
Dianna nodded slowly. "The Progressive Alliance was always an uneasy coalition."
"Bound more by shared opposition than shared vision." Arthur stood again, pacing—a habit he'd developed when thinking aloud. "On one side, the middle class. Entrepreneurs, industrialists, non-nobility capitalists who've accumulated vast fortunes. What do they want?"
"Progress in every sense," Dianna supplied. "Pro-Familiar—they view summoned labor as an innovation advantage that could restore Avalondian competitiveness. Pro-technology, desperate to close the gap with the Continental Republic. Pro-immigration, understanding that talent flows across borders. Pro-trade, pro-free movement of capital and talent..."
"They look to the Continental Republic as a model," Arthur continued. "Dynamic, efficient, unshackled from feudal vestiges. They dream of social mobility, meritocracy, the gradual recession of aristocratic privileges." He paused at the window. "But while their ideals appeal to the workers, their demands are viewed as existential threats."
"Rising prices," Dianna said. "Immigration and trade eroding wages. And if Familiars are legalized—"
"These summoned beings might take positions that humans could have filled. Another elite priority dressed up as progress while ordinary people absorb the costs." Arthur's voice grew bitter. "Then there are the ever-rising housing costs as global capital floods into Avalondian property markets. University spaces increasingly occupied by wealthy international students whose tuition fees have become essential revenue streams, while domestic students find themselves squeezed out of institutions their taxes built."
"Anti-immigration. Anti-Familiar. Anti-trade. Anti-technology."
"And increasingly: anti-empire." Arthur turned to face her. "The workers view the imperial structure itself as the source of their suffering. Taxes flowing to maintain military forces in distant territories. Resources extracted from the homeland to suppress unrest in colonial possessions. Blood and treasure spent on foreign entanglements that bring no visible benefit to those doing the bleeding."
Dianna set down her pen. "Many of the pro-worker lawmakers have already defected to independent status. There are rumours that they are considering joining the Avalondia First Party."
"Which would pull more lawmakers from our party." Arthur resumed pacing. "Meanwhile, the Imperial Union watches our fragmentation with barely concealed satisfaction. The aristocrats' party has its own divisions, but nothing threatening its fundamental cohesion the way ours is threatened."
"You mean the traditionalists versus the reformists?" Dianna asked.
"The traditionalists cling to privilege with desperation. They remember how monarchies across the continent transitioned from absolute power to constitutional constraints to figurehead status to eventual abolition. The House of Lords lost its veto power on cabinet appointments over a century ago. Now it is reduced by custom to a rubber stamp. But any move to formalize that reality?" Arthur shook his head. "They'll fight to the last. In their view, once aristocratic power becomes officially ceremonial, the next step is abolition."
"And the Duke of Redwood's reformists?"
"They understand the Empire cannot survive in its current form—that a system calcified by birth rather than ability cannot compete with the dynamism of the Continental Republic or the United Eastern States." Arthur's voice softened slightly. "They push for Familiar legalization, treating technological stagnation as an existential threat. They propose a grand bargain: freeze the peerage, convert the House of Lords into a formal advisory body, provide perpetuity payments to existing peers in exchange for surrendering obstructive privileges. Managed decline rather than violent collapse."
Dianna looked up from her notes. "But what about the question of the empire itself..."
"Both factions align with my assessment." Arthur stopped pacing, his expression hardening. "Without imperial possessions, Avalondia becomes a small nation that cannot support a large nobility and a large military. That means both would suffer severely diminished prestige and headcount."
"So imperial preservation is the one goal that unites the aristocracy, the military, and the middle class. Even as they fight bitterly over everything else," Dianna pointed out.
Arthur returned to his chair. "Yes. So I leveraged it to forge an uneasy truce with the Unionists for now. But that doesn't mean they won't crush us at the slightest opportunity."
He fell silent for a moment, his gaze drifting to a small portrait on his desk—an elderly man with sharp eyes and a merchant's calculating expression.
His grandfather would have found this amusing. The old man had never understood his grandson's political ambitions. "Money knows no borders," he used to say. Through generations, the family had accumulated more wealth than most aristocratic houses, hidden among offshore trusts and an intricate web of corporations. "Our only loyalty should be to opportunity. Nations are merely platforms for economic efficiency, not ends in themselves. Let the nobles fight over flags and titles. We count the coins."
