Philip woke to an assault of brightness that drove needles into his skull.
His hand reached automatically across the mattress, searching for the warmth that had become as essential as breathing over the past few weeks. Instead, his fingers found only cool sheets, the indentation where Natalia had lain already fading.
For a moment, disorientation gripped him—worse than the previous days. The concussion still throbbed dully behind his eyes, a persistent ache that flared into sharper pain as sunlight streamed through the gauze curtains. The bedroom seemed to tilt slightly as he pushed himself upright against the headboard, and he had to close his eyes, waiting for the world to stop spinning.
Where was—
A soft knock at the door.
"Enter," Philip called, his voice rough with sleep.
The door swung open, admitting more light from the corridor. Philip winced, squinting against it, and his breath caught in his throat.
Natalia stood in the doorway, holding a silver breakfast tray with the careful precision of someone who had rehearsed the motion dozens of times. But it wasn't the tray that made Philip's heart stutter—it was what she was wearing.
A maid's uniform.
But not the severe black dresses with starched white aprons he'd seen on the household staff. This was... something else entirely. The dress was black, yes, but cut in a style that showcased her perfect figure. The bodice fitted close enough to accentuate the generous curve of her bosom, the waist cinched to highlight the dramatic flare of her hips. The skirt fell shorter than any proper servant's uniform should, ending well above the knee to reveal an expanse of shapely leg clad in white stockings. A tiny white apron—more decorative than functional—was tied at her waist, and a matching white headpiece sat nestled in her golden hair like a crown.
Philip felt a sense of déjà vu but he couldn't recall when he might have seen similar attire. The thought slipped away before he could grasp it—his mind felt like it was wading through honey.
"Good morning, Master," Natalia began, her voice carrying that particular blend of earnest formality and genuine warmth that made his chest ache. "I have brought you break—"
She stopped mid-sentence. Her sapphire eyes narrowed, cataloguing something in his expression with that unsettling precision she possessed.
"You are experiencing photophobia," she stated, setting the tray down on the bedside table with swift efficiency. "The light is causing you pain. I should have anticipated this."
Before Philip could respond, she was already moving. She crossed to the windows with that supernatural grace, reaching past the thin gauze inner curtains to grasp the heavy velvet drapes—the blackout layer meant for complete darkness. With one smooth motion, she drew them closed.
The room plunged into merciful shadow.
Philip let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding. The relief was immediate, the sharp edge of his headache retreating to a more manageable throb.
"Better?" Natalia asked softly, already moving to the mana lamp on the dresser. She adjusted its crystal core, and a warm, amber glow filled the room—gentle and diffused, nothing like the aggressive brightness of morning sun.
"Much," Philip managed. "Thank you."
She returned to the bedside, studying his face with concern. "Your pupils were constricted unevenly, and you exhibited involuntary squinting upon my entry. The physician mentioned photosensitivity might persist for several more days." Her hand reached out, cool fingers brushing against his forehead with feather-light tenderness. "How severe is the headache currently? On a scale of one to ten?"
"Four," Philip said. Then, at her skeptical look: "Fine. Six."
She made a soft sound of displeasure. "You should not downplay your symptoms, Master. Accurate reporting is essential for proper care."
Her fingers moved from his forehead to his temple, applying the gentlest pressure in small, circular motions. Philip's eyes fluttered closed at the sensation.
"The physician's notes indicated that temple massage may provide temporary relief," Natalia murmured. "Is this acceptable?"
"More than acceptable," Philip breathed.
She continued the ministrations for a long moment, her touch impossibly gentle, before finally withdrawing. "I have brought you breakfast. Miss Lydia had entrusted your morning service into my care."
She retrieved the tray and set it across his lap with practiced grace, adjusting its position to account for his slightly slumped posture against the headboard.
The spread before him was magnificent. Deviled kidneys glistening with butter sauce, kedgeree fragrant with curry and dotted with flakes of smoked haddock, soft-coddled eggs in delicate porcelain cups, rashers of thick-cut bacon arranged in precise rows beside sausages, toast points with pots of marmalade and clotted cream, and a silver teapot that steamed gently alongside a cup of porcelain so fine he could see the shadow of his fingers through it.
Philip stared at the abundance, his stomach clenching with uncertainty. The physician had recommended smaller meals, he remembered dimly. But the effort to voice this concern felt overwhelming.
