Part 1
The fireworks bloomed above Albecaster like wounds in the night sky—crimson and gold explosions that painted the Themris River in rippling light before dissolving into smoke and memory.
General Beatrice Dugu walked along the embankment near the Kingsworth Bridge, her dress uniform inadequate against the autumn chill. Behind her, at precisely the distance protocol demanded, Lieutenant Chen and the guards maintained their silent vigil—close enough to respond, far enough to preserve the illusion of solitude.
She could feel their eyes on her back. The particular quality of attention that came from subordinates who respected you, feared you, and were never quite certain which should take precedence.
The loneliness of command. She almost smiled at the irony. The press had nicknamed her "General Lonely"—meant as praise for her supposed invincibility, though they'd stumbled onto a different truth entirely.
Along the riverbank below, clusters of young military officers had gathered, their brass buttons catching firelight as they raised champagne in boisterous toasts. Their voices carried on the cold air—fragments of celebration that seemed almost obscene against martial law's backdrop.
"—finally dragging the Empire into the modern age—"
"—Barrington & Gells already drafting contracts for summoning facilities—"
"—about bloody time traditions give way to progress—"
One lieutenant, fresh out of the academy, climbed onto a bench with theatrical flourish. "Gentlemen! A toast! To the Ascension Bill! And to the eternal truth our grandfathers refused to learn—" He paused, swaying. "—that those who worship the ways of the past will be excluded from the path to the future!"
Roaring approval. More champagne.
Dugu's lips curved into something that wasn't quite a smile.
The fireworks weren't for them, of course. Tonight marked the annual commemoration of the Great Victory—the very event that had supposedly ushered in the current age of global peace and prosperity. In better years, these streets would have filled with parades and festivals. This year, under martial law, the celebration had been reduced to fireworks and whispers.
Strange times, Dugu reflected, when victories must be celebrated in silence, and hopes for the future shouted by drunk lieutenants.
The Ascension Bill hadn't even passed. It had merely been tabled—a procedural step that would have gone unnoticed in peacetime. But these young officers saw harbingers of inevitable change, and perhaps they were right. The aristocratic resistance to summoning technology had finally begun crumbling based on what she had read.
Progress. Everyone celebrated progress. But did anyone consider the potential side effects?
Her mind assembled the data with the precision of a filing clerk—figures from the Statistical Bureau's August report surfacing unbidden: junior clerical positions down 12.3 percent over thirty-seven months. Primary cause: offshore Familiar contractors. Continental Republic's TeleMana Services alone had captured 847 Avalondian corporate accounts in the past fiscal year, displacing countless domestic workers. United Eastern States firms held another 1,200 accounts. Combined market penetration by foreign Familiar service firms: 31 percent of the Empire's administrative services sector, up from 8 percent five years prior.
The mathematics were merciless.
A secretary in Albecaster cost ten times more than a contracted Familiar providing services remotely from across the ocean, worked around the clock, never called in sick.
And we haven't even legalized domestic Familiars yet.
The optimists—analysts at the Imperial Economic Institute, researchers at Thornmmer Strategic Consultancy—pointed to the Continental Republic's experience. Their reports trumpeted the same refrain: Net positive job creation. The Familiar revolution created more positions than it displaced.
Dugu had read those reports too. All 847 pages of the Institute's comprehensive study, the 312-page Thornwood analysis, the confidential Treasury assessment that hadn't been meant for military eyes but had found its way to her desk regardless.
She had also read between their carefully crafted lines.
The Continental Republic achieved net positive creation because they were first. Their summoning techniques, refined over decades, produced Familiars of such quality that they'd captured 62 percent of the international Familiar services trade, according to the latest Merchant Guild figures. Their firms didn't just serve domestic clients—they provided services worldwide, including to the very Avalondian businesses whose workers were being displaced.
