Part 1
The plaza held its breath—but not in the way crowds usually do when witnessing drama.
Those closest to Natalia had begun moving away the moment Julian's entourage materialized, the bodyguards' House Kensingwall crests glinting in the afternoon sun like warnings etched in gold. A burly bystander had started forward, concern on his face, but his wife's hand shot out to grip his sleeve.
"Don't," she whispered urgently. "Noble business. Not ours."
Similar scenes played out across the plaza. Within moments, a large empty radius had formed around Natalia and Julian, as if an invisible barrier had descended. People went about their business with studied casualness—buying ice cream, admiring the fountain, chatting about the weather—but their sidelong glances betrayed their awareness of the unfolding scene.
Julian's face cycled through emotions like a malfunctioning automaton—surprise melting into confusion, confusion hardening into disbelief. His honey-colored hair, so artfully tousled moments before, seemed to lose its careful arrangement as his composure cracked.
"His... mistress?" Julian's voice carried across the suddenly hushed plaza with the kind of projection that spoke of elocution lessons and aristocratic breeding. He turned to look at Philip—still frozen in the ice cream queue with coins clutched in one pudgy hand—and something flickered across his handsome features before vanishing behind a practiced mask.
Then, with visible effort, Julian composed himself. His shoulders straightened, his expression smoothed into something more controlled. He turned back to Natalia with a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes—the smile of someone who'd decided this was merely a game, a test of his charm.
"Ah," he said, his voice dropping to something more intimate, more confident. "I understand now. You've never experienced the finer aspects of life, have you? So you simply settled for whom you could get at the time..." He stepped closer, invading her personal space with the casual presumption of someone who'd never been denied. "But sometimes in life, dreams are the prerequisite to success. A girl must dare to dream big, however humble her origins."
Natalia, oblivious to the predatory shift in his demeanor, tilted her head with that peculiar analytical expression Philip had come to both adore and dread. "I'm not certain I understand your point."
Julian's hand rose, reaching toward her face with practiced smoothness. "Shh," he murmured, his fingers trailing along her jawline as Natalia's expression indicated confusion, her mind clearly working to discern his intention and determine the correct response. "You don't need to be so humble with me. Even though you are a commoner, possibly of impoverished stock, your beauty is truly remarkable. It makes you unique. It makes you... good enough to deserve a chance at dinner with someone like me."
Natalia froze, her expression cycling through confusion to calculation. She didn't pull away immediately, still trying to process whether this touch was another social custom she'd failed to learn. "Is your touching appropriate for such an occasion? Given that I am someone else's mistress?"
"Your loyalty is admirable," Julian continued, his thumb brushing across her cheek as his other hand found her chin, tilting her face toward him. His touch lingered, proprietary. "But surely you must realize that you're wasting yourself on that clerk. A woman of your extraordinary beauty deserves so much more than being some nobody's mistress."
In the ice cream queue, Philip had finally found his legs working, but the crowd's sudden dispersal had created a clear line of sight without actually providing a path through. Several of Julian's bodyguards had positioned themselves strategically, not quite blocking Philip's approach but making it clear that intervention would be... inadvisable.
Lydia had risen from her bench, her expression one of controlled concern beneath her respectable middle-class bonnet. She moved with deliberate calm toward the scene, her practiced eye already assessing the situation and calculating the best approach to defuse it without causing a public scandal.
Julian seemed to take Natalia's frozen silence as encouragement. With theatrical flair, he released her face to remove his watch—an elaborate timepiece that caught the sunlight with calculated brilliance. Gold and platinum intertwined in impossibly intricate patterns around a face studded with what had to be genuine diamonds. He held it up between them, letting it dangle and spin, catching the light like a hypnotist's pendulum.
"Do you know what this is?" His voice had taken on that particular pitch designed to impress. "This is a Beaumont Royal Celestial Chronometer. Limited edition—only fifty were ever made. The case alone required three master craftsmen working for six months. The movement? Designed by the former Emperor's personal watchmaker."
He paused for dramatic effect, his eyes never leaving her face.
"This watch is worth more than your precious 'mister' could make in fifty years. Fifty years of counting coins behind some dusty desk, and he still wouldn't have enough to buy even the leather strap." He laughed, the sound both charming and cruel. "Assuming, of course, that he doesn't get himself dismissed first. Clerks are so... disposable."
