Exiled to a Foreign Land: Managing a Destitute Estate-Chapter 44: There Must Be Another Way

Part 1

The late afternoon sun cast long shadows across the cobblestones as Philip and Natalia emerged from the Yortinto Municipal Gallery. The golden light of the approaching evening painted the neoclassical façade in warm hues, while the cultural district's gas lamps flickered to life one by one, their mana‑enhanced flames creating pools of soft illumination. The gallery event had stretched longer than anticipated—nearly three hours navigating social minefields and deflecting increasingly bold advances toward Natalia.

Philip noticed immediately that something was amiss with his companion. Natalia's usual animated curiosity had dimmed, replaced by an expression of bewildered contemplation. Her sapphire eyes, typically bright with childlike wonder, now carried a distant quality, as if she were attempting to solve a particularly vexing equation.

"Are you well?" Philip asked softly as they descended the marble steps, his hand instinctively moving to the small of her back to guide her through the dispersing crowd of gallery patrons.

Natalia's brow furrowed delicately, her perfect features arranging themselves into an expression of analytical confusion. "I experienced an unprecedented physiological response to Senator Toosexy's interaction," she reported, her melodious voice carrying its usual precise diction despite the underlying uncertainty. "My cardiac rhythm accelerated, my core temperature elevated, and I detected increased tension in my jaw musculature."

She paused at the bottom of the steps, turning to face Philip with genuine perplexity. "Most curious of all, these reactions occurred without my conscious direction. It was... disconcerting, as if my body possessed an independent volition, separate from my mind."

"You were upset," Philip said gently. "It's a normal human emotional response."

"Upset?" Natalia tested the word as if tasting an unfamiliar flavor. She resumed walking, her analytical mode fully engaged. "The correct response—given the mistress role I was playing—to the Senator's propositions should have been something positive. But for some reason my rationality was overridden in that split second."

She gestured gracefully as she explained, her movements still maintaining that impossible elegance even in distress. "As outlined in The Mistress's Manual and Aristocratic Arrangements: A Practical Guide, a kept woman's primary motivation is financial security and social advancement. Senator Toosexy offered the prospect of both—access to Continental Republic resources and liberation from class constraints. Logically, I should have responded with enthusiasm, perhaps even hardly hidden coquettish interest."

Philip nearly stumbled on a perfectly level cobblestone. "What kinds of books has Lydia been feeding you?" he muttered, feeling heat rise to his collar.

"Garbage in, garbage out," the System's voice cheerfully rang in Philip's mind. "Though in this case she's not entirely wrong about the transactional nature of such arrangements. At least her moral compass seems to be developing independently of her... educational materials."

"By the way, Philip, darling, you've successfully reached a milestone! Detailed briefing to follow at a time of greater convenience for you. But the good news is that you've earned a rebate on all recent Natalia‑related costs since I last presented your comprehensive balance sheet. Congratulations—you've saved 15,000 Continental Dollars!"

Philip's eyes widened at the substantial sum, but before he could inquire further the System waggled a finger. "The next milestone involves properly calibrating her moral compass. But perhaps now isn't the ideal time for that discussion?"

Indeed, Natalia had continued her self-analysis, seemingly oblivious to Philip's internal conversation. "The physiological distress intensified not when he provided the proposition," she continued, her voice carrying a note of wonder, "but when he directed those barbed words at you. The dismissive tone, the implied insults to your character and station—each syllable seemed to trigger cascading physiological responses I couldn't suppress."

She stopped walking again, pressing a hand to her bosom as if trying to physically examine the sensations. "I comprehended that remaining passive would align with expected behavioral patterns for my assumed role as your mistress."

Her luminous eyes met Philip's, filled with an emotion she clearly couldn't name. "But I found myself unable. The thought of just standing there while you experienced emotional distress created an overriding imperative to... react, which took almost everything in me to rein in the impulse to say something mean to him." freewebnøvel.com

"So you chose to remain silent," Philip said softly, understanding dawning.

"The optimal compromise given conflicting drives," Natalia agreed with a small nod.

Philip felt something shift in his chest—a warmth that had nothing to do with the evening air. Without conscious thought, he drew Natalia closer, his arm sliding naturally around her waist. She fit against his side as if designed for that precise space, her body automatically adjusting to match his gait.

