"Sister… this just complicated everything," Roland said, voice tight with concern.
Leonora's hands clenched around the controls, her teeth grinding. "You think I don't know that? Every fiber of my being screams at me to hurl this ship toward him… but my brain, my stupid brain, won't let me. Why do you have to do this to me, Youri…" Her words trembled, equal parts fury and longing, a whisper of anguish buried in the roaring engines.
Seven Years Ago — Imperial Palace, Fansilia
A House stood, its silhouette was regal, commanding attention without arrogance. Long, sweeping arches framed the façade, each one carved with subtle flourishes that whispered of heritage and prestige. The structure rose in tiers, balanced and symmetrical, like a palace reimagined for the age of stars.
Windows stretched tall and wide across every level, their glass tinted with soft gold, catching the light like polished gemstones. They weren't just for view — they were for presence. From the outside, you could see the glow of life within: warm lights, elegant shadows, the quiet pulse of a home that knew its worth.
The exterior was a blend of smooth stone and brushed alloy, textured in places to evoke the feel of ancient masonry, yet sleek enough to reflect the hum of passing hovercrafts. A wide staircase led to the main entrance, flanked by sculpted hedges and subtle lighting embedded in the steps — guiding guests like stars in a constellation.
Inside, the air was calm and curated. Holographic panels blended seamlessly with wood-paneled walls, and the scent of polished oak mingled with the faint hum of climate control. The furniture was minimalist, but rich — every piece chosen not for extravagance, but for meaning. Artifacts from distant worlds sat beside heirlooms of the Empire, each telling a story of legacy and exploration.
"Lady Leonora, you have a message." Anna's voice was hesitant, measured.
Anna moved like silk — and struck like steel. Maid to Lady Leonora Kaelthorn, she was more than a servant. She was a sentinel. A confidante. A weapon wrapped in grace. Her beauty was quiet, refined — the kind that didn't demand attention, but held it effortlessly. Her long black hair was tied in a sleek ponytail, swaying like a ribbon of midnight as she walked with measured poise.
Her physique was small, almost delicate — but that illusion never lasted long. Beneath the soft steps and gentle voice was a body trained to perfection. Anna had mastered every form of combat the Empire offered: blade, hand, firearm, and shadow. She could disarm a man twice her size or silence a threat before it spoke. And yet, she never flaunted it. Her strength was in her restraint.
Leonora whipped her head around. "What is it, Anna?" She tapped a foot impatiently, a low hum of irritation in her chest.
"It's from the Minister, my lady. He's requesting… a meeting with you."
Her brow furrowed. "Really? What does that man want now?!"
"He expects you at the royal palace."
"Huh. What a drag…" Leonora muttered, a half-smile hiding annoyance and anticipation. "Can't I send Roland in my place?"
Anna shook her head. "I'm sorry, my lady, but I would advise against that."
Leonora sighed, a mix of irritation and resignation. "You have a point. Get the car ready, then."
"Yes, my lady."
At the Palace
"Welcome, Lady Leonora. The Minister is waiting in his office."
"Thank you," she said curtly, though her posture betrayed alertness.
"General Leonora, thank you for your presence today. I hope I didn't inconvenience you since this was short notice."
"Don't worry, Minister," she said, her voice cool and deliberate. "But I'd like to cut to the chase, if we may."
"Of course. I summoned you to relay a request that comes directly from His Highness. There is… a problem in our Kalkan campaign. The rebel forces are proving unexpectedly resilient. They've pushed our forces back — even from our initial formation. We believe reinforcements are warranted."
Leonora's eyes narrowed. "So you want me to support the Kalkan forces?"
"Well, yes and no. We need your forces as backup — and as transport… for the god unit the Emperor has chosen to deploy there."
Her eyes widened, voice rising in disbelief. "What!? You're sending a god?!"
"Yes. His Highness has decided the time for decisive action is now."
"But Minister! We haven't deployed a god unit in eight years. The consequences — you know them!"
"Leonora," he said firmly, gaze unwavering. "I know you are honorable. I know your skill. I know your instincts to minimize civilian casualties. But sacrifices… sacrifices are inevitable, no matter how carefully we tread."