For every twenty clerks in the Empire who lost positions to offshore Familiar services, perhaps three new jobs emerged in the Republic: researchers refining summoning techniques, support staff maintaining infrastructure, supervisors managing quality and contracts. The Republic's celebrated net positive was built on the foundation of successfully displacing positions overseas.
And our analysts think we can simply replicate their success.
Even if the Ascension Bill passed tomorrow, Avalondian firms would need years to develop comparative capabilities, much less taking away market shares from existing firms in the field. The Continental Republic had decades of head start in civilian summoning infrastructure, 4,200 licensed summoning facilities to the Empire's projected initial capacity of perhaps 200. Meanwhile, Continental and UES companies—freed by the new bill from laws that had confined them to remote services—would flood the Empire with physical Familiars. Not just clerks, but laborers, craftsmen, service workers.
The support jobs would remain overseas. The displaced jobs would simply vanish.
Net positive creation. An impossibility.
She would have preferred a different method.
Legalize military applications first. Let the Imperial forces develop mass summoning expertise through controlled programs—perfecting techniques, training personnel, building infrastructure away from civilian labor markets. Form strategic partnerships between the War Office and select private contractors, entities that would develop their capabilities serving military needs before expanding outward.
The key was sequencing.
Military-origin firms, initially serving only overseas markets. Let them compete for foreign contracts, building global reach and refining their competitive edge on foreign soil. No displacement of workers in the Empire—not yet. Not until these firms had established themselves as genuine global competitors, capable of capturing enough international market share that their domestic expansion would create more positions than it eliminated.
Only then—once the Empire possessed firms powerful enough to be net job creators would legalization expand to include domestic commercial summoning.
It was a slower path. A more cautious path. But it was a path that protected working families from bearing the full cost of a transition they had no voice in shaping.
And it was a path that required something the Empire no longer possessed.
Money.
Dugu's jaw tightened as she forced herself to confront the constraint she had been avoiding.
The Empire's finances were stretched to breaking—debt-to-GDP ratio at 97 percent, per the Treasury's confidential briefing. The government could not fund the military summoning programs she envisioned, not at the scale required to achieve competitive capability within a meaningful timeframe. The War Office's discretionary budget had been cut for seven consecutive years. Even maintaining current force readiness required accounting creativity that bordered on fraud.
Which meant private capital was needed. Which meant investors. Which meant the entire elegant architecture of her preferred approach collapsed against a single brutal reality: capital requires returns.
She had read many books on economics with the same intensity she brought to tactical analysis, because modern warfare was as much about economic leverage as military capability. Private investors did not fund research for patriotic satisfaction. They funded research because they expected profits. And profits required commercialization.
A military-only summoning program offered investors exactly one customer: the Imperial government. A customer that was already broke, that paid slowly when it paid at all, that changed procurement priorities with every shift in parliamentary winds. No venture syndicate would stake significant capital on such uncertain returns. No merchant bank would underwrite bonds for facilities that might take years before seeing any returns.
But civilian applications? Unlimited market potential. Every business in the Empire that currently contracted with Continental firms. Every household that might employ a domestic servant. Every industry that could benefit from tireless, precise, uncomplaining labor. The addressable market was unfathomably vast.
That was what attracted investment. That was what would fund the research facilities, the training academies, the infrastructure that Avalondia desperately needed. Not government appropriations that would never materialize, but private capital chasing private returns.
You cannot fund a reform with empty promises.
That was what Arthur once told her. He always understood the financial constraints she overlooked while planning ideal strategy. Where she saw a careful sequence of military development followed by controlled civilian expansion, he saw an unfundable fantasy—a beautiful blueprint that would never leave the drawing board because no one would pay to build it.
The Ascension Bill, for all its risks, solved the funding problem. Open civilian markets, and capital would flow. The necessary innovations would come as a byproduct of commercial ambition rather than a product of government direction.
It was far more dangerous for ordinary workers. But it was the only way that real change might happen.