Natalia's head tilted the other way, processing. "Fifty years seems like an impractical timeframe for purchasing accessories. The leather would deteriorate long before—"
"My point," Julian interjected smoothly, stepping even closer, "is that I can give you everything that simple chubby man cannot." He pressed the watch into her palm with a warm smile. "This is yours. A gift. No strings attached."
Natalia's expression brightened immediately, her eyes widening with genuine delight as she looked down at the magnificent timepiece in her hand. "Oh! No strings attached?" She smiled—that devastating innocent smile that Philip had seen her deploy when genuinely touched by kindness. "That's remarkably generous, Lord Julian! This could help Mr. Philips' financial situation significantly. The monetary value you mentioned would—"
"Well..." Julian's smile widened, taking on a warmer quality that Philip recognized as calculated charm. "Perhaps one small string."
Natalia's head snapped up, her posture shifting subtly. Her back straightened, her expression transforming from delighted gratitude to focused attention—like a cat that had just noticed a bird. Her eyes, which had been soft with appreciation, now studied Julian with renewed analytical intensity.
"One... string?" she repeated carefully, her tone polite but noticeably more guarded.
Julian, interpreting her focused attention as interest, maintained the intimate distance, his voice dropping to something almost tender.
"Be my girlfriend, Natalia. Not my mistress—no, no, no. I'm not some uneducated middle class boor who treats a precious gem such as yourself like a dirty secret to be hidden. I'm a man of responsibility, of proper breeding and education. House Kensingwall traces its lineage back seven hundred years. We honor the women we care for with proper courtship, proper respect."
His hand found hers again, the one holding the watch, and he lifted it gently.
"A woman like you—a masterpiece of the Creator himself—deserves to be treated as such. Imagine it, my lady. Standing beside me at the Grand Seasonal Ball in the Imperial Capital, wearing gowns designed by Madame Dinilari herself. Private boxes at the Royal Opera House—not just any opera, but premieres where composers debut their masterworks."
He was warming to his theme now, painting pictures with words, his voice taking on an almost poetic quality.
"Summer yachting in the Sea off the Mediterrania coast, where the water is so clear you can see fifty feet down. Winter skiing in the Alps, staying at my family's private chalet—twelve bedrooms, each with its own fireplace. Charitable galas where we'd dance under crystal chandeliers that once hung in the palace of the Sun King himself."
Julian's free hand gestured expansively, as if he could summon these visions into being.
"Tea with the Duchess of Wessingham in her rose gardens. Private concerts by the Imperial Philharmonic. Racing thoroughbreds at the Kensingwall Country Estate. Fashion shows in Pariseau where you'd sit front row beside countesses and industrial heiresses."
He leaned in closer, his voice dropping to an intimate whisper that somehow still carried.
"I will show you crystal ballrooms and marble halls. Vintage wines older than your grandfather and dishes prepared by chefs who train for decades to perfect a single sauce. Private trains with your own carriage. Art, music, theater—everything the world has to offer, all of it yours. All you have to do is say yes."
He squeezed her hand gently, his thumb stroking across her knuckles.
"Say yes to being treated as you deserve. Say yes to me, my lady."
The plaza remained silent, people still pretending not to watch while watching intently. Philip had finally managed to push closer, but two of Julian's bodyguards had smoothly repositioned themselves, their postures polite but unmistakably obstructive.
Lydia had been moving closer, now close enough to intervene. She caught Natalia's eye for the briefest moment, giving the slightest shake of her head—a signal to wait, to let her handle this delicately.
With the practiced grace of someone who had navigated aristocratic circles for decades, Lydia stepped forward with a warm, respectful smile.
"Lord Julian," she said, her voice carrying just enough to be heard without seeming intrusive. She executed a small curtsy appropriate to her supposed station. "Please forgive my interruption. I must say, your offer is extraordinarily generous—truly, the kindness and thoughtfulness you've shown is remarkable. Not many young men of your distinguished position would notice my niece in her current circumstances."
Julian turned to her, slightly surprised but not displeased by the deferential interruption.
"Your description of the opportunities you could provide is genuinely magnificent. Crystal ballrooms, the Imperial Capital—any young woman would be beyond fortunate to receive such an offer from a gentleman of House Kensingwall's standing." She paused, letting the flattery settle. "And I can see the sincerity in your approach. You speak of proper courtship, of respect—these are the marks of true breeding."
Julian's posture relaxed slightly, his expression warming. Lydia had struck exactly the right tone.