"You did exactly right," he assured her, his voice rougher than intended. "Your instinct to protect rather than ignore is not a failure to play your role. It's your character."

Natalia's eyes widened at his words, a delicate pink suffusing her cheeks. Her arm curved around his in response, her fingers settling naturally in the crook of his elbow. To any observer they appeared as what they pretended to be—a couple returning from an afternoon's entertainment, comfortable in each other's presence.

"Character," she repeated thoughtfully. "The books define it as the aggregate of moral qualities that distinguish an individual. But they never explained how it could manifest as physical sensation."

"Because it's not something that can be fully captured in books," Philip explained as they approached the area where carriages waited. "True character reveals itself in moments of choice, especially when those choices cost us something."

"I see," Natalia murmured, unconsciously pressing closer to his warmth. "Though I confess the intensity of the response still bewilders me. Is it typical for emotional reactions to manifest so forcefully?"

"When we care about someone, yes," Philip said, then caught himself at the implications of his words.

They had reached the carriage queue, where their vehicle waited third in line. The driver sat hunched on his box, hat pulled low against the evening breeze. Something about his posture nagged at Philip's attention, but Natalia's next words drove the observation from his mind.

"Care," she said softly, as if discovering a new word. "Yes, that seems accurate. I find I care about your well‑being with an intensity that surprises me."

Philip helped her into the carriage, his hands lingering perhaps a moment longer than necessary at her waist.

As the carriage lurched into motion with more abruptness than the usual smooth departures, Philip frowned but attributed it to the press of vehicles all attempting to leave simultaneously.

Natalia had fallen silent, her expression that particular blend of concentration and wonder that meant she was processing new information. Philip found himself studying her profile in the carriage's dim interior—the delicate curve of her jaw, the way the last rays of sunlight caught in her golden hair, the slight furrow between her brows as she pondered.

"I believe I understand," she said suddenly. "The sensation—it's what the poetry books call 'righteous indignation.' Though they failed to mention the accompanying physiological disruption."

"Poetry books now?" Philip asked, amused despite himself. "What else has Lydia added to your curriculum?"

"Oh, extensive materials," Natalia replied earnestly. "Lord Byronical's collected works, though I find his metaphors about heaving bosoms improbable. Also, The Art of Seductive Manipulation, which suggests thirty‑seven different ways to manipulate male affection through strategic displays of jealousy. Though I must say the recommended techniques seem unnecessarily complex when direct communication would suffice."

The System cackled. "Oh, with her form, she's going to be absolutely lethal once she truly masters the art of romantic manipulation."

They had been traveling for several minutes when Philip noticed they weren't taking the usual route. The familiar streets of the cultural district had given way to narrower lanes he didn't recognize. Gas lamps became sparser, replaced by older mana‑crystals that cast uncertain, flickering light.

"Mr. Evans," Philip called, rapping on the carriage roof. "This isn't the way to Redwood Estate."

No response came from above. The carriage maintained its pace, wheels clattering over increasingly rough cobblestones.

Philip extracted his mirror phone from his jacket, intending to contact Albert about the strange detour. The device's surface remained obstinately dark—not even the baseline magical resonance that should exist throughout Yortinto.

"Natalia," he said quietly, his tone shifting from conversational to alert. "Something's wrong."

Her transformation was instantaneous. The contemplative philosopher vanished, replaced by a warrior sensing danger. Her posture shifted subtly, muscles coiling with readiness beneath the silk of her gown. "Three irregularities confirmed," she reported in a different voice—clipped, professional. "Non‑standard route, communication blackout, and..." she paused, nostrils flaring slightly, "...the scent profile is wrong. Mr. Evans uses lavender pomade. This one smells of tobacco and poor‑quality gin."

The carriage slowed, finally grinding to a halt in what appeared to be an abandoned warehouse district. Through the windows, Philip could see only empty buildings and shadows that seemed to move with suspicious coordination.

"Stay behind me," Natalia ordered, her usual deference abandoned in favor of protective authority.

"I should—" Philip began, but she cut him off with a look that brooked no argument.

"Your safety is paramount to me," she stated flatly. "All other considerations are secondary."