Leonora's jaw set. "I understand. But if you allow me to deploy the Royal Knights, I can guarantee victory." Her voice carried conviction, pride, and a simmering defiance.
"General, these are direct orders from the Emperor. You will deploy tomorrow at 0400 hours. Thank you for your time."
[Door closes.]
"The car is ready, my lady," Anna said softly.
Leonora's shoulders sagged briefly, tension radiating from her like a storm. "Change destination. I need a drink."
Fansilia Night District — Marta's Tavern
"Are you sure you want to come here, my lady?" Anna's voice trembled, barely audible over the din of the tavern, worry lacing each word.
Leonora's eyes narrowed, jaw tight, a storm of impatience and determination behind her gaze. "Don't worry. You wait in the car."
"Yes, my lady," Anna said softly, bowing, her shoulders heavy with the unspoken fear of what might unfold. She melted into the shadows, leaving Leonora alone.
The tavern doors burst open, slamming against the wall. Smoke coiled in thick spirals, mixing with the stench of spilled ale and the shouts of the drunk and desperate.
The pub stood like a relic in the heart of the Empire's neon-drenched night district — a stubborn echo of simpler times. Outside, the streets pulsed with holographic billboards and the hum of patrol drones, but inside, the air was thick with woodsmoke, laughter, and the scent of spiced ale. It was called Marta's, though most just called it "the Vault." A place where soldiers and ship crews came not to forget, but to remember.
The walls were paneled in dark, aged timber — real wood, not synthgrain — scarred by decades of boots, fists, and stories. Brass fixtures glowed dimly, casting warm halos over the tables, each carved from solid oak and worn smooth by time. Embedded in the center of each tabletop was a small holographic display, flickering with drink menus, mission updates, and the occasional cheeky ad for off-duty entertainment. The tech was subtle, respectful — like it knew it was a guest in someone else's memory.
Men filled the space, mostly soldiers and starship crew, their uniforms half-unzipped, their voices loud and raw. Some laughed over cards, others brooded in corners, nursing drinks and staring into the past. The jukebox in the corner — a fusion of antique wood and modern interface — played old ballads remixed with synth harmonics, a soundtrack of longing and grit.
"Oh! We got a lady here, boys! The night just got better! Cheers, everyone, to that beautiful lady!"
[Rowdy cheers and laughter echoed, ricocheting off the walls and rattling the hanging lanterns, shaking the very air.]
"Please… don't mind them. Not everyone sees someone like me every day." Said the bartender.
She was a woman in her mid-thirties, stocky and solid, with hands calloused from years of lifting barrels, scrubbing counters, and breaking up the occasional brawl with nothing but her voice. Her ginger hair was pulled back in a loose knot, strands escaping to frame a face that had weathered laughter, heartbreak, and far too many late nights.
Her bright green eyes cut through the haze of the pub like twin lanterns — alert, intelligent, and always watching. They softened when they needed to, but tonight they held a flicker of warning. She wasn't one to be trifled with. Not because she was mean — she wasn't — but because she'd earned her space, and she guarded it like a hearth.
She was a little heavy, with a build that spoke of strength more than softness. Her arms were thick, her stance grounded, and her voice carried the weight of someone who'd told off admirals and comforted rookies in the same breath. There was a roughness to her — in the way she moved, in the way she spoke — but beneath it all was warmth. The kind that didn't ask questions, just poured the drink and gave you a moment to breathe.
The bartender, gave her a sharp glance, then smiled faintly. "If you don't know who you're dealing with in this city, trouble will find you."
Leonora's eyes glinted, icy humor in her voice. "I like you. May I ask your name, bartender?"
"Only if you give me yours," the woman replied, matching her gaze with steady defiance.
Leonora tilted her head, letting her laugh carry a mix of charm and menace. "Haha. I'm Leonora. Pleasure's mine."
"That's more like it. Welcome to Marta's, Leonora. I'm Marta."
"Hey Marta, another bottle of gin," a slurred, reckless voice called from a shadowed corner.
"Get out of here, Youri. You've had enough. Go home!"
"Come on, just one more bottle. Please!"
"I said no. You deploy tomorrow. Go, idiot."