"I have also prepared a lighter alternative," Natalia said, as if reading his hesitation. She produced a smaller plate from beneath the main tray—simple toast with butter and a soft-coddled egg. "The physician's dietary recommendations suggested modest portions during recovery. However, Miss Lydia's manual indicated that a grand presentation was essential for the... emotional impact." A faint blush colored her cheeks. "I thought perhaps you could sample what appeals to you and leave the rest."
Something hot and unexpected pricked at the corners of Philip's eyes.
When was the last time someone had done this for him?
The memory surfaced unbidden—his old life, before this world of magic and empire. Being sick in his apartment, fever burning through him, body aching with the particular misery that came from a flu that had laid him low for days. He remembered Tara telling him: "Ordered you some soup from that Thai place. It's on the table. Eat when you can. Sorry—Mitchell needs this report by midnight or my head's on the chopping block."
The soup had gone cold by the time he'd mustered the strength to retrieve it. He'd eaten it anyway, alone on the couch, watching the ceiling fan spin lazy circles while Tara's keyboard clattered relentlessly from the den.
He'd assumed that was simply how things were. Work took precedence over all else.
Yet there had always been a longing buried deep within him—one he'd never quite acknowledged, not even to himself. A hunger that had taken root after his parents passed. It was a desperate craving for, almost childish in its intensity, someone to show him gestures of care. Tenderly. Unconditionally.
He'd caught himself watching his friends with something uncomfortably close to envy. Jake, whose wife Emily had taken three days off work when he'd caught the flu—three days—bringing homemade chicken soup and queuing up his favorite films. David, whose girlfriend had slept in a hospital chair for two nights straight when his appendix tried to murder him. Philip had looked at them, then looked at Tara hunched over her laptop at 11 PM, dark circles carved beneath her eyes as she chased a promotion that always seemed one quarter away, and he'd felt...
Neglected.
The word had never crossed his conscious mind. But it had taken root in his heart like a splinter too deep to extract.
The System materialized at the foot of the bed, dressed in a surprisingly modest white doctor's coat that somehow still managed to be distractingly form-fitting—the buttons straining just enough to accentuate her curvaceous figure. She held a crystal tablet and regarded him with an expression that was, for once, more contemplative than teasing.
"Ah," she said softly, settling onto the edge of the bed with the deliberate grace of a therapist preparing to deliver uncomfortable truths. "The fever memory. I was wondering when that particular ghost would rattle its chains."
Go away.
"No, I think this one's important." She crossed her legs with theatrical elegance, the coat riding up just enough to emphasize the length of her legs. "You know what the real tragedy of that memory is? It's not that Tara didn't care. It's that you were both drowning in the same ocean, and neither of you could see the other gasping for air."
Philip felt his jaw tighten. The thought came slowly, sluggishly, his concussion-addled brain struggling to form the rebuttal. She could have taken one day off. Just one.
"Could she, though?" The System tilted her head, and for a moment, her ancient eyes held something almost like compassion. "Let's examine the evidence, shall we? Mitchell—her director. The one who'd perfected the art of dangling promotions like carrots before exhausted donkeys. The promotion that would finally—finally—let you two afford a mortgage on a place of your own."
A pause.
"She ordered you soup, Philip. From a restaurant twenty minutes away. Which means she spent her dinner break—the only thirty minutes of peace in her sixteen-hour day—hunting through delivery apps to find something that you liked."
Philip said nothing. His throat felt tight, and his thoughts moved like they were pushing through fog.
"Here's the thing about comparison," the System continued, and her voice shifted into that particular register it acquired when genuine wisdom lurked beneath the theatrical flourishes. "It's poison. Pure, slow-acting, relationship-destroying poison."
She leaned forward, her gaze pinning him in place.
"The moment you looked at Jake and Emily—at their homemade soup and their three-day vigils—and thought 'why can't Tara be like that?'... that was the beginning of the end. Not because you were wrong to want care and tenderness. Every soul craves that. But you were measuring your relationship against the highlight reel of someone else's—and darling, that's a game no one wins."
What do you mean?
The question formed slowly in his mind, the words assembling themselves with effort.
"When you compare your partner to others, you're not comparing against reality." She conjured a crystalline hourglass from thin air, watching sand trickle through with theatrical contemplation. "You're comparing against a curated illusion. People don't regale their friends with tales of ordinary Tuesday evenings—they share the moments that sparkle. The grand gestures. The spectacular failures. You collected these glittering fragments and assembled them into a mosaic of what love should look like."