The carriage door opened from outside before either could reach for it. A man stood silhouetted against the dying light—tall, broad‑shouldered, wearing an impeccably tailored black tuxedo. A blue tulip adorned his breast pocket, its color vivid even in the dimness. His face was covered by a white masquerade mask.

"Lord Redwood," the man said in cultured tones that wouldn't have been out of place at the gallery. "Would you be so kind as to step out? We have matters to discuss."

Philip summoned every ounce of aristocratic bearing, squaring his shoulders as he'd seen his grandfather do. Stay calm, project authority—in situations like these, showing fear was often fatal.

"I'm afraid I don't conduct business in abandoned warehouses," Philip replied, matching the man's polite tone. "If you wish to schedule an appointment—"

"Please, my lord," the man interrupted, still maintaining that veneer of courtesy. "Let's not make this unnecessarily difficult. You and your companion will exit the carriage now."

Philip glanced at Natalia, who gave an almost imperceptible nod. Better to face whatever this was outside than be trapped in the confined space of the carriage.

They emerged into a semicircle of similarly dressed men—at least a dozen, all wearing identical black tuxedos with blue tulips and masks. The coordination spoke of professional organization rather than random criminality.

"Might I inquire whom I have the pleasure of addressing?" Philip asked, proud that his voice remained steady.

The apparent leader smiled—a cold expression that never reached his eyes. "Names are unnecessary for our brief acquaintance."

Then, as the leader dropped his handkerchief, all the assembled men surged forward as one—but not toward Philip. Instead, they rushed toward Natalia.

The first attacker reached her in two strides, extending a hand toward her arm. Natalia flowed around his grasp like water, her movements liquid despite the constraints of her gown. Her palm struck his solar plexus with precision that spoke of countless hours of practice, sending him staggering back, gasping.

Two more came at her from opposite angles, attempting to use their numerical advantage. Natalia dropped low, her dress tearing audibly as she swept one attacker's legs while driving an elbow into the other's kidney. Both men hit the cobblestones hard.

"Remarkable form," the System commented. "Though that dress really wasn't designed for combat. The seamstress will be devastated."

Philip started forward to help but found himself suddenly restrained. Three men had circled behind—two pressing pistols to his ribs while the third, the leader of the group, held a wickedly sharp blade to his throat.

"Ah ah," the knife‑wielder breathed in his ear. "Let's watch the show, shall we?"

Natalia had noticed Philip's capture instantly. She stood amid five groaning men, her bosom rising and falling with controlled breaths. Her gown bore several tears, revealing flashes of porcelain skin beneath, but her expression remained focused, calculating.

"Fascinating," the leader mused, maintaining his conversational tone despite his fallen subordinates. "The reports suggested exceptional capability, but seeing it firsthand is quite another matter."

"Release him," Natalia commanded, her usual melodious voice carrying an edge of steel.

"I think not," the leader replied. "Though I admire your efficiency. Five men in—what? Thirty seconds? Most impressive. However..." He nodded to the men holding Philip. The blade pressed closer, drawing a thin line of red across Philip's throat.

Philip felt the sting, the warm trickle of blood. Not deep—a warning rather than true injury—but the message was clear.

Natalia's entire demeanor changed. The combat‑ready tension drained from her frame like water from a broken vessel. She dropped to her knees with fluid grace, hands placed palm‑up on her thighs in a gesture of complete submission. The transformation was so absolute, so immediate, that even the assembled assassins seemed taken aback.

"I yield," she said simply. "Please don't harm him. What do you require?"

The leader smiled more genuinely this time. "How refreshing—pragmatism over heroics. We simply need to ensure you're not concealing any weapons. Security protocols, you understand."

He gestured to one of his men. "Search her."

The designated searcher approached with obvious reluctance—whether from witnessing her martial prowess or some other concern, Philip couldn't tell. His hands moved over Natalia's form, starting professionally enough but lingering increasingly. When he reached her bodice, his touch became decidedly more thorough than any weapon search required, fingers tracing the curves of her figure with unnecessary attention.

Natalia's expression remained neutral, showing only mild confusion at the prolonged examination.

"Thorough work," the leader commented dryly. "Johnson, perhaps you should verify? We can't be too careful."