"However," Lydia continued gently, "I wonder if I might make a small suggestion? One that would, I believe, serve both you and my niece best?" She clasped her hands together in a gesture that managed to be both humble and maternal. "You see, Natalia is currently bound by certain... arrangements. And while your offer is clearly superior in every regard, it would perhaps reflect better on both of you if she were given proper time to conclude her current obligations appropriately."
She smiled at Julian with genuine warmth. "A gentleman of your standing surely understands the importance of conducting such transitions with discretion and propriety. If Natalia were to accept your generous offer immediately, well... it might give rise to unfortunate gossip."
She looked between Julian and Natalia with an expression of kind practicality. "What I propose is this: give Natalia a brief period—perhaps a week or two—to respectfully conclude her current arrangement with Mr. Philips. This way, when she accepts your courtship, as I'm quite certain she will after thought, it will be done cleanly, honorably. No scandal, no whispers that could follow either of you."
Julian's face had smoothed into an expression of pleased consideration. The logic was sound, the flattery well-placed.
"Your aunt makes an excellent point," Julian said magnanimously. He turned back to Natalia with a warmer smile. "Very well. I can certainly afford to be patient for such a prize. Take your time to—"
"Thank you, Aunt Lydia, for your thoughtful suggestion," Natalia interrupted, her voice carrying that same pleasant, earnest tone she used when she'd worked through a problem logically. "And Lord Julian, I truly appreciate your consideration in being willing to wait. Your willingness to be patient demonstrates the gentlemanly character Aunt Lydia described."
She paused, her expression genuinely grateful but firm.
"However, I'm afraid I must decline your offer. You see, I cannot forgo my current arrangement with Mr. Philips."
The plaza seemed to freeze. Julian's expression locked in place, his smile becoming brittle. Lydia's eyes widened fractionally—this was not the script she'd been writing.
"But..." Julian's voice had lost its warmth, confusion bleeding through. "Your aunt just explained—the time to conclude your arrangements—"
"Oh, the suggestion was indeed thoughtful," Natalia agreed readily, nodding with academic interest. "And your offer is truly extraordinary. Any woman in my position would be fortunate to receive such attention from someone of your status and means."
She carefully tried to press the watch back into Julian's hand.
"But you see, Lord Julian, it's a matter of the spirit of dedication. Yes, that's it exactly. I am a law-abiding girl, and the spirit of the contract is key. When I entered into my current arrangement with Mr. Philips, I made a commitment. The manual emphasizes that dedication and reliability are fundamental to proper social conduct."
Natalia's expression had taken on that particular earnestness she displayed when explaining something she'd recently learned and was proud to apply correctly.
"So you see, while I deeply appreciate your kindness in making this offer—and I do recognize it as kindness, which I value highly—I cannot in good conscience accept. Perhaps there's another young lady who would be better suited to accept such generosity? Someone not currently bound by existing arrangements?"
Lydia's face remained composed, but Philip could see the subtle tension in her shoulders. She had tried to engineer a graceful exit for everyone, but Natalia's absolute literal-mindedness had demolished the careful social architecture.
Julian's face had gone very still. The charming mask had cracked, and something darker leaked through the fissures. His hand, which had been gently holding hers, tightened slightly around her fingers—not quite painful, but no longer gentle.
"The... spirit of dedication," he repeated slowly, his voice dropping its warmth like a snake shedding skin. "To a clerk. A fat, unremarkable clerk who probably can't even afford a decent tailor."
"Well, he is rather well-tailored for his income bracket," Natalia offered helpfully. "His vest shows only minimal strain despite the fit, which suggests quality construction—"
"Do you have any idea," Julian's voice cut across hers like a blade, "who you're speaking to? I am Julian of House Kensingwall. My uncle sits on the Imperial Treasury Council. My father commands four votes in the upper house. When I speak, ministers listen. When I want something, I get it."
"I offer you everything—everything—and you choose him?" His honey-colored hair had lost its artful arrangement entirely as he leaned closer, invading her space. "That corpulent nobody who smells of ink and cheap tobacco?"
"Actually, he uses sandalwood soap," Natalia corrected with that same earnest tone, still not reading the danger. "And I don't detect any tobacco scent. I believe you may have him confused with—"
"SILENCE!" The word cracked across the plaza like a whip.
Natalia blinked, finally registering that something had shifted in the social equation. Her head tilted slightly, processing.