The hourglass dissolved into motes of light.
"But mosaics made from other people's pieces will never form a coherent picture, Philip. You built an impossible standard from nonrepresentative samples—and then wondered why Tara couldn't fill a frame that was never designed to fit her shape."
She spread her hands, palms up, like a merchant reluctantly revealing the hidden costs buried in fine print.
"Mind you, Emily never had to concern herself with promotions and overtime—she worked for her mother's firm, wrapped in the cotton wool of familial security. Comparing Tara to her is rather like faulting a woman running a marathon for not keeping pace with someone strolling through a garden." Her eyes glinted with something almost like empathy. "Different races entirely, darling. Different rules. Different finish lines."
The words landed like stones dropped into still water, their ripples spreading outward into places Philip had carefully avoided examining. He tried to hold onto the logic, to follow the thread of argument, but his thoughts kept fragmenting, scattering like startled birds. The cognitive effort of processing her words was exhausting him more rapidly than he'd expected.
"And here's the cruelest irony," she continued, her voice softening. "Tara was doing the same thing to you. Measuring you against some phantom ideal—perhaps a friend's husband who'd made partner by thirty, or a cousin's boyfriend who always remembered anniversaries with perfectly chosen gifts." The System's expression grew contemplative. "You both stood there, holding each other up to mirrors that reflected someone else's life, wondering why your partner kept failing to match an image that was never theirs to begin with."
Philip felt something twist in his chest. Because she was right. His relationship with Tara had fallen apart not through malice or betrayal, but through the quiet violence of impossible expectations—two people drowning side by side, each convinced the other wasn't trying hard enough to swim.
She smiled, and there was genuine sadness in it—the kind of sorrow that comes from watching the same tragedy unfold across countless lifetimes.
"The difference between then and now," the System said quietly, "isn't that Natalia is better than Tara. It isn't that you've finally found someone worthy of you, or that you've become someone worthy of being loved." She shook her head slowly. "The circumstances are simply different. You have more resources now, more room to breathe—though admittedly, also more adversity awaiting you than Tara could have imagined in her darkest nightmares."
She rose from the bed's edge, her form beginning to shimmer at the edges like morning mist touched by sun.
"So forgive Tara, Philip. Forgive yourself. And for heaven's sake—" a hint of her usual theatrical exasperation crept back into her voice, "—stop framing the present through the lens of the past. That girl over there isn't a correction of old mistakes or a reward for suffering. She's simply here, and she's simply yours, and that's more than enough reason to embrace the now."
She gestured at Natalia, who was watching Philip with concerned confusion at his prolonged silence, her head tilted at that characteristic angle that indicated deep processing.
The System caught Philip's gaze one last time, and for just a moment, the ancient weight behind her eyes was visible.
Then she vanished in a shimmer of light.
A tear escaped before Philip could stop it, trailing down his cheek.
"Master?" Natalia's voice sharpened with alarm. She was at his side in an instant, moving with that supernatural grace that still caught him off guard. Her hand found his face, thumb brushing away the moisture with desperate gentleness. "Are you experiencing increased pain? Is the concussion worsening? Did I do something wrong? Should I summon the physician immediately?"
"No," Philip managed, his voice cracking slightly. His words came out slower than he intended, each syllable requiring conscious effort. "No, Natalia. You haven't made any errors. You've done... you've done wonderfully."
Her brow furrowed, head tilting further. Her free hand moved to rest against his forehead, checking his temperature. "Your skin is warm but within normal parameters. Pupil response appears adequate in this lighting." She studied him with fierce concentration. "Then why are you crying? If the breakfast presentation is inadequate—"
"I'm moved," Philip interrupted softly. He caught her hand against his cheek, holding it there, feeling the warmth of her palm against his skin. The simple action seemed to drain what little energy he had. "Do you understand? I'm moved. This is..."
He trailed off, unsure how to articulate the tangle of emotions in his chest without exposing his past. The words he wanted were there, somewhere, but his injured brain couldn't quite grasp them.
Natalia studied him with the intense focus she brought to every puzzle. Her eyes searched his face, cataloging micro-expressions. Her expression shifted through several configurations—confusion, analysis, and then something softer. Something that might have been the beginning of understanding.