Arthur had retained only part of that philosophy. To him, the platform was the key enabler—without it, individual merchants were nothing.
"Without the empire," he said, half to himself, half to Dianna, "Avalondia becomes a middling nation at Europe's edge, dependent on foreign goodwill. Without imperial resources and population, we lose all competitive advantages. Albecaster's status as a financial hub vanishes. The Avalondian dollar derives its worth from convertibility across the empire—without territories to back it, fiat currency becomes paper."
He stood abruptly, moving to the signed documents on his desk.
"And now I've handed the military unprecedented power over that empire. Martial law means disrupted commerce, capital flight. Currency and asset prices will plummet tomorrow. Tourism will collapse. Ripple effects will compound for years." His hand trembled slightly as he touched the papers. "I still cannot determine why they would go to such lengths. What do they truly want?"
Dianna was quiet for a moment, her pen tapping against her notebook in a rhythm that meant she was thinking through something delicate.
"Sir... did you notice who was in that room?"
Arthur frowned. "The senior military leadership. Morrison, Chan, Hartick, Wetdin—"
"All from aristocratic backgrounds," Dianna interrupted gently. "Colonial campaign veterans. Men whose families have held military commissions for generations." She paused. "Not a single one of the young officers who defected to support our coalition."
The observation landed like a stone in still water.
Arthur had built bridges to the military through those younger officers—men and women from immigrant families, modest origins, backgrounds that would have barred them from advancement under the old aristocratic gatekeeping. They had flocked to the Progressive Alliance because it promised what the Imperial Union never would: genuine meritocracy, promotion based on capability rather than bloodline. Many supported Familiar legalization not from commercial interest, but from strategic conviction—they had seen firsthand how technological stagnation was eroding Avalondian military superiority, watched the Continental Republic's forces gain advantages that breeding and tradition could never match. Social mobility, open competition, modernization—these weren't abstract ideals to them. They were survival.
But the men who had just left his office represented the opposite faction entirely. The old guard who viewed the military as aristocratic birthright, who blocked promotions, who sneered at innovation, who saw the Empire as theirs by blood rather than merit.
"You're suggesting..." Arthur's voice trailed off as the implications crystallized.
"The generals who pressured you today aren't aligned with the military-affiliated lawmakers who support your coalition," Dianna said carefully. "They're from competing factions within the armed forces. And martial law—especially if it turns violent, especially if it creates casualties—will be blamed on your government. On the Progressive Alliance. It will turn the workers and common people completely against you."
"Which would shatter my support among pro-worker members entirely," Arthur breathed. "They'd have no choice but to distance themselves—"
"And the military-affiliated lawmakers who defected to support you would find themselves politically toxic by association. Tainted by whatever the old guard does under the authority you granted them." Dianna met his eyes. "Sir, I don't think the generals wanted emergency powers to protect the Empire. I think they wanted to force you to grant those powers so they could use them in ways that destroy your coalition—and discredit the meritocratic faction within the military at the same time."
The realization hit Arthur like cold water.
He had been played. Not outmaneuvered in a negotiation—weaponized. His signature on those documents wasn't just authorization. It was a noose they would tighten around his neck while claiming he had tied it himself.
Arthur looked at Dianna—really looked—and saw his own fear reflected back. But he also saw determination. The same determination that had made her invaluable through a dozen political crises.
"You might very well be right," he said quietly. "Which makes our next moves even more critical."
"Then let's focus on what we can control." Dianna's voice steadied, professionalism reasserting itself. "We prepare our response and mitigate the damage—before they have the chance to inflict it."
"You're right." He pulled a sheaf of blank paper toward him. "Constraints. I need you to draft guidelines for military conduct during martial law enforcement. Explicit prohibitions on arbitrary arrest—any detention must require documented probable cause and be transferable to civilian authority within forty-eight hours. No seizure of property without formal inventory and judicial review. No summary justice, no field tribunals, no—" he searched for the right phrase "—no disappearances. All injuries sustained during military detention must be thoroughly documented."
Dianna was already writing. "The military will resist."
"Which is precisely why we must impose them before their operations commence in earnest. Once soldiers are patrolling streets and making independent decisions, constraining them becomes geometrically more difficult." Arthur's voice sharpened. "Frame it as protection for them—clear guidelines prevent accusations of overreach, shield individual officers from future liability, demonstrate that military discipline remains intact even under emergency conditions."
"And if they refuse to acknowledge these constraints?"