Julian released her hand to step back, and Philip could see the exact moment aristocratic charm finished transforming into aristocratic rage. The kind that came from a lifetime of getting everything he wanted, of never hearing "no."
"You stand there," Julian's voice had dropped to something dangerous, "and lecture me about dedication? About contracts and reliability? You—a nobody's whore—dare to choose that pathetic excuse for a man over me?"
He took a step toward her, and Philip saw Natalia's posture shift slightly—a subtle redistribution of weight that he recognized as preparation.
"Let me tell you something about dedication," Julian continued, his voice rising again. "Dedication is what separates nobility from rabble. We dedicate ourselves to maintaining civilization, to keeping order, to ensuring that people know their proper place."
His hand shot out, grabbing her wrist.
"And your proper place," he hissed, "is on your back, earning whatever coins that fat clerk throws at you. But you could have been so much more. You could have stood beside a future marquis."
Natalia's eyes had changed. The analytical curiosity had drained away, replaced by something arctic and surgical. Philip recognized that look—it was the expression she wore right before someone stopped breathing.
"Lord Julian," her voice had gone flat, empty, "I must ask you to release my wrist. Your grip is rough and your language is no longer acceptable."
Lydia had moved closer during the exchange, her position now strategic. Her hand had slipped near her sleeve in a way that seemed casual but Philip recognized as preparation.
"Rough?" Julian laughed, the sound like breaking glass. "I'll show you rough. I'll show you what happens when common trash forgets its place. I'll show you—"
Philip finally broke through the line of bodyguards, shoving past with more force than he knew he had. "That's enough!"
Julian's head snapped around, his eyes finding Philip for the first time with real focus. And Philip saw it then—the exact moment when Julian decided to destroy him.
"Ah," Julian said, his voice dripping with venom disguised as politeness. "The man himself. Tell me, clerk, how much do you pay her? Because clearly, that's the only explanation for why a woman who looks like that would settle for a man who looks like... well, like you've been sampling rather too much of your own cooking."
Scattered nervous laughter rippled through the crowd. Philip felt his face burning, but held his ground.
"This is what happens when you give them opportunities, you see," Julian continued, addressing the crowd now. "Let some clerk inherit a minor post, let him earn a few extra coins, and suddenly he thinks he can afford mistresses. It's this exact problem that's ruining our society. Commoners forgetting their place."
His eyes found Philip again. "You can dress in decent clothes, you can throw money at a beautiful woman, but you'll always be what you are—a crass boor."
Philip wanted to respond, wanted to defend himself, but the words stuck in his throat. This wasn't about logic or fairness. This was about power, pure and simple.
"I think," Julian continued, warming to his theme, "that we should ensure you remember your proper place." He turned to one of his bodyguards. "Carter, make a note. Find out where this... gentleman works. I'm sure the Treasury would be interested to know which counting house employs clerks who consort with women far above their means. Questions about embezzlement might arise."
The bodyguard produced a small notebook, his smile cruel. "Of course, my lord."
Philip's stomach dropped. Even in his disguise, the casual wielding of power was breathtaking. One word from this man, and "Mr. Philips" could be destroyed.
"Actually," Julian said, his voice taking on a contemplative quality that somehow felt more dangerous, "I think we should make this lesson more immediate. More educational." He waved his hand with theatrical flair. "Handle this."
The bodyguard who'd been blocking Philip's path earlier moved forward with practiced efficiency. Not rushing, not theatrical—just the smooth, inevitable approach of someone who knew exactly how this would end.
Philip's mind raced. He could fight back—sort of. He could try to dodge. He could—
But then he saw it. Two things happened simultaneously.
Natalia's eyes went cold. Not the polite coldness from before, but something deeper. Something that spoke of combat algorithms calculating vulnerable points and estimated kill times. Her posture shifted in ways so subtle most people wouldn't notice—weight redistributing, center of gravity lowering, one hand flexing in a motion that Philip recognized as the precursor to a strike that could shatter bone.
And Lydia. Dear, respectable Lydia. She'd somehow moved closer without being noticed, and Philip saw her hand slip into her sleeve with practiced grace. Something small and cylindrical slid into her palm—a tranquilizer dart, designed to be nearly invisible in flight. Her eyes had gone flat and professional, tracking the bodyguard's movement with predatory focus.
Then, Lydia's eyes widened, her attack motion freezing mid-execution. Her gaze had snapped to something else, something that reflected light in a way that didn't belong—
A concealed mana-powered handgun.