She had seen the internal security assessments. Without martial law, the Worker's Coalition had been planning coordinated demonstrations in seventeen cities. Not the violent riots of previous months—those had been orchestrated chaos, useful idiots manipulated by forces with darker agendas. These would have been organized, disciplined protests by ordinary people who simply wanted to know: What happens to us when the Familiars come?
The fireworks continued their display overhead, but Dugu's mind had drifted to grimmer calculations.
But then, even in the unlikely scenario that Avalondian firms somehow achieved competitiveness—some miracle allowing them to challenge Continental dominance—what then? The UES and Republic were already locked in vicious struggle to stifle each other's advances. Trade restrictions, intellectual property disputes, and—if classified reports were accurate—occasional sabotage disguised as accidents.
If Avalondia entered that arena without military strength to defend its interests...
We would accept whatever scraps the superpowers deigned to leave us.
She scanned the embankment below—counting heads automatically, noting positions, cataloging threat vectors. Fourteen officers in the nearest group, three showing signs of significant intoxication. Two carriages parked sixty meters east, drivers present, horses at rest. A patrol of four military police passing the far end of the bridge, standard martial law enforcement pattern.
Old habits. Her father had taught her to observe everything, back when observation was all they had. An immigrant clerk from the Far East, he had risen through the civil service through sheer determination and an almost supernatural attention to detail. Her mother's family had provided the connections that opened doors. But it was her father's discipline that had taught her to notice which doors mattered.
She remembered his hands—calloused from years of administrative work, always moving, always organizing. She remembered her mother's quiet pride in duty fulfilled. She remembered what it was like to be ordinary. To watch her father's shoulders slump when the ministry reduced hours. To understand, in the wordless way children understand, that distant decisions rippled downward until they reached families like hers—families with no voice in those decisions and no shield against their consequences.
The young officers below had never known that life. They saw Familiars as engines of efficiency, symbols of modernity. They did not see the people who would lose positions, the families who would lose security.
There must be something that can be done to ease the transition for the ordinary families.
She was so deep in contemplation that she almost didn't register the approaching footsteps.
Almost.
Her body moved before conscious thought—combat training compressed into a single fluid motion. Pivot. Draw. Steel singing against leather as her sabre found its target.
The blade stopped a hair's breadth from an expensive silk cravat.
First Minister Arthur stood perfectly still with her sword at his throat. His expression registered mild surprise—the polite astonishment of a man who had expected some resistance but perhaps not quite such enthusiastic resistance.
He was dressed unusually—a deep red velvet overcoat with white dress trousers, a black bow tie completing the ensemble. Informal by his standards. Almost casual. The sort of attire a man might wear when slipping away from official duties to watch fireworks like a common citizen.
In his arms, he held a lady's overcoat of dark wool lined with silver fox fur.
Behind him, his bodyguards had drawn mana-pistols in response, now trained on her center mass with enchantments humming.
For a frozen moment, no one moved.
Then Arthur smiled—that particular curve that softened his sharp features into something almost boyish, the expression he wore when he wanted to seem harmless. "General. Your reflexes remain exceptional." His blue eyes flickered to the blade at his collar. "Though I confess I had hoped my approach might be interpreted as less... lethal."
Heat flooded Beatrice's face. She sheathed her sabre with a motion perhaps too quick to be dignified, then executed the formal salute protocol demanded: heels together, right hand rising to her brow, holding precisely three heartbeats before lowering.
"First Minister. Please forgive my reaction."
Arthur waved dismissively at his guards, and the pistols lowered with synchronized precision. "The fault is entirely mine for failing to announce myself. I've spent so many years navigating parliamentary ambushes that I quite forgot real soldiers respond rather more... directly." His smile turned self-effacing.
He stepped closer, and Dugu became aware of how thin her uniform was against the night air. The standard military overcoat had been left with Chen—a decision born of preference for unimpeded movement rather than warmth.