A second man approached; his search even more invasive than the first. His hands roamed freely over Natalia's bosom, squeezing and groping under the pretense of checking for concealed weapons. When he reached her posterior, he took his time, patting, pressing, and even squeezing with obvious enjoyment.

"That's enough!" Philip snarled, rage overcoming caution.

The blade at his throat pressed harder, drawing more blood. "Quiet, spoiled brat," the knife‑wielder hissed. "I'm calling the shots here."

Natalia flinched—the first genuine distress she'd shown—as blood appeared on Philip's neck. "Please," she said desperately. "You've searched me twice. I carry no weapons. Take our valuables—take whatever you want. Just release him."

"Whatever we want?" A third searcher had already begun his own exploration of her body, hands roaming with undisguised lecherousness. "Well, you're certainly the most valuable thing here, aren't you? Perhaps we should take you up on that offer."

"Yes," Natalia agreed immediately, no hesitation in her voice. "You can take me. I'll comply with whatever you require. Just let Master Philip go unharmed."

The leader laughed—a sound devoid of humor. "How touching—such devotion! It almost makes me regret what comes next." His expression hardened. "Though surely you realize we can't simply release Lord Redwood? The duke did have the imperial apparatus murdering us before the day ends. No, I'm afraid there's only one conclusion to this evening's entertainment."

He drew his own pistol with casual efficiency. "We'll have to kill you both and frame it as a simple robbery."

At that moment, something changed in Natalia's eyes.

Time seemed to fracture.

One moment Natalia knelt in submission. The next, she was airborne, her body twisting with impossible grace. Her hand swept past the knife at Philip's throat, plucking it from the wielder before he could process her movement. Then, continuing the same fluid motion, she threw the blade in a silver arc, striking the pistol from one guard's hand with a metallic ring.

She landed in a crouch, leg extending upwards in a devastating sweep that should have been impossible in her gown. The silk tore completely along one side as her kick connected with the second guard's weapon, sending it spinning into the darkness. Her hand found the first fallen pistol before it hit the ground.

It had taken perhaps two seconds.

Then five shots rang out in rapid succession. The men who had searched her so thoroughly crumpled, each sporting a spreading red stain on their pristine white shirts. Natalia pivoted, acquired the second pistol, and eliminated the remaining threats before Philip could draw breath to speak.

Groans filled the air as wounded men writhed on the cobblestones. Some cursed, some prayed, some simply stared at Natalia with expressions of shocked disbelief.

"Monster," one gasped. "She's a gods‑damned monster."

Natalia ignored them, moving with mechanical efficiency to collect the knife. Philip found his voice at last. "We need to leave. Find somewhere safe—and with signal coverage, contact the authorities—"

Several consecutive gunshots cut him off.

Philip spun to see Natalia standing amid the suddenly silent bodies, smoke still rising from the pistol in her hand. She had executed each wounded man with clinical precision—a single shot to the head, no hesitation, no emotion.

When she turned to face him, her expression transformed completely. The cold efficiency vanished, replaced by a sweet smile that seemed utterly at odds with the carnage surrounding them.

"All safe here now, Master," she reported cheerfully. "I've ensured our secret remains safe. Since they would have been killed by the imperial apparatus anyway, we might as well kill them before they had any chance of divulging our secrets to the imperial government. You don't have to worry about the legal consequences—we can present this as self‑defense: you gallantly protected us both from bandits. Though their coordination suggests professional assassins rather than bandits."

Philip stared at her, his mind struggling to reconcile the woman making pragmatic suggestions about cover stories with the one who had just executed almost a dozen men without a flicker of remorse. Blood spattered her torn gown, and her hair had come partially undone, golden strands framing her face in a way that should have been alluring but now seemed surreal against the backdrop of death.

"Natalia," he managed, his voice barely above a whisper. "You... you killed them all."

She tilted her head, genuine puzzlement crossing her features. "Yes? They were going to kill you. They would have revealed my nature, which would lead to your death. Both outcomes were unacceptable, so I eliminated the threat. Was that... incorrect?"

Philip continued staring at Natalia, who waited patiently for his response, blood drying on her hands and that impossibly sweet smile still gracing her lips. The evening air carried the metallic scent of death and gunpowder.