Philip caught the moment of her realization, saw her entire body language transform from offensive action to desperate defense. The gun wasn't pointed at the bodyguard or Philip.
It was pointed at Julian. But Natalia was in the line of fire.
Lydia didn't hesitate. Years of training compressed into a single heartbeat of decision. She launched herself forward with speed that belied her apparent age, her shoulder connecting with Natalia's midsection just as the first gunshot cracked across the plaza.
The bullet passed through empty air where Natalia's head had been a fraction of a second before, shattering a cocktail glass on the vendor's cart behind her in an explosion of crystal fragments.
The second shot found flesh. Julian spun backward with a spray of crimson, his shoulder erupting in red as the impact threw him off balance. His honey-colored hair whipped across his face as he staggered. His bodyguards reacted instantly—black-suited professionals forming a human shield even as he stumbled.
Then the plaza erupted into screaming chaos.
"DOWN WITH THE PARASITES!" The shout exploded from multiple points in the crowd. "THE TRAITORS WHO OPPRESS OUR PEOPLE AND SELL OUT OUR NATION!"
More gunshots. The mechanical carousel's cheerful music kept playing its tinny waltz, creating a discordant soundtrack to panic. Families scattered like startled birds—mothers snatching up children, vendors abandoning their carts.
Philip's world narrowed to a tunnel of sensory overload. The screaming. The gunshots. The metallic scent of blood mixing with burnt sugar from the cotton candy cart. His heart hammered against his ribs—too fast, can't breathe, this isn't happening—
He saw flashes of movement through the panicking crowd. Men in worker's clothes, faces masked with scarves, revolvers gleaming. Not random violence. Coordinated. Professional.
Assassination.
Julian's bodyguards had formed a tight circle, one pressing a hand to the young lord's bleeding shoulder while others returned fire with mana-enhanced pistols. The distinctive crack of magical rounds echoed, blue-white trails cutting through air like tracer rounds.
"MASTER!" Natalia's voice cut through the chaos with startling clarity. She'd recovered from Lydia's tackle with inhuman speed, her body flowing upright in a single motion. Her eyes—those impossibly blue eyes—had gone cold and flat, scanning the crowd with predatory focus. "MASTER!"
"Here!" Philip waved, his hand shaking, trying to make himself visible through the surging mass of panicked humanity.
Natalia moved like quicksilver, her body finding paths through the chaos that shouldn't exist. She flowed around a fleeing mother and child, ducked under a man's wild swing as he fought to reach the exit, pivoted past a frozen woman.
They reached him in seconds. Natalia's hands immediately moved across his body with clinical precision—checking for wounds, assessing for injuries, her fingers gentle but thorough.
"Unharmed," she reported, more to herself than him. "Elevated heart rate, dilated pupils, shallow breathing consistent with panic response, but no visible wounds."
Her posture shifted, placing her body between Philip and the direction of the gunfire. Every line of her frame screamed combat readiness.
"We need to move," Lydia said urgently, one hand gripping Philip's arm while the other remained inside her sleeve. Her eyes never stopped scanning. "Now. Before they realize—"
Another volley of shots. One of Julian's bodyguards went down, crimson blooming across his black jacket. Philip's stomach lurched. That was a person. Someone with a family, with friends, with a life.
"FOREIGN LAPDOGS! FILTH WHO IMPORT WORKERS AND STEAL OUR JOBS!"
Philip caught a glimpse of one of the shooters through a gap—young, maybe twenty, face twisted with genuine fury behind his scarf. Not just a hired gun. A believer.
This wasn't just an assassination attempt. It might be the start of another uprising.
"This way!" Lydia was already moving, pulling them into the flow of fleeing civilians. Her movements were calculated, using the panic to their advantage.
Natalia moved with her, but Philip could feel the tension radiating from her. Every combat instinct must be screaming to turn around, to engage, to eliminate threats.
"Stay focused on the Master," Lydia murmured. "Your priority is his safety, not engaging the enemy."
"But the threats—"
"Will be handled by others."
Behind them, the gunfire intensified. Julian's motorcar was pushing through the crowd, horn blaring uselessly. The bodyguards maintained suppressing fire while moving their principal. But the attackers had the advantage—at least six gunmen, maybe more.
A mechanical gryphon from the carousel, struck by a stray magical round, broke free from its mounting with a tortured screech of metal. It crashed into a cotton candy cart, sending clouds of pink sugar into the air.