"Then we shall have documented evidence of their intentions, which becomes rather useful in subsequent political battles." Arthur's smile was thin. "I've played enough rounds of this game to know: always create the paper trail. Always establish the record demonstrating you tried to do the right thing. Even if it doesn't change the outcome, it shapes the narrative."
Dianna nodded, still writing. "The timeline?"
Arthur glanced at the clock on his mantle. "Sundown. That's when martial law takes effect. I need these guidelines reviewed, approved, and distributed to all military commands before the first soldier reaches the first checkpoint. And they will be broadcast across every news outlet empire-wide, so all citizens understand that their rights are being protected—and that I harbor no intention of becoming a dictator." He met her eyes. "Can you meet the deadline?"
"It will be done, sir." Dianna gathered her notes and rose, her movements efficient despite the exhaustion shadowing her features. "I'll have a draft on your desk within the hour for review."
"Good. Thank you."
The door closed behind her, and Arthur was alone again.
He leaned back in his chair, some of the tension easing from his shoulders. Having a task, a concrete action, helped. It was the helplessness that corroded—the sensation of being swept along by currents beyond his control. As long as he was doing something, he could maintain the illusion of agency.
But now, in the silence, another thought surfaced—one he'd been avoiding. One he would never voice aloud, not even to Dianna.
If this goes badly...
If the military overstepped. If Parliament turned on him. If he became the scapegoat for whatever horrors the old guard inflicted under the authority he had granted them...
I need a parachute.
He could accept an end to his political career. Disgrace, even. But criminal conviction? Imprisonment? Being made an example by the very Empire he had tried so hard to save?
That, he could not accept.
His mind turned, almost involuntarily, to Celestica.
The Empress possessed the constitutional right to grant pardons—one of the few powers that remained genuinely hers rather than ceremonial. A remnant from an era when monarchs ruled rather than merely reigned. If Arthur could secure her favor, her protection...
But Celestica's moral framework was notoriously rigid. She had inherited Winston's code wholesale, treating his principles as sacred text rather than practical guidance. Military governance of civilian populations might well violate everything she held dear. She would see martial law not as necessity but as betrayal—a violation of the trust between ruler and ruled that Winston had spent his reign carefully cultivating.
But she loves the empire, Arthur reminded himself. In her way, she loves it more purely than any of us.
Not for power. Not for glory. Not even for the citizens who adored her. She loved it as the legacy of the man she had vowed to love for eternity. Every institution, every tradition, every square mile of imperial territory was, to her, a monument to Winston's memory. To let it crumble would be to let his memory crumble.
If I can make her understand that this is necessary for the empire's survival...
Arthur's fingers drummed against his desk. The approach would require delicacy. He couldn't simply petition for a pardon—that would be admitting guilt before any crime had been committed. No, he would need to position himself as a fellow guardian of Winston's legacy. A man who had made terrible choices not from ambition but from duty. A servant of the Empire who deserved protection precisely because he had been willing to sacrifice his reputation for the greater good.
The narrative shapes itself, he thought. Reluctant hero. Tragic necessity. A man who did what had to be done while others dithered.
Whether Celestica would accept that narrative remained to be seen. But it was a thread worth weaving—carefully, gradually, before he needed to pull it.
A knock at the door interrupted his calculations.
"Enter."
Dianna slipped back into the office, her expression troubled. "Sir, I apologize for the interruption, but you should be aware—the office has been flooded with communications since the broadcast."
Arthur sat up straighter. "Already?"
"Media requests—dozens, all seeking clarification on specific provisions and geographical scope. Several MPs have already registered formal inquiries, some supportive, most... less so." She consulted her notes. "And three Lords have sent personal messages."
"Which Lords?"
"Marquess Parrington wishes to express his support and offer whatever assistance his family's resources can provide." Dianna's tone suggested she found this predictable. "Viscount Chelkenham demands an immediate audience to discuss what he terms 'constitutional atrocities.'"
"Also predictable. Chelkenham has been waiting for an excuse to denounce me since the trade bill." Arthur waved a hand. "And the third?"
Dianna hesitated—a pause so slight that anyone else would have missed it. But Arthur had worked with her long enough to recognize the weight behind such silences.
"The Duke of Redwood has requested a discreet conversation at your earliest convenience."
Arthur felt something shift in his chest. Redwood. Already reaching out. The old fox knew the game as well as anyone—understood that moments of crisis created opportunities for those positioned to exploit them.