"Master?" Natalia prompted, concern creeping into her voice. "Are you injured? You're exhibiting signs of shock—perhaps we should treat your neck wound?"

She stepped toward him, and Philip found himself taking an involuntary step back. Something flickered in her eyes—hurt? confusion? It was gone too quickly to identify.

"Master Philip?" Natalia's voice was smaller now, uncertain. "Have I done something wrong? But the moment I revealed my superhuman abilities... it's either they die or you die."

Philip closed his eyes, seeing again the casual efficiency with which she'd ended those lives. But he also remembered her immediate submission when his safety was threatened, her willingness to endure degradation for his sake, the fury in her eyes when that blade drew his blood.

"No," he said finally. "It's just... it could have been done differently."

Part 2

Two days after Philip's visit to the gallery, on the other side of the Atlantic, Colonel Kendrick Nernwick pressed a perfumed handkerchief to his nose as his gilded carriage rolled through the devastated streets of West Vaker, a border town of the Vakerian Union. The small nation—one of the minor coalition states under Osgorreich's leadership—squatted between the Osgorreich Imperium and the Arussian Empire like a mouse between two hungry cats.

Through the mana‑reinforced glass windows of his vehicle—a necessary precaution, his security team had insisted—Kendrick observed a scene that made his stomach clench with unexpected nausea. This bore no resemblance to the "minor border skirmishes" described in Avalondian newspapers. The buildings, once proudly displaying the architectural fusion characteristic of this crossroads region, now gaped with hollow windows and collapsed roofs. Entire blocks had been reduced to rubble‑strewn lots where families picked through debris, searching for anything salvageable.

"Dear Creator," Kendrick breathed, his voice barely audible. His perfectly manicured fingers trembled as they gripped his ceremonial sword's pommel. "What manner of warfare is this?"

His aide, Captain Morrison, shifted uncomfortably in the opposite seat. "The city's been under alternating bombardment until three days ago, when the temporary ceasefire was declared, sir. The artillery from both sides has disrupted all civilian infrastructure. Supply lines are... compromised."

"No, annihilated," Kendrick's mind corrected as he watched a group of children scatter when his vehicle approached. They moved with the practiced wariness of hunted animals, disappearing into ruins with an efficiency that spoke of terrible experience. One girl, perhaps seven years old, clutched what appeared to be a moldy crust of bread as if it were made of gold.

The evidence of recent bombardment was everywhere. Fresh craters still steamed with residual heat from incendiary rounds. Kendrick saw the distinctive pattern of cluster‑munition impacts across what had once been a market square—dozens of smaller craters radiating from central blast points. Bodies had been cleared, but dark stains on the cobblestones told their own story. A makeshift morgue had been established in a partially collapsed warehouse, white sheets insufficient to cover all the dead. Some bodies bore the horrific burns of white phosphorus; others showed the telltale signs of thermobaric weapons—lungs collapsed from the pressure wave, blood vessels burst throughout the body.

"This isn't warfare," he murmured, more to himself than to Morrison. "This is... butchery."

Morrison nodded grimly. "The rules of engagement we're accustomed to don't apply here, sir. The Congress of Empires established those protocols after the great conflicts of the last century to prevent exactly this—the total devastation of civilian populations. But since this is classified as a 'border skirmish' rather than a declared war..."

"The regulations don't apply," Kendrick finished, understanding dawning like a cold sunrise.

He could smell it now—the acrid smoke that carried the distinctive tang of weaponized mana, a scent that made his eyes water despite the carriage's filtration wards. This was nothing like the battlefields in which Kendrick was so experienced. Those were controlled conflicts between great powers following strict protocols of international engagement. The rules of engagement and weapon limitations were so strict that the conflicts were almost ceremonial—more like sports competitions between civilizations, except with real lives and livelihoods on the line. They had been set up by the Congress of Empires after the great conflicts of the last century to ensure that such hellish barbarity and devastation would never emerge again, especially with almost all great powers having acquired a Realm Guardian of their own. Any uncontrolled engagement could mean the end of humanity.