Philip's legs were burning. His breathing came in gasps. His body was not built for running. But terror kept him moving, and Lydia's firm grip on his arm kept him upright.
Halfway to the gates, Lydia's free hand dove into her sleeve again. She pulled out a small device—rectangular, brass and crystal, covered in tiny glowing runes. She pressed something, and the runes flared brighter.
"Signal sent," she muttered. "Thirty seconds to arrival."
"What signal?" Philip gasped.
"Our ride."
They burst through the gates along with dozens of others. Behind them, Wonder Park—that beautiful mechanical fantasy—had become a killing ground.
Philip risked a glance back. He caught one last glimpse of Julian being physically thrown into his motorcar by his remaining bodyguards, his face pale beneath the blood, eyes wide with shock.
Welcome to the real world, Philip thought with surprising bitterness. Where lack of discretion when exercising privilege has consequences, even for nobility.
"There!" Natalia pointed.
A carriage—their carriage—was already at the curb. The horse looked panicked, foam at its mouth, but was being held steady by someone Philip didn't immediately recognize. Then he caught the stance, the way the figure held the reins with professional calm. One of the Duke's people. Hidden backup.
Of course. Lydia probably arranged three backup plans before we even left the house.
They piled into the carriage with desperate haste, Lydia practically shoving them inside. Natalia tried to position herself at the door—still in full protection mode—but Lydia firmly pushed her further in.
"I'll watch the door," Lydia said with quiet authority, her hand now openly holding a small but lethal-looking pistol. "You both stay down and stay quiet."
The carriage lurched into motion before the door had fully closed. Through the window, Philip could still see people streaming out of Wonder Park, could still hear the echoes of gunfire fading but not disappearing. Those sounds will be in my nightmares.
Natalia was pressed against his side, her breathing controlled but rapid—combat-ready inhales designed to saturate her blood with oxygen. Her eyes were still cold, still locked in that frightening mode where she stopped being the curious woman he loved and became the weapon beneath.
Philip put a trembling hand on her arm. The fabric of her modest dress was torn where Lydia had tackled her. "It's okay," he said softly, trying to gentle his voice despite the adrenaline. "We're safe now. You kept me safe."
"Incorrect," she said flatly. "Lydia kept us safe. I failed to detect the concealed weapon. I should have scanned more thoroughly. I was distracted by Julian. I should have—"
"You couldn't have known," Lydia interrupted, her eyes still scanning the street behind them. "None of us could have. That was a planned assassination with multiple attackers using military-grade concealment spells. Even I only caught the reflection by pure chance."
The carriage turned onto a broader avenue, the horse's hooves clopping against cobblestones in a rhythm that seemed impossibly normal. Other vehicles passed them—none moving particularly quickly, none seeming to notice the three people inside who'd just survived an assassination attempt.
Philip's hands were shaking. He realized he'd been holding his breath and let it out in a long, unsteady exhale.
"That man," he said quietly. "Julian. He was going to hurt me. And the bystanders just... watched."
"Yes," Lydia said simply. "That's how it works. The nobility have power, and the rest of us have fear. It's been that way for a very long time."
"That's why they tried to kill him," Natalia observed, her analytical mind already shifting from tactical to strategic evaluation. "The attackers. They chose a scion of a noble family because he represents everything they hate about the system. Attacking him would serve as a perfect rallying point."
"Wonder Park was a good choice for an attack," Lydia mused. "Public space, lots of civilians for cover, multiple exits, magical interference from the amusement devices. They'd been planning this."
"But why Julian?" Philip asked. "He's not that important, is he?"
"Symbolic," Lydia said. "And accessible. Can't get to the really powerful ones—they have real security, counter-assassination protocols. But someone like Julian? Arrogant enough to go out with minimal protection?" She shook her head. "Perfect target for making a statement."
The carriage rattled on, carrying them away from Wonder Park, away from the violence.
Philip thought about Julian's face as he'd mocked him. Thought about how that same face had looked pale and shocked when the bullets started flying, when pain became real, when consequence came calling.
No one's invincible, Philip realized. Not really. The nobility's power was just collective delusion nowadays. And when enough people stop believing...
But the cost. The terror in children's eyes. The blood on the cobblestones. The way an afternoon of joy had transformed into a warzone.
Too high. The cost was always too high.