"You are experiencing a positive emotional response," she said slowly, working through the logic, "to being... cared for."
"Yes."
"This is... unexpected to you." It wasn't quite a question. Her head tilted the other direction, processing this new data. "Fascinating. I had assumed, given your documented history of romantic entanglements, that you would be thoroughly accustomed to receiving tender attention."
Philip let out a breath that was half-laugh, half-choke. The sound seemed to take more effort than it should have. He shook his head slowly—carefully, mindful of the way quick movements made the room spin. "It's been a very long time..."
Natalia's eyes widened slightly—a genuine reaction, unguarded and raw. "Truly? But you are..." She paused, searching for words. "You are you, Master. Kind and brave and worthy of protection. I had calculated that someone of your qualities would naturally attract significant nurturing attention from others."
"Life doesn't always work out the way calculations suggest."
"No," she murmured, something shifting in her expression. "I am... learning this."
She was quiet for a moment, her thumb still resting against his cheek. When she spoke again, her voice had dropped to something softer, more intimate.
"I am pleased that I could provide you with the desired care." A small smile curved her lips—genuine and warm. "Your happiness is my greatest purpose, Master."
She noticed his eyelids drooping slightly, the telltale signs of cognitive fatigue that the physician had warned her about.
"You should rest," she said, her voice gentle but firm. "The physician indicated that emotional processing is particularly taxing during concussion recovery. Perhaps you could close your eyes for a moment while I take the tray out."
"No." Philip reached for her hand, his grip weaker than he would have liked. "Stay. Please. Just... let me look at you for a moment."
Something flickered in Natalia's expression, a warmth that seemed to suffuse her entire being.
"My pleasure, Master."
Philip couldn't help it. Despite the fatigue, despite the tears still drying on his cheeks, he laughed—a genuine, warm sound that seemed to surprise them both, though it trailed off more quickly than usual, the effort exhausting him.
"Natalia," he managed, "you are absolutely precious."
A blush emerged on her face.
He reached up and held her hands, their fingers intertwining. The simple contact felt grounding, anchoring him when his thoughts wanted to drift.
"Thank you," he said, and the laughter faded into something more serious, more sincere. "Truly. You have no idea how much you mean to me."
She leaned closer, and Philip became acutely aware of how near she was—the warmth of her body, the faint scent of lavender from her bath, the way her golden hair caught the amber glow of the mana lamp like spun silk. Her eyes, those impossible sapphire depths, held his with an intensity that made his breath catch.
"I enjoy caring for you, Master," she said quietly. She paused, searching for the right words. "Because seeing you happy, it just makes me feel complete."
Philip felt his heart clench.
"And when you are in pain," she continued, her voice soft with wonder at her own emotions, "or sad, or frightened… something in me aches." Her voice dropped to barely above a whisper. "You have given me so much, Master. The least I can do is to take care of you. And—" she gestured at her outfit with a small, self-conscious smile "—and provide some visual appeal."
Philip laughed again, but this time there was a thickness in his throat, and the laugh dissolved into a yawn he couldn't suppress.
Natalia's expression shifted immediately to tender concern. "You are fatiguing. The physician was quite specific—concussion recovery requires frequent rest periods." Her thumb traced a gentle pattern across his knuckles. "Perhaps you should sleep."
"Come here first," Philip said softly, tugging gently on her hands.
Natalia complied, allowing herself to be drawn closer until she was sitting on the edge of the bed beside him, their shoulders nearly touching. Philip released one of her hands to wrap his arm around her waist, pulling her against his side.
"This is just as Lydia's manual predicted," Natalia observed as she settled more comfortably against him, her head finding the hollow of his shoulder as though it had been designed to rest there. She carefully adjusted her position to avoid jostling the breakfast tray. "Miss Lydia's manual gave a detailed example of how simply serving breakfast in appealing outfit led to a rather intimate encounter with Master Gabriel—"
Philip coughed from the surprise revelation.
"Forget... the manual," Philip murmured into her hair, his voice growing drowsier. "Just... enjoy this moment. Please."
Natalia was quiet for a moment. Then, very softly: "Will do, Master."
They sat like that as the mana lamp cast its gentle amber glow, Philip's breakfast largely forgotten on the tray—though Natalia had quietly pressed a piece of buttered toast into his hand, which he nibbled at absently. Neither of them was inclined to break the spell of the moment. For the first time in longer than he could remember—longer than this life, longer than his last—Philip felt something he'd almost forgotten existed.