Over time, however, the international regulations grew so tight that these monitored wars between great powers effectively became ceremonial skirmishes using weapons and methods that were relics from a century past—a respect for tradition rather than real warfare using modern technologies, both natural and unnatural. Muskets, cavalry charges, traditional artillery—all bound by strict rules about engagement zones and civilian protection. However, intrastate conflicts, terrorism, and clashes between minor states or "border skirmishes" were not limited by these protocols and were far more crude, destructive, and technologically advanced. Hence, as the current conflict was officially acknowledged by all parties involved to be a "border skirmish" rather than a declared war, the international rules of engagement did not apply. In other words, it was the first time Kendrick had glimpsed total, unrestricted modern warfare.

A sharp crack made Kendrick flinch before he recognized it as merely debris crushed beneath their wheels. Through the window, he glimpsed more evidence of this new kind of warfare. A field hospital had been established in what might once have been an opera house, its grand entrance now choked with desperate civilians. Even from a distance, Kendrick could see the medics were overwhelmed—traditional healers worked alongside modern magical practitioners, all of them clearly exhausted.

The injured were everywhere. A man missing both legs from a landmine sat propped against a wall, his face blank with shock. Children with shrapnel wounds cried weakly for parents who would never answer. A woman cradled an infant whose skin showed the mottled burns of magical‑decay weapons—the child's flesh slowly necrotizing despite the healers' efforts. These weren't the clean wounds of sword or musket ball that Kendrick knew from his wars, but the horrific damage of unrestricted warfare.

"How much longer to the diplomatic compound?" he asked, needing distraction from the scenes outside.

"Fifteen minutes, sir. Though..." Morrison hesitated. "We'll need to take a detour. The main boulevard was hit by Arussian decay missiles two nights ago, just before the ceasefire. The residual magical energy is still consuming anything organic it touches."

As if to underscore the point, a distant mechanical whir drew Kendrick's attention skyward. A formation of Arussian‑summoned birdies swept across the sky, their wings beating with unnatural precision. They moved nothing like birds he was familiar with. These were predators of steel and sorcery, their crystalline eyes scanning the ground below with malevolent intelligence.

"Summoned unmanned aircraft," Morrison identified with practiced calm. "With the ceasefire in effect, they're limited to observation. Though when active combat resumes..." He didn't need to finish. Kendrick had read the reports of these drones dropping guided munitions with devastating accuracy.

The motorcade slowed as they navigated around a massive crater that had obliterated half the street. The hole still glowed with residual mana, its edges crystallized into glass. At the bottom, Kendrick glimpsed the twisted remains of what might have been a public fountain, its marble cherubs now melted into grotesque shapes.

"Reality‑fracturing munition," Morrison noted clinically. "Osgorreich's latest contribution to the coalition. They create localized distortions in the fabric of reality itself."

Kendrick had read the classified briefings, dismissing them as exaggerations. Now he wondered if the reports had been conservative.

By comparison to the desolate surroundings, Kendrick's motorcade—five armored carriages, three trucks carrying his extensive wardrobe and personal effects, and an escort of thirty mounted cavalry in full ceremonial dress—must have seemed like something from a fairy tale to the local residents. The horses' coats gleamed with health‑enhancement charms, their riders' uniforms immaculate despite the pervasive ash that fell like grey snow.

"Sir," Morrison ventured carefully, "perhaps we should have taken a less... conspicuous approach? The locals seem rather... agitated by our display."

Kendrick turned his perfect profile toward his aide, one golden eyebrow arching with renewed aristocratic hauteur. "Nonsense. We represent the Avalondian Empire—the pinnacle of human civilization, the inheritor of ancient Gillyria and Ageptus. Would you have us skulk into negotiations like common merchants? These people need to see what they're missing—what true prosperity looks like under the Empire."

He gestured toward the devastation outside. "Look at them, Morrison," he said, his voice both pitying and reproachful. "They are living out a tragedy all because their leaders, a century ago, refused to relinquish their privilege and accept the Empire's offer of annexation when they had the chance."

He shook his head slowly, gaze still fixed on the miserable scene. "Had they been Avalondian subjects, safely within the Empire's protective embrace, they would be enjoying the fruits of civilization right now—rather than scraping by in the mud just to survive."