Behind them, somewhere in the distance, sirens began to wail. The authorities responding. Too late to prevent, arriving only to count bodies and arrest whoever was slowest to escape.
"Home," Lydia said to the driver. "And quickly. Before they start rounding up everyone for questioning."
As the carriage picked up speed, Philip became aware of Natalia pressed against his side, her warmth seeping through the torn fabric of her dress. He could feel her beginning to relax incrementally, combat readiness slowly draining away.
But he could also feel something else—the way her breathing had changed, no longer the controlled combat respirations but something shakier, more human. Her hand found his beneath the concealment of her dress, fingers interlacing with desperate need for connection.
"I was frightened," she said quietly, the admission emerging in a small voice. "Of you being hurt. The fear response was... overwhelming."
Philip squeezed her hand, feeling his own trembling matched by hers.
"There were people in the crowd who looked... pleased," Philip said. "When Julian got shot. Some of them almost smiled."
"Because he represents everything they've grown to hate but did not dare voice," Lydia said. "The Continental Republic's propaganda has been working. They've turned nobility from respected authorities into symbols of oppression. And when symbols bleed..."
Natalia pressed closer to Philip's side, and he became acutely aware of the places where their bodies touched—her shoulder against his chest, her hip aligned with his, her thigh warm against his leg. The torn fabric created an unexpected intimacy.
"Master," she whispered, "may I... would it be acceptable to..." She trailed off, uncertainty replacing her usual analytical precision.
"What do you need?" Philip asked gently.
"Physical contact," she said, the words emerging with clinical precision that somehow made them more vulnerable. "The manual suggests that physical proximity aids in emotional regulation after traumatic events. Skin contact in particular releases oxytocin which—"
"Come here," Philip said, pulling her fully against him, no longer caring about propriety or roles.
She molded against him with a soft sound of relief, her face pressing into the crook of his neck. Philip could feel her trembling, could feel the rapid flutter of her pulse where her throat touched his collar. Her arms wrapped around him with surprising strength, as if she feared he might disappear if she didn't hold tight enough.
Lydia glanced at them, and for a moment, something soft crossed her features—understanding, perhaps even approval. Then she turned back to the window, giving them the illusion of privacy while maintaining her vigilant watch.
The carriage turned down a quieter street, the crowds thinning as they moved away from the commercial districts. Philip could feel the adrenaline beginning to fade, leaving exhaustion in its wake. His body felt heavy, his hands still trembling despite Natalia's warmth.
"How did you know?" he asked Lydia quietly. "How did you see the gun when no one else did?"
Lydia was silent for a long moment, her eyes distant. "Training," she said finally. "Years of it. From the Duchess."
Part 2
Albert's office felt suffocating.
The mahogany desk that usually represented order now mocked him with its polished surface, reflecting his haggard face in distorted angles. Reports lay scattered like casualties—sales figures, market analyses, bank correspondence—each another nail in the coffin of what was supposed to be a simple divestiture.
The Sapphire Sanctuary Suburban Living Development. One hundred sixty-seven houses of middle-class aspiration. One point eight million Continental Dollars of the Trust's capital.
Five units sold in the past month.
Five.
Albert rubbed his temples, fighting the headache that had been his constant companion. He'd tried everything—partnership arrangements with three banks, discreet loan guarantees for select buyers, marketing campaigns in the Yortinto Bleu, open house events with refreshments.
Nothing worked.
The marketing consultant's report lay open before him, its conclusions damning:
"Market conditions have deteriorated significantly. The combination of high interest rates, tariff-induced inflation, and rising unemployment has fundamentally dampened buyer confidence and ability. Current realistic valuation: 1.6 to 1.65 million Continental Dollars, assuming institutional buyer. Individual unit sales at current pace would require 3-4 years..."
He set the report down with deliberate care.
One point eight million invested. One point sixty-five million realistic return—if lucky. After selling costs, marketing fees, recent renovations, and staging? Over two hundred thousand Continental Dollars simply... gone.
Philip had been so proud of this project. So certain it would prove his business acumen, demonstrate he was more than a fortunate heir playing with inherited wealth. Albert had worked tirelessly—surveying land, hiring architects, managing construction.
And now it was failing.
Not dramatically. Just the slow, grinding failure of good ideas meeting bad timing.
The central bank reports told the story brutally. The Empire's monetary authorities faced an impossible choice: support employment through rate cuts, or maintain stability as tariff-war inflation seeped through. They'd chosen stability. Interest rates held steady even as unemployment crept upward, even as developers across Yortinto entered receivership.