But it was also an opportunity for Arthur to make the best of the situation. After all, the Duke's grandson's secret created insurance, a foundation upon which trust could grow.
And in times like these, trust was paramount.
"Note down all inquiries," Arthur instructed. "Summarize the key questions and prepare a framework for public clarification. I'll release a supplementary statement within two hours—before speculation has time to crystallize into narrative."
"Yes, sir."
"And Dianna?" He waited until she looked up. "Schedule a private call with Duke Redwood. Secure line. This evening, if possible."
Part 2
The ducal townhouse had transformed into a fortress of quiet efficiency.
Philip sat in a chair beside the massive four-poster bed, watching Natalia's chest rise and fall beneath silk sheets. The maids had been dismissed hours ago—ostensibly to give the patient a restful environment, though Philip suspected his grandmother had other motivations. Margaret had always possessed an uncanny ability to read situations.
Natalia lay propped against pillows, her golden hair spread across the white linens like spun sunlight. The blanket covered her to the collarbone. Lydia had changed her into clean undergarments after cutting away the blood-soaked dress. The wounds on her back had been cleaned and bandaged, but the physician had expressed concern about fragments that might have penetrated deeper than initially apparent.
Dr. Harrington was currently in Margaret's chambers two floors above, conducting a thorough examination to ensure the explosion's shockwave hadn't caused any internal injuries or complications for a woman of her age. The blast's pressure wave could induce mild concussions, damage lungs, or cause internal bleeding—effects that might not manifest immediately but could prove dangerous if left undetected.
Which left Philip alone with Natalia.
And Lydia, who stood by the door with her usual composed efficiency.
"I must retrieve the specialized treatment kit," Lydia announced quietly, adjusting her spectacles. "It contains instruments specifically calibrated for Familiar physiology. The standard medical supplies will not suffice for Miss Natalia's particular... constitution."
Philip nodded. "How long?"
"Twenty minutes. The kit is secured in the estate's vault—the Duke insisted on precautions given its... sensitive nature." Lydia's gaze moved to Natalia. "Miss Natalia, please remain still. And Master Philip—" her eyes carried a weight of meaning "—I shall conduct your examination upon my return as well. Head injuries from shockwave and impact with marble are not always immediately apparent."
The door clicked shut behind her.
Silence settled over the room like a blanket.
"Master."
Philip turned to find Natalia's sapphire eyes fixed on him with that particular intensity he'd come to recognize—the look she wore when something troubled her deeply.
"You should have permitted the doctor to examine you first," she said, her voice carrying a note of gentle reproach. "You struck the marble stairs with significant force. I calculated the impact velocity at approximately—"
"Natalia." Philip reached for her hand, finding it beneath the sheets. Her fingers were warm, her grip surprisingly strong for someone who'd been bleeding an hour ago. "I'm fine. A few bruises. You took shrapnel to protect me."
"Bruises can mask fractures and concussions. The probability of undetected injury increases by—"
"Lydia will check me when she returns," Philip interrupted gently. "I promise. Now please—rest."
Natalia's brow furrowed, but she subsided against the pillows. For a long moment, she simply studied his face with those impossibly blue eyes, as if memorizing every detail.
Then, softly: "I'm sorry."
Philip blinked. "Sorry? For what?"
"For being too rough." A flush crept across her cheeks—a sight that never failed to make Philip's heart skip. "When I perceived the threat, I calculated that the optimal protection strategy required using my body as a shield. However, in my haste, I applied excessive force when tackling you. The impact with the marble..." She bit her lip. "I may have caused more harm than the explosion itself."
Philip couldn't help but laugh—a sound that surprised even him after the day's horrors. "Natalia, you threw yourself between me and a bomb. I hardly think anyone would criticize your technique."
"But the bruising on your back—"
"Is nothing compared to what would have happened without you." He squeezed her hand. "How did you even know? The explosion happened so fast. One moment I was walking down the stairs, the next you were on top of me."
Natalia's expression shifted—something flickering behind her eyes that Philip couldn't quite identify.
"I heard it," she said quietly.
"Heard what?"
"The weapon. Its internal structure." She paused, searching for words. "The man in the brown suit—when he passed you on the stairs, his heartbeat was elevated. Irregular. And when he reached the entrance, his bag shifted. I heard... components. Metal against metal. A particular resonance that suggested explosive compounds contained within a triggering mechanism."