"I noticed you from the balcony over there," Arthur continued, his tone softening further. "Standing here against the fireworks, the river behind you... You looked rather like a solitary beauty from a painting." He held up the overcoat. "I thought you might appreciate company. And protection against the cold you seem determined to ignore."
"You flatter me, First Minister."
"I speak only truth, General. Flattery requires exaggeration." His eyes held hers with an intensity that belied his light tone. "May I have the pleasure of your company for a brief walk? The eastern embankment offers a rather striking view, and I find myself desperately in need of conversation that doesn't involve parliamentary procedure or military procurement."
The request was framed with formal courtesy—the specific cadence Avalondian etiquette demanded when a man of station wished to spend time with a woman without implying impropriety. She noted the careful word choices, the precise balance of warmth and respect.
He knows exactly what he's doing.
But then, so did she.
"The honor would be mine, First Minister."
She accepted the overcoat—the fur lining warm against her shoulders—and fell into step beside him as they moved toward the quieter embankment stretch.
Behind them, their entourages merged: Chen and her guards mixing with Arthur's bodyguards, maintaining proper distance for private conversation while ensuring immediate response to threats. A dance of professional courtesy performed by people who understood their principals' need for privacy didn't extend to their need for protection.
They walked in silence for several minutes, following the embankment's curve as it traced the river through Albecaster's heart. Mana lamps cast amber pools at regular intervals, their enchanted flames dancing behind glass. Between them, shadows stretched like dark water.
Dugu catalogued their surroundings automatically—two surveillance positions on the bridge behind them, one patrol boat on the river, a civilian couple walking a dog approximately 200 meters ahead. The mental inventory required no conscious effort; it simply happened, the same way her lungs drew breath.
Finally, when the nearest guards were barely visible in the gloom, she spoke.
"So." Her voice was curious, direct. "You have concerns regarding the preliminary investigation results?"
Arthur's laugh was genuine—a warm sound that seemed to surprise even him. "Am I truly so transparent? I had rather hoped the casual atmosphere might disguise my intention for at least a few minutes."
Part 2
The wheelchair was, in Philip's considered opinion, entirely unnecessary.
"Natalia, I can walk. The physician said light exercise would be beneficial."
"The physician said supervised light exercise," Natalia corrected, adjusting the thick woolen blanket she'd tucked around his legs with the precision of someone who had memorized seventeen different swaddling techniques from Lydia's manual. "And the ground is uneven. And it is cold. And you have a documented history of losing consciousness at inopportune moments."
"That was once. And there were extenuating circumstances involving mana drain and—"
"Twice," Natalia interrupted, her voice carrying that blend of analytical precision and warm concern that had become so distinctly her.
Philip was going to open his mouth to protest but settled for pulling the blanket higher.
The garden of the ducal townhouse stretched before them in the blue-silver light of early evening—manicured hedges casting long shadows, a fountain burbling somewhere in the darkness, the distant glow of the city forming a halo against the horizon. Above, the first fireworks of the Victory Day commemoration bloomed across the sky, their crimson and gold reflections dancing in Natalia's sapphire eyes.
She had positioned his wheelchair at the edge of the belvedere overlooking the massive garden, where the view swept across the carefully cultivated grounds to the distant spectacle hanging over Albecaster's heart. Settling onto the arm of an adjacent garden chair, she leaned in until her hip pressed warmly against his shoulder through the weight of the blanket.
Close enough that he could catch that subtle lavender scent from her bath that always made his heart skip.
"It's beautiful," Philip murmured, watching a cascade of silver sparks descend like falling stars.
"The pyrotechnic composition appears to utilize magnesium compounds for the silver coloration," Natalia observed. Then, softer: "Though I confess the aesthetic effect is... more affecting than I had anticipated from purely chemical reactions." Her hand found his beneath the blanket, cool fingers intertwining with practiced ease. "Perhaps because I am sharing the experience with you."
Philip felt warmth bloom in his chest.