A note of pride entered his tone. "The Empire's four hundred million citizens enjoy prosperity precisely because they recognize the importance of unity under civilized order."

He sighed, and a hint of pragmatism crept in. "Of course, convincing the Imperial Parliament to accept new territories might take some effort. After all, with the cost of living rising across the Empire, the Avalondia First Party could very well become a major force in Parliament after the upcoming election in the fall. And if they do, their strong proclivity for decolonization—the same zeal that nearly fragmented the Empire once before—will surely resurface on the political stage."

He fell silent for a moment, considering, then his voice turned quietly resolute. "But I suppose I could pull some strings. I cannot bear to see people suffering in darkness when light is at their doorstep."

A commotion ahead drew his attention. Another delegation was attempting to navigate the same debris‑strewn street: the representatives of the Danubian Hegemony. Where the Avalondian convoy projected unified splendor, this procession was a study in ostentatious inequality. The lead carriage was a masterwork of excess—gold leaf, precious gems, and enough protective enchantments to glow visibly even in daylight. Behind it, in stark contrast, trudged a line of servants on foot, their livery grand but their faces gaunt with poor nutrition.

"Duke Maximilian Happyburg of Wienna," Morrison supplied. "Chief negotiator for the coalition. His family monopolizes the line of succession to the imperial throne of the Danubian Hegemony. They're also heading to the compound to await further instructions before the negotiations with Arussia begin."

Kendrick watched as one of the servants stumbled, clearly exhausted, only to be struck with a pain‑curse by an overseer. The servant straightened immediately, fear overcoming fatigue. The Duke's carriage never even slowed.

"Barbaric," Kendrick muttered, though he kept his voice low. "In Avalondia, we understand that a nation's strength comes from all its citizens, not just the aristocracy. A true empire brings development, not oppression."

Morrison wisely remained silent. The recent events in Yorgoria—over a thousand dead in the restoration of order—suggested the Empire's enlightenment had its limits. But that had been different, Kendrick told himself. Those had been rebels, terrorists. Not tired servants guilty only of stumbling.

The two convoys converged at a checkpoint manned by soldiers in the neutral grey of the International Peace Brigade. Duke Happyburg himself emerged briefly to present credentials—a man so corpulent his ceremonial uniform strained at every seam, fingers heavy with rings that probably cost more than a common family earned in a lifetime.

"Lord Nernwick," the Duke called out with false cheer. "How fortuitous! We shall be compound companions while we await the Arussians' pleasure. Perhaps we might share the journey?"

"Your Grace," Kendrick acknowledged with the minimum courtesy required by protocol.

"I see Avalondia continues its tradition of sending beautiful ornaments to serious negotiations," the Duke added, his voice dripping with the particular disdain the old nobility reserved for those whose titles were generations younger.

Kendrick's perfect features remained serene, though his jaw tightened imperceptibly. "Beauty and intelligence need not be mutually exclusive, Your Grace. Though I understand why that concept might be foreign to some."

The Duke's face purpled, but before he could respond, the lead vehicle of the International Peace Brigade signaled for both convoys to proceed together.

As their processions merged and continued through the checkpoint, Kendrick found himself studying the contrast between them. The Avalondian soldiers were well‑fed, well‑equipped, their loyalty earned through fair treatment and genuine patriotism. The Danubian servants trudged forward out of fear alone.

The compound walls appeared ahead—a sanctuary of relative normalcy in this hellscape. But Kendrick knew the images he'd witnessed would haunt him. This was the reality of modern warfare when stripped of civilized restrictions. This was what the Empire stood against.

The image of Celestica returned unbidden—the way she had spoken of the Empire's mission, its responsibility to guide humanity toward a better future. The way her eyes had seemed to see straight through to his soul when she asked if he would take on this peace mission, not just for the Empire, but for the sake of the people suffering from the devastations of war.

He pressed his hand to the medallion beneath his uniform, feeling its weight against his chest. He was here to bring the light of civilization to these destitute people. He quickly reminded himself that if his heart raced at the memory of Empress Celestica, it was surely just his devotion to what she represented.

Nothing more.

Nothing more, he repeated firmly, even as the memory of her fingers brushing his collar sent an unexpected blush up his cheeks.