Philip stared at her. "You heard the inside of his bag? From twenty meters away?"
"Seventeen meters," Natalia corrected automatically. "And yes. Ever since Miss Lydia modified my body for the blue mana conversion matrix..." She touched her sternum absently. "My senses have sharpened significantly. I can hear heartbeats from across a room. Detect temperature variations through air currents. Perceive structural vibrations that would be invisible to human senses."
"That's... incredible."
"It fluctuates," Natalia admitted. "When my stored blue mana approaches depletion, my body enters a conservation state. Sensory enhancement is among the first functions to diminish." A shadow crossed her face. "But there are... trade-offs."
Something in her tone made Philip lean closer. "What kind of trade-offs?"
Natalia was quiet for a long moment. When she spoke, her voice was barely above a whisper.
"When I was connected to your green mana... I could feel you, Master. Not merely your physical presence, but..." She struggled with the words. "Your emotions. Your joy, your fear, your... excitements." The last word came out in a rush, her cheeks flaming. "It was as if part of you resided within me. I always knew when you were happy, or sad, or when you were... excited..." She trailed off, suddenly fascinated by the ceiling.
Philip felt heat flooding his own face. "When I was excited by what?"
"By… intimate things," Natalia managed, her voice strangled. "And through our connection, I would feel a corresponding… warmth. I just didn't understand the cause initially."
Oh God.
"So every time I—" Philip couldn't finish the sentence.
"Yes."
"Even when I was trying to be discreet?"
"Especially then." Natalia's lips quirked despite her embarrassment. "Your attempts at concealment were rather endearing, Master. Like watching a cat pretend it hasn't noticed a bird."
Philip buried his face in his hands.
"I found it quite flattering, actually." Her voice softened. "Knowing that you harbored such feelings toward me... It made me feel... wanted."
Something in her tone made Philip look up. The playfulness had faded from her expression, replaced by something far more vulnerable.
"But now," Natalia continued, "ever since the modification... that connection has been severed. I can no longer sense your emotions directly. I can only observe." Her hands twisted in the sheets. "I can see your pupils dilate. Measure your pulse through the veins in your neck. Calculate probability based on behavioral patterns and prior knowledge. But I cannot feel you anymore."
The words hung in the air between them.
"It's like..." Natalia searched for an analogy. "Like we were one and now we are two. Like something whole that was... divided." Her voice dropped to barely a whisper. "I didn't realize how much of myself was intertwined with you until the connection was severed. Now there's a silence where you used to be. And I don't know how to fill it."
Philip's chest ached at the raw honesty in her voice. He'd never heard Natalia speak like this—never seen her so direct, yet so uncertain.
"Natalia..."
"I'm frightened, Master." The admission seemed to cost her something. "For the first time in my existence, I don't know what you're feeling. I can no longer determine with certainty whether you're pleased with me or disappointed. Whether you still desire me. Or whether you speak truthfully or merely to spare my feelings. And without that connection, you might trust me less... since you can never be certain of my intentions as you once were."
"Stop." Philip gripped both her hands now, forcing her to meet his eyes. "Listen to me. I don't love you because of some magical connection. I love you because of who you are."
The System chose that moment to materialize.
She appeared in Philip's peripheral vision, lounging on an invisible chaise in her voluptuous bunny girl incarnation, complete with fishnet stockings and ears that twitched with barely contained amusement.
"A fascinating declaration," she purred into his mind. "Though I feel compelled to point out a minor logical inconsistency."
Not now, Philip thought desperately.
"If you loved her for 'who she is,' your feelings would remain constant regardless of her actions. They wouldn't grow stronger because she saved your life or weaker if she betrayed you. The very fact that your love has deepened suggests you love her for what she does—her choices, her sacrifices, her protection." The System took a contemplative bite of her carrot. "Not that there's anything wrong with that. But precision in language matters, wouldn't you agree?"
Philip's eye twitched.
Natalia was watching his face with that analytical intensity. "Master? Your expression suggests you're experiencing cognitive dissonance."
"It's nothing," Philip managed through gritted teeth. "Just... internal commentary."
"She's quite perceptive," the System observed approvingly. "Even without the emotional link. Must be all those enhanced senses."
Natalia's expression had shifted—still vulnerable, but now with an edge of resigned acceptance that made Philip's heart clench.