"I've been attempting to develop more... poetic language for such moments," she continued. "Miss Lydia suggested that clinical precision, while admirable in medical and combat contexts, can sometimes diminish romantic experiences."
"Is this a romantic experience?"
Natalia considered the question with evident seriousness. "We are alone together, observing a beautiful natural phenomenon, while I am positioned in physical contact with you and you are wrapped in blankets I personally selected for optimal warmth-to-weight ratio." She squeezed his hand gently. "I would say yes."
Philip gave a smile in response.
"We are just missing the declaration of eternal devotion." Her expression remained perfectly innocent. "I could give it a try now, if you feel well enough to receive it now."
"Maybe some other time," Philip said softly. "For now... this is perfect."
She leaned closer, a gesture of intimacy that had become second nature between them. They watched the fireworks in comfortable silence for several minutes.
Finally, Philip spoke the thought that had been lurking beneath his contentment.
"Still nothing from General Dugu?"
Natalia's posture shifted almost imperceptibly—a subtle tension entering her shoulders that Philip had learned to recognize. "No formal communication has been received."
"It's been four days. That seems... unusual. For someone with her reputation."
"Indeed." Natalia paused, her eyes still fixed on the distant lights. "However, the Duchess provided some context this morning."
Philip turned to look at her. "Grandmother? What did she say?"
"She told me not to worry." Another pause—longer this time, weighted with something Philip couldn't quite identify. "Her sources within the War Office confirmed that the hair sample was lost following its submission to the forensic laboratory."
Philip blinked. "Lost? How do you lose evidence in a military investigation?"
"The official determination is still pending." Natalia's voice remained carefully neutral. "However, the preliminary assessment suggests either significant vulnerabilities in existing evidence handling protocols that the War Office was previously unaware of..."
She trailed off.
"Or?" Philip prompted.
"Or it was an act of sabotage carried out by infiltrators with the intention to compromise the investigation."
Philip felt ice crystallize in his stomach. "Infiltrators. Someone inside the military deliberately destroyed the evidence."
"That is the implication, yes."
"But that's—" Philip's mind raced through possibilities, each worse than the last. "If Dugu suspects someone sabotaged her investigation, she'll dig deeper. She'll want to know why someone would risk their career—their freedom—to protect..." His voice died as the full implications struck him. "To protect your identity."
"Indeed." Natalia's expression remained serene. "The Duchess indicated that the incident has... heightened suspicions regarding my identity. General Dugu is reportedly suspecting me to be a part of a foreign intelligence network."
Philip's face drained of color. "Natalia, this is—we need to—there has to be something we can—"
"Master." Her hand squeezed his hand firmly beneath the blanket. "Don't worry."
"Don't worry? You just told me General Dugu is suspecting—"
"Her Grace also instructed me to inform you," Natalia continued with infuriating calm, "that the Duke has taken care of it."
Philip's spiraling panic crashed into a wall of confusion. "Grandfather? But he's—I've barely spoken to him since arriving in Albecaster. He's been so busy with the political situation—" Philip shook his head, trying to reconcile the information. "He's only visited a few times since the bombing, and those were brief check-ins. What can he—"
"Nevertheless." Natalia's thumb traced a gentle pattern across his knuckles. "The Duchess was quite confident that the Duke will take care of it.'"
Philip stared at her. "Just like that? A military investigation into potential infiltration, and my grandfather can just... make it go away?"
"So it would appear."
"But—" Philip struggled to process.
The System materialized on Philip's other side, draped across a garden bench in a cocktail dress that appeared to be woven from actual firework sparks, the impossible fabric shimmering and exploding in miniature cascades with every movement. Tiny stars burst along her décolletage in patterns that drew the eye in ways Philip desperately tried to resist.
