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===Chapter 14 - Outbreak of War===
===Chapter 1 - By the Crossing Shores===


The next week went by in a blur as the Königsfeld Academy of Magic prepared for war.
The chamber was lavishly furnished and fit for royalty. Spacious enough to fit three carriages, its wide floors were covered by intricately decorated rugs of the richest wool. Dressers and drawers built from the finest mahogany lay interspersed along the walls, while two renowned watercolor landscapes sat within gilded frames as large as bookshelves. Atop the nearby bedside counter sat a tray of gleaming silver, filled with breakfast pastries and sweets almost too beautiful to eat.


King Leopold von Drachenlanzen of Weichsel had evoked the Writ of Universal Conscription, calling for 'General Mobilization' in the name of the Holy Father. Using this first stage of Weichsel's Fourfold Mobilization system, the standing army would quadruple in size as Landsknecht professional soldiers were augmented by reserves and young militia. But senior militia and garrison troops were conserved to act as both a home guard and as seed units for a second stage 'Full Mobilization' should the crown require. Furthermore, Noble Reiter units, formed by drafting the magic-blessed nobility, would supplement the professional Weichsel Cavalry that consisted of noble spellsword knights and their retainer troops.
None of that changed the fact it was a prison, occupied by a young girl no more than seven years old.


Last but not least, 'General Mobiliziation' reduced the cycle of officer training from four years to three. As the end of the year already drew near, High Command declared that not only fourth year student cadets will be required to join the campaign, but the third years as well.
The sun pouring in through the windows was approaching a noontime high; but the girl still laid awake in bed, curled up under the bedsheets with only her head poking out. Her light-violet eyes were bloodshot after an entire night spent weeping, with tears still staining her soft cheeks.


It was the worst present as the holidays approached.
It was part of why she refused to come out of bed. No one must be allowed to see her like this, not even the maid who delivered the food.


The Empire of Rhin-Lotharingie had responded to the military buildup in the south by beginning a partial mobilization five days ago. But their spies grossly underestimated both the readiness and the sheer scale of the Caliphate's invasion. News from the borders claimed that Cataliyan soldiers marched across in the hundreds of thousands, pouring over the southern mountain passes in three separate army groups. Hopeless to stop the approaching juggernaut, Lotharin border forces fell back across the front, seeking to regroup with reinforcements at second line fortifications.
To reveal her disgraceful state would be worse than embarrassment. It would humiliate the proud people of her entire nation before the eyes of their enemy.


They left four undefended Duchies in their wake.
Perhaps it was just as well, as her depressed mood certainly did not wish to partake in anything else.


Three, technically. Duke Guy of Avro-Calent refused the general retreat order. His proud three-layer concentric castle, which boasted the strongest fortification in Southern Rhin-Lotharingie, was simply bypassed by the Cataliyan vanguard forces. Rear army units then surrounded the castle and bombarded it nonstop for three days, followed by a nine-hour relentless assault which seized the citadel from its exhausted defenders. In the end, the Duke's bravado and 'glorious death' not only failed to halt or even slow down the invasion, but cost the Lotharin defenses three thousand precious seasoned troops.
The sound of scampering footsteps resounded from outside her door, which had laid silent for hours other than the occasional soft clink of armor.


The entire war could not have come at a worse time, just as winter was beginning to seal the Northern Lotharingie Mountains under ice and snow. Even Weichsel's coastal Margraviates found it hard to mobilize as yet another cold front swept in from the North Sea.
"She is inside right? Open the door."


But the King and his Marshal had no choice. This was the first war against the Empire of Rhin-Lotharingie since signing the defensive military alliance treaty. Failing to uphold the agreement would not only invalidate their coalition in the eyes of the world, but also risk condemnation from Weichsel's only ally within the Holy Imperium of the Inner Sea.
The childish voice couldn't have belonged to anyone older than a mere boy. Yet it was spoken with imperturbable pride and confidence capable of matching any crown prince.