"It's quite alright, Master," she said softly. "If your feelings have changed, I understand. Your happiness is what matters most. I can... cope with the rest on my own."
"Oh?" The System's ears perked up with exaggerated interest. "Cope how, exactly? I'm suddenly most curious about Familiar self-soothing techniques."
A giant carrot materialized in the System's hand with a theatrical flourish, twirling between her fingers like a baton.
"That's not funny," Philip growled aloud before he could stop himself.
"What?" The System's expression shifted to wounded innocence. "I merely wanted a snack while I sit back and enjoy this comical fairytale unfold." She took a deliberate, crunching bite of the carrot. "Purely for academic observation, of course."
Natalia blinked. "I didn't say anything humorous?"
"Not you—" Philip caught himself, heat flooding his face. "Never mind. Look, Natalia—I need you to understand something."
He shifted from the chair to sit on the edge of the bed, still holding her hands. This close, he could see the faint pulse in her throat, the way her breath quickened at his proximity.
"My feelings haven't diminished. If anything, they've grown stronger. When that bomb went off, when I felt you covering me, when I saw the blood—" His voice cracked slightly. "All I could think was that I couldn't lose you. That I would do anything—anything—to keep you safe."
Natalia's eyes widened. "Truly?"
"I find you beautiful," Philip continued, the words coming easier now. "Irresistibly so. Not despite what you are, but because of it. Every part of you—your strength, your conviction, your terrifying competence, the way you calculate probability while blushing about intimacy—"
"And the physical allure..." the System added, gesturing expansively at her own figure to make a point.
"So..." Natalia's voice had gone slightly breathless. "Does this mean I've earned my opportunity for a night of physical union with you?"
Philip choked.
"Oh, she's delightfully direct," the System commented appreciatively. "I like her."
"I—" Philip's face burned furiously.
The door opened.
"I've returned with the kit," Lydia announced, carrying what appeared to be an ornate wooden chest decorated with silver filigree and crystal inlays. She paused, taking in the scene—Philip sitting on Natalia's bed, holding both her hands, his face the color of a ripe tomato while Natalia gazed at him with pure adoration.
"I see the patient is feeling better," Lydia observed dryly. "Shall I return later?"
"No!" Philip released Natalia's hands as if they'd burned him. "No, please. Treatment. Yes. Most important."
Lydia's lips twitched, but she moved to the bedside with professional efficiency. From the wooden chest, she withdrew a device that made Philip's engineering instincts sit up and take notice.
It resembled nothing so much as an elaborate charging station—a crystalline box perhaps a foot square, covered in intricate runic engravings that seemed to shift and shimmer in the lamplight. From its top extended a slender needle-like probe, its tip glowing with a faint blue luminescence.
"If you would sit up, Miss Natalia," Lydia instructed. "I shall need to access your mana core directly."
Natalia complied, pushing herself upright. The blanket fell away, and Philip—despite his best intentions—found his gaze drawn to the expanse of bare skin, the simple white undergarments, the elegant curve of her spine marred by hastily applied bandages already spotted with blood.
Then he saw her back fully, and all inappropriate thoughts fled.
The wounds were worse than he'd realized. Dozens of small punctures where debris had penetrated, several larger gashes that had required stitching. The sight made his stomach turn—not from squeamishness, but from the visceral reminder of how close he'd come to losing her.
"This may feel unusual," Lydia warned, positioning the needle-probe against Natalia's navel. "The mana transfer is quite rapid. And Master Philip, please stand back."
She pressed a crystalline switch on the device.
The air changed.
Philip felt it immediately—a charge that spread across the room and made the hair on his arms stand up. Blue-white light blazed from the device, flowing through the needle and into Natalia's body. She gasped, her back arching slightly, her eyes going wide.
And then Philip watched something impossible.
The wounds on her back began to close.
Not slowly, the way human flesh knitted over days and weeks. Actively. He could see the tissue regenerating, the punctures sealing, the gashes drawing together as if pulled by invisible sutures. The bloodstains on her bandages dried and flaked away as the injuries beneath them simply... ceased to exist. A few tiny pieces of metal were pushed from her now-healed back.
They're an entirely different class of being, Philip thought, a chill running down his spine despite the room's warmth. Capable of things humans can only dream of. No wonder people fear them so much.