And then there was the war.
The Coalition's "contained engagement" with Arussia had exploded after the hypersonic missile strike killed Prince Vlan. Crown Prince Mikhail's oath of vendetta had been broadcast everywhere, his face contorted with grief as he swore revenge.
The Coalition immediately requested additional funds from the Empire and Republic. Defense spending supposedly increased ten percent in a single budget revision—hidden among countless pages. New munitions contracts, expanded recruitment, naval patrols—all funded by money the Treasury didn't have, all fueling inflation and pushing up long-term interest rates.
The central banks were paralyzed. Cut rates? Inflation spirals. Raise rates? Unemployment surges. Hold steady? Watch both worsen.
The Sapphire Sanctuary sat frozen in this economic winter, assets slowly depreciating.
Albert rose from his desk, joints protesting. When had financial responsibility begun manifesting as physical pain?
He moved to his sitting area, where a comfortable armchair faced the room's broadcasting mirror—a newer model, two feet wide, eighteen inches tall, mounted on an articulated stand. Albert activated it with a touch, feeling mana respond.
He'd planned to watch something mindless. The garden show, perhaps. Something to distract from loss projections.
Instead, the IBC logo dissolved into BREAKING NEWS.
A tense announcer appeared, the grand newsroom visible behind him. "—repeating our top story: The homeland is experiencing the largest coordinated civil demonstrations in decades. Protests have erupted simultaneously across multiple cities including Albecaster and at least three dozen other urban centers throughout Avalondia..."
Albert leaned forward, suddenly alert.
The image shifted to street-level footage. Crowds filled a wide boulevard, thousands strong. Signs waved above the mass:
"DOWN WITH UNEARNED PRIVILEGES"
"END THE WAR—FEED OUR CHILDREN"
"FOREIGN WORKERS = STOLEN JOBS"
"AVALON FOR AVALONIANS"
"The demonstrations appear triggered by yesterday's attempted assassination of Master Julian Kensingwall at Wonder Park in Albecaster. The young lord survived the attack, confirmed as carried out by anti-establishment extremists..."
Albert's blood ran cold. Wonder Park. Yesterday.
Master Philip had been there yesterday.
"...the attack was meant as a symbolic strike against 'parasitic nobility.' However, protests have rapidly evolved beyond this incident, incorporating grievances from economic hardship to opposition to increased military spending..."
The image shifted. Mounted police, horses stepping nervously as crowds pressed closer. Someone threw a bottle. Horses spooked.
Then the image seared into Albert's memory: An officer's baton coming down on a protestor. The young man collapsed. The crowd roared. More bottles. The police line charged.
"Violence has erupted in seventeen cities," the announcer said, composure cracking. "In Halsmouth, protesters with improvised weapons engaged law enforcement directly. Three deaths confirmed, dozens injured..."
The broadcast cut to earlier Albecaster footage—Albert recognized the clock tower. A massive crowd filled the square, chants audible:
"END THE EMPIRE! SET AVALONDIA FREE!"
"NOBLES OUT! PEOPLE IN!"
"FUCK WAR! NO MORE TAXES!"
Anti-imperialism. In the Empire's heartland.
Albert's mind raced. This wasn't spontaneous. Protests across dozens of cities, triggered by response to a failed assassination on a minor nobleman? The coincidence required...
Someone had orchestrated this. Used the assassination—perhaps even arranged it—as the spark for something larger.
The image showed aftermath footage. Overturned carriages, broken storefronts, smoke rising from fires.
"The Imperial government has issued a statement calling for calm. First Minister Sir Arthur addressed the nation, urging respect for law and order while acknowledging legitimate economic concerns..."
The broadcast continued, but Albert's attention caught on something else. The mirror showed footage from an Albecaster demonstration—clearly from the prior day, before violence escalated. The camera panned across faces: angry, desperate, frightened, defiant.
And there, in the background, partially obscured...
Albert's heart stopped.
A middle-aged woman. Respectable dress. Hair beneath a modest bonnet. Proper, professional, beautiful.
Lydia.
She was positioned at the crowd's edge.
The image vanished, the broadcast cutting to another city. But Albert had seen it. Recognized her instantly despite the disguise, despite the distance.
His hand moved without conscious thought, reaching for the mana phone in his jacket pocket.