A sense of security.
The comfortable silence stretched on until Natalia spoke again, her voice carrying a note of genuine curiosity:
"Master... may I ask you something?"
Philip's response came slower than usual, his words slightly slurred with fatigue. "Anything."
"This feeling. This warmth that I experience when caring for you, this ache when you are distressed, this... contentment when you hold me." She tilted her head to look up at him, those sapphire eyes bright with wonder. "Is this love?"
Philip's heart stopped. Then restarted at approximately twice its normal rate.
"I... yes," he managed, the words feeling thick on his tongue. "I think it might be."
"Fascinating." Natalia considered this with her characteristic analytical intensity, though her expression was gentler now, softer. "Then I believe I love you, Master. Though I confess I had expected the sensation to be somewhat different based on my research. The romance novels suggested significantly more drama and intimate interactions."
Philip choked on a laugh. "Life isn't usually like romance novels."
Natalia hummed thoughtfully, her fingers tracing idle patterns on his chest. "You should sleep now, Master. Your cognitive responses are slowing—your sentence latency has increased by approximately forty percent over the past ten minutes."
"In a moment." Philip's eyes were indeed growing heavy, the warmth of her against his side lulling him toward unconsciousness. But something nagged at him—a question he should have asked much earlier.
"Speaking of which—" he gestured weakly at her outfit while trying very hard to keep his eyes on her face, a battle he was losing by degrees, "where is Lydia?"
Natalia replied, her voice soft to avoid straining his processing capacity. "Miss Lydia is currently occupied with urgent household matters. One of the senior staff members had a family emergency. She departed immediately after submitting her notice."
"Which staff member?"
"I do not know her name. But Miss Lydia was asked to temporarily assume her role for the time being. The woman had served the household faithfully for many years, and her departure had created considerable strain upon the existing staff."
Philip wanted to ask more out of curiosity, but his brain was protesting the effort, thoughts scattering before he could organize them into coherent questions.
"In any case," Natalia continued, "Miss Lydia delegated the responsibility of your care to me. She said it would be a good opportunity to... practice skills that might be needed in the future."
"Skills?"
"Miss Lydia provided me with her personal notebook on all the skills needed to be a good romantic partner to an aristocrat. But some skills overlap with the skillset for a maid." Natalia's eyes grew slightly distant, accessing memory. "It was quite comprehensive. Chapter Three focused entirely on 'Enchanting Through Presentation'—the proper selection of attire to complement one's natural features while maintaining plausible propriety."
Philip wanted to say something but the thought was gone before he could word it. His eyes had drifted closed of their own accord.
The System rematerialized, now wearing a maid outfit that made Natalia's uniform look practically conservative by comparison—the skirt barely covered anything relevant, the bodice was more suggestion than fabric, and she wielded a feather duster with provocative charm.
"Lydia is a professional," she purred, twirling the duster appreciatively. "Decades of study compiled into a comprehensive manual for securing and maintaining a gentleman's affections. Truly, her dedication to the craft is inspiring."
Please stop, Philip thought weakly. Tired.
"What? I'm simply admiring the thoroughness of her research." The System adopted an expression of wounded innocence. "Feed him well, dress attractively, anticipate his needs, create positive associations—it's classic conditioning. Pavlov should be taking notes."
Please, I just want to sleep.
The System's expression softened unexpectedly. "Alright, alright. You genuinely need the rest—your neural activity is quite depleted." She gave an okay hand sign while winking at Philip. "Sleep well, dear Host. Let that magnificent woman care for you." Then, she disappeared.
Philip drifted for a while, not quite sleeping but not fully awake, Natalia's warmth a constant comfort at his side. She had begun humming something—a soft, wordless melody that seemed to resonate at exactly the frequency to soothe his aching head.
Eventually, after what might have been minutes or an hour, Philip stirred enough to pick at his breakfast. Natalia helped him sit more upright, adjusting pillows behind his back, fetching a fresh cup of tea when the first had gone cold. She anticipated his needs before he could voice them—passing him a napkin just as he needed one, refilling his water glass when it emptied, dimming the mana lamp further when he winced at even its gentle glow.
"You are very attentive," Philip murmured, finally setting down his teacup.