"Familiars are fundamentally magical," Lydia explained, her voice carrying the cadence of a lecturer. "When sufficient mana is provided, their bodies repair themselves automatically—it's an intrinsic function of their creation. In the old days, summoners would channel their own green mana to heal their Familiars during combat, allowing them to continue fighting by continuously healing injuries that would incapacitate any human soldier."
The light faded. Lydia withdrew the probe.
Natalia turned, running her hands over her now-unblemished back with wonder. "The wounds... they've vanished entirely?"
"Mana reconstruction is quite thorough." Lydia began packing away the device. "You may experience some residual sensitivity, but the tissue damage has been completely reversed."
Natalia's face split into a radiant smile—and then she was moving, launching herself from the bed with the same explosive speed she'd shown on those stairs.
Before Philip could react, she had wrapped herself around him.
Her arms circled his neck. Her legs—bare, impossibly smooth—pressed against his sides. Her bosom—covered only by thin white fabric—pressed against his chest. And her face, glowing with joy and relief, hovered inches from his.
"Master! I'm healed! My scars shall no longer offend your sight!"
Philip's brain, confronted with the full sensory experience of Natalia pressed against every possible inch of his body, simply... went on autopilot.
"That's—that's wonderful," he managed, his voice emerging approximately two octaves higher than normal.
Then Natalia's expression shifted to concern. She pulled back slightly—though not nearly far enough for Philip's blood pressure.
"Wait. You haven't been examined yet." Her brow furrowed. "What if you have internal injuries? What if the impact with the marble caused damage we haven't detected?"
"I'm certain it's fine—"
"Miss Lydia." Natalia's voice carried sudden urgency. "Please examine Master Philip immediately."
Lydia, who had been watching the scene with poorly concealed amusement, inclined her head. "Of course, Miss Natalia. Master Philip, if you would?"
The examination was mercifully brief but thorough. Lydia checked his pupils, his reflexes, pressed gentle fingers along his skull and spine. When she finished, her expression had grown serious.
"Mild concussion," she announced. "You'll require rest—absolute rest—for at least forty-eight hours. No strenuous activity, no bright lights, limited reading."
"I can ensure he remains in bed," Natalia announced brightly, patting the mattress beside her. "I shall protect him and make certain he doesn't exert himself unnecessarily."
Philip's face reignited.
Lydia cleared her throat. "That's... most dedicated of you, Miss Natalia." She straightened, her demeanor shifting to something more grave. "However, we may need to relocate to a different location before Master Philip begins his recovery."
"What do you mean?" Philip asked.
"Because of General Dugu."
The name fell into the room like a stone into still water. Philip felt his shoulders tense.
"You saw her in the broadcast," Lydia continued. "Standing at the First Minister's shoulder. With martial law now in effect, she shall have expanded authority—authority she may choose to exercise in... personal ways."
Panic and surprise appeared on Philip's face in equal measure.
Lydia's gaze met his steadily. "Given your past history with her, sir—" she paused, clearly assuming Philip remembered details he very much did not "—I have concerns about what she might do during this period. The Duke shares my worry. He's suggested that you and Miss Natalia relocate to the countryside estate for the duration of the emergency."
"What about my grandparents?"
"The Duchess is a Wetdin by birth. Her family connections within the military are extensive, and her friendship with the Empress is well known. Any attempts at detention could easily be countered by an overriding order from Marshal Wetdin. Moreover, the Duchess has nothing to hide." Lydia's voice dropped. "But with you, sir... it could become ugly."
Philip's stomach clenched. "What do you mean?"
"You and Miss Natalia were present at the scene of a terrorist attack. Under martial law, that provides sufficient pretext for temporary detention and questioning. As a nobleman, she likely cannot hold you long—the Duke's influence would see to that. But during that window..." Lydia's gaze flickered to Natalia. "If she chose to interrogate Miss Natalia separately, for whatever reason... her methods might inadvertently reveal Miss Natalia's true nature."
The words hung in the air.
Natalia had gone very still beside Philip. Philip reached for her hand, gripping it tightly.
"We'll leave at noon," he said. "Whatever it takes to—"
A knock at the door interrupted him. One of the household staff—a young footman whose name Philip couldn't recall—entered with a bow.
"Apologies for the interruption, Miss Lydia, Master Philip, Miss Natalia." The footman's face was pale. "But there's been a communication from General Dugu's office. She wishes to schedule an appointment."
Philip's heart stopped. "An appointment? With me?"
The footman swallowed visibly.
"With Miss Natalia. At her earliest convenience."