"Oh, you're no fun, Marta."
"Out!"
Leonora's gaze swept to him — Youri — and her breath hitched. He radiated danger and recklessness, the aura of a man who had stared death in the face and smirked. Every careless motion, every slouched posture spoke of someone who lived on the edge, untouched by caution but teetering on chaos.
"You get a lot of guys like that?" she asked, her voice low, curious but edged with incredulity.
"No… mostly ordinary soldiers, crew members… But him? Never. Not in my life. I wouldn't trade places with him for anything," Marta said, voice almost reverent, heavy with the weight of warning.
"Is he… a criminal?" Leonora pressed, disbelief and awe lacing each word.
"No. More… an executioner," Marta said quietly, her eyes narrowing, unflinching.
Leonora's chest tightened. "What?"
"He pilots a god," Marta said, voice barely a whisper, heavy with the gravity of what that meant.
Recognition struck Leonora like lightning. Her pulse quickened. The pieces clicked into place — the recklessness, the aura of danger, the silent command of men around him.
"You said he pilots a god. Why is he in a place like this?" Leonora's voice was sharp, suspicion and exasperation coiling together, trembling with the fear of what he might be capable of.
"Everyone has demons," Marta said, clipped, her eyes flicking nervously to the shadows. "The bottle helps ordinary people cope. I'd bet he has something far worse than most."
Leonora's chest tightened. "…Did it help with your demons?" Marta asked, voice softening "Thanks for the drink, Marta. See you next time. Not soon tho — I've had enough of this already."
Leonora's smirk returned, sharper now, a mix of amusement, warning, and something unspoken. Her boots clicked hard against the wooden floor, each strike echoing like a drumbeat of purpose. Smoke, laughter, and the smell of ale clung to her cloak, but she moved as if the chaos were nothing — a phantom, ready to face whatever storm awaited her.
Her eyes lingered on Youri, burning with unspoken fury and concern, a tempest of emotion. She knew, with a shiver of anticipation and dread, that their fates were inextricably tied — and that the storm was only just beginning.
"Hey Youri! Where've you been? Come, drink with us. You owe us from last time."
Youri staggered forward, swaying slightly, voice slurred from the gin. "Sorry… I'm broke, guys."
[He stumbled, colliding clumsily with Leonora, sending a bottle shattering across the floor.]
"Shit! My bottle!" Leonora's voice cracked with fury, sharp and dangerous.
"What do you think you're doing, idiot?!" Her eyes blazed, twin daggers of anger and disbelief.
"Oh… sorry! Did I hit you? Are you blind or something?" Youri slurred, trying to steady himself, the gin-scented air clinging to him like a second skin.
"Come on, I lost my bottle too. Let's call it even—"
[Leonora's patience snapped. With a lightning-fast motion, she swung her fist, striking his jaw. She grabbed him by the collar, lifting him off balance, her glare searing.]
"You damn monster," she hissed, teeth bared. "You think you can toy with everyone and get away with it?" Her voice thundered over the murmurs of the tavern. "Let me open your eyes, Youri. You are nothing but an empty husk!"
[She leaned in closer, her breath cold, voice low and lethal.]
"And do you know what I hate most in this world? Empty things."
Youri's knees buckled, and he sagged against her grip, stunned, guilt and awe mingling in his eyes. For the first time, the fearless, reckless man felt the weight of authority and raw emotion pressing down on him.
[Leonora released him with a shove, storming toward the door, her cloak whipping around her. Every footstep rang with conviction, echoing off the walls like a drumbeat of judgment.]
The tavern fell silent, the rowdy patrons frozen, mouths agape.
"Holy… that goddess just whooped Youri," whispered a soldier in awe, gripping the edge of the bar. "That… that was insane."
"Get up, man. We told you to be careful," another muttered, shaking his head.
"Ehh… she had a point," Youri mumbled, rubbing his jaw, pride and grudging respect warring with embarrassment.
[Outside, Leonora paused, the cold night air biting at her cheeks. Her chest heaved, anger and longing tangled together. For a moment, she let herself breathe, the night quiet around her, the chaos of the tavern behind her like a distant memory.]