"I have been researching optimal recovery protocols for cranial trauma," Natalia replied, a hint of pride in her voice. "And I have been... practicing. Paying attention to your patterns. Learning what brings you comfort."
The admission made Philip's chest ache with tenderness.
Natalia's expression shifted. A subtle tightening around her eyes.
"Master," she said quietly, "there is something I should tell you. Albert brought news regarding your development project."
Philip felt his stomach clench, though the reaction was muted through his fatigue.
"Perhaps this can wait until you are more recovered—"
"Tell me," Philip said. "Better to know."
Natalia hesitated, then nodded. "The market conditions have deteriorated significantly. The martial law, the political uncertainty—it has frightened potential investors. The best institutional offer has dropped to one point three million Continental dollars."
The number hit Philip like a physical impact.
The room tilted. Philip gripped the edge of the bed to steady himself, his head suddenly pounding.
"Master!" Natalia's hands found his shoulders, easing him back against the pillows with infinite gentleness. "I am so sorry, I have misjudged your state of fragility. I should have waited for another—"
"Natalia, stop." He caught her hands, though his grip was weak. "In comparison to nearly being blown up, martial law, and General Dugu's investigation—a financial setback is really not that big a deal."
Natalia stared at him. Then, unexpectedly, she laughed—a soft, genuine sound.
"You are correct, Master. On a relative scale of catastrophes, reduced property valuations rank considerably lower than explosions."
"See? Perspective."
Her expression remained concerned despite the moment of levity. She pressed her palm to his forehead again. "Your pulse has elevated and your skin has grown clammy. I should not have—"
"It's fine," Philip said, though his head was indeed throbbing more intensely now. "Really."
Natalia made a soft, disapproving sound. Without asking, she reached for the small vial on his bedside table—the physician's prescribed pain relief tincture—and measured out a careful dose. "Drink this. Then rest. The financial matters can wait until your cognitive function improves."
Philip accepted the tincture without protest. The liquid was bitter, but Natalia immediately pressed a piece of candied ginger to his lips to chase away the taste.
"When did you learn to do that?" Philip asked, surprised.
"Miss Lydia's manual. Chapter Seven: 'Administering Unpleasant Necessities with Grace.'" Natalia's smile was soft. "She is remarkably thorough."
The comfortable silence that followed was broken when Philip's gaze drifted to the crystalline entertainment device by his bedside.
"Would you like me to activate it, Master? Miss Lydia mentioned you might find music soothing during your recovery."
Philip nodded. "That sounds pleasant."
Natalia's fingers traced the crystal's surface—and instead of music, a news broadcast emerged.
"—extraordinary developments from Parliament this morning. We go now to our correspondent outside the Imperial Assembly."
Philip sat up straighter, ignoring the protest from his head. "Wait. Leave it."
The correspondent's voice carried the crisp urgency of breaking political news:
"The emergency session has now entered its third hour, and what's unfolding within these chambers can only be described as revolutionary. First Minister Sir Arthur has tabled framework legislation entitled 'The Ascension Bill'—a comprehensive reimagining of Avalondia's centuries-old prohibitions on private summoning."
Philip exchanged a glance with Natalia, who had frozen mid-motion.
"The Bill's key provisions are threefold: First, establishing legal pathways for private summoning of entities, including Familiars, subject to registration and ministerial approval. Second, creating a taxonomic framework to classify summoned entities by comprehensive criteria—with corresponding legal rights and protections for each classification. And third, addressing the contentious question of retroactive legalization for existing summonings."
"Am I hallucinating?" Philip breathed.
Natalia's hand found his, her grip tight. "I do not believe so, Master. Though hallucinations can be remarkably convincing, I am receiving the same auditory input."
"Perhaps most remarkable," the correspondent continued, "is the government's announcement that the drafting committee will examine legal frameworks from both the Continental Republic and the United Eastern States—an unprecedented departure from Avalondia's traditional singular reliance on Republican precedent. Political observers are calling this a watershed moment in imperial legislative philosophy."
"I am definitely hallucinating," Philip murmured.
The correspondent's tone sharpened: "However, the most heated debate centers on amnesty. The First Minister is advocating for blanket legal protection—full immunity for all summoners and their entities who come forward voluntarily for registration. But resistance within the Assembly is fierce. Opposition members are demanding case-by-case review, criminal liability for past violations, and even—according to sources inside the chamber—complete exclusion of Familiars from any amnesty provisions whatsoever."