"You know," she observed, examining her nails with theatrical disinterest, "your Familiar has really mastered the art of dramatic delivery." She slow-clapped with evident appreciation. "Lead with the terrifying implications, let the poor audience spiral into full panic mode, then reveal that everything's actually fine." Her grin widened. "The suspense! The emotional whiplash! Romance novelists would weep with professional envy."
Philip carefully kept his expression neutral; he didn't want any stray flicker of emotion to heighten Natalia's concern regarding his current state of health.
"I apologize if my delivery caused distress," Natalia added, her voice softening with genuine concern. "I had calculated that sequential revelation of information in smaller, more digestible portions would be optimal given your currently diminished mental capacity." Her brow furrowed with earnest worry. "Did I miscalculate?"
"No, you—" Philip took a breath. "You did fine. I just..."
The System stretched luxuriously, more sparks cascading from her shoulders into the night air. "It's really wonderful to have a powerful grandpa, isn't it?" She winked at Philip. "And now here you are, reaping the benefits without having done any of the work. Truly, inherited privilege is a beautiful thing."
Philip's jaw tightened, but he said nothing—couldn't say anything without confusing Natalia.
"Your expression suggests continued distress," Natalia observed, studying his face with that analytical intensity. "Your jaw muscles have tensed, and your pupils show signs of cognitive strain. Is there something else troubling you?"
"Just... thinking," Philip managed.
The System's voice softened unexpectedly. "Of course you didn't ask for any of this. That's what makes inherited privilege so delightfully efficient. You don't have to ask. The safety net simply... exists. Woven from generations of power and influence, ready to catch you whenever you stumble."
Philip thought of Dugu—the flash of something in her eyes when they'd passed on the War Office stairs, the fragments of memory that weren't quite his. The woman his previous self had apparently loved and left.
"Meanwhile," the System continued, as if reading his thoughts, "somewhere in this city, there's a woman from an ordinary family who clawed her way to the top through sheer competence—and she's hitting walls in her investigation built by people who've never had to claw for anything." Her expression grew contemplative, though the sardonic edge never left her eyes. "The very same walls that left such a bitter taste in your mouth—back when you were the one clawing." She tilted her head. "Curious, isn't it? How much more palatable systematic unfairness becomes when one is seated at the right end of the table."
Natalia moved.
The motion was so sudden, so blindingly fast, that Philip's brain couldn't process what was happening until it was already over. One moment she was seated beside him, her head against his shoulder. The next she was on her feet, body twisted, arm extended—
Her fingers closed around something in mid-air.
The catch was impossibly precise. Her hand had simply appeared at the exact point in space where a projectile had been traveling—a projectile Philip hadn't even seen, hadn't heard, had no awareness of until Natalia's supernatural reflexes had already intercepted it.
She stood frozen in that position for a heartbeat, her body coiled with combat readiness, sapphire eyes scanning the garden's shadows with predatory intensity.
Philip's heart hammered against his ribs. "What—Natalia, what—"
"Something was thrown," she said, her voice flat with focus. "From the eastern hedge line. Trajectory suggested targeting our position."
Philip felt his blood turn to ice. Another assassination attempt? Here, in the Redwood estate's private garden? His hands gripped the wheelchair's arms as his eyes darted toward the hedges, searching for movement, for threat, for—
"The projectile appears to be..." Natalia's brow furrowed. She slowly uncurled her fingers, revealing what lay in her palm.
A walnut shell.
Empty. Harmless. The sort of debris that accumulated in any garden with mature trees.
"I don't understand," Natalia said slowly, her combat posture relaxing into confusion. "The trajectory was deliberate. The velocity was calculated. This was not wind-scattered debris—someone threw this." She turned the shell over, examining it with analytical intensity. "But why would anyone throw a walnut shell at—"
She stopped.
Philip watched her expression shift—confusion giving way to something sharper, more troubled.
"Natalia? What is it?"
"The trajectory," she repeated, almost to herself. "It wasn't targeting you, Master. It was targeting..." Her eyes widened fractionally. "Whoever threw was testing if I could catch it."