Ever since Ferdinand I, the founding King of Weichsel, allowed himself to be crowned by the Pope, the small nation in the north has maintained the confidence of the Holy See, serving as a bastion of Trinitian might against the barbaric pagans of the north.
"I'm sorry Milord, Marshal---"


Papal appeasement was Weichsel's foremost deterrence against Imperial aggression, especially after hostilities during the War of Imperial Succession. Tripling Weichsel's landmass had been worth the papal condemnation it earned them that time -- silenced only by generous donations of gold while leaving church assets alone during territorial annexation. But King Leopold could ill afford further disapproval.
The soldier's feeble retort was cut off before he could finish.


So the army gathered outside the academy's stone fortifications.
"My father has already left this morning, which leaves me lord of this castle. Perhaps you are not aware of how insolent your behavior is towards a presiding lord? The word of a mere ''garrison'' against the prodigal son of a Landgrave and Weichsel's hero. Who do you think your officer will believe when my armigers come to arrest you?"


The Königsfeld Academy of Magic was one of fourteen rallying points within Weichsel. Every day, more forces arrived outside the curtain walls, setting up camps as they awaited fresh orders from above.
Even across the wide room and through closed doors, the girl could feel the pressure of the young boy's threats.


Companies of swordstaff infantry marched in from nearby villages. Battalions of arbalest troops gathered from neighboring towns. Even several hundred cavalry rode in from the nearby counties and baronies who paid direct fealty to the king.
"But the Marshal expressly forbid any---"


By Saturday morning, the entire area surrounding the academy had grown into a new settlement of tents, palisades, ''Instant Cabins'', and simple watchtowers. Inside this makeshift town lived more than three thousand troops, awaiting orders to march west.
"Does that include the maids who deliver food? Does that include the King should he stop by? I am now the castle's ''lord''. It is only natural that I pay homage to our guest of honor. Did my father expressly forbid ''me'' from carrying out my duties as nobility demands?"


Without enacting 'Full Mobilization' and stripping Weichsel's defenses bare, Pascal estimated that his nation should be able to muster a total force of fifty thousand -- a mere fragment of the Caliph's might.
"No Milord!" The soldier almost shouted, before clinking armor could be heard beyond the door once again.


The soft click of a door unlocking soon followed, and the girl rushed to toss the bedcovers over her head once again.


"Thank you, soldier. Carry on."


<nowiki>----- * * * -----</nowiki>
Light footsteps marched in, and the thick doors shut closed behind them.


For a minute, nothing happened. Then she heard a single word spoken near the door, voiced in Ancient Draconic -- the preferred language across Hyperion for mnemonic spellcasting.


''He must be older than me then,'' the girl thought. She was still one year too early to learn, and few mages managed to cast any actual spells before the age of ten.


"I have ''never'' seen someone so bad on a horse."
"I know you are awake. Do not worry though; that was merely a simple ''Silence'' spell on the door."


Kaede lay flat on the ground as she ignored Pascal's scathing remark. This was her third practice session with a mount, and she still almost fell off twice during only a prolonged canter. Then the white war steed went into a full gallop, and only Pascal's ''Air Cushion'' spell kept her from injuring her back.
She neither moved nor answered, so the boy continued on in his self-assured voice:


Among ''his'' kendo friends back on Earth, Kaede's coordination and reflexes had been mediocre at best. It was yet another reason ''he'' preferred the meditative and gradual forms in archery over the rapid assaults and reactionary parries of swordplay. Coming to Hyperion and adapting to a new, smaller body hadn't helped her any in attaining better control over her muscles... or lack thereof.
"My name is Pascal Kay Lennart von Moltewitz, son of Weichsel Field Marshal Karl August von Moltewitz, heir to the Langrave of Nordkreuz. What of Your Highness?"


At least her period had ended. The first two practice session had far less pleasant results.
Still she neither shifted nor replied, and a nervous silence soon fell between the two.


"She's not that bad. You should have seen Gerd when he first learned how to ride. That guy was a true sack of potatoes -- makes one appreciate how far he's come."
One minute passed...


Parzifal had tried to encourage her every time he came by to see Ariadne, who offered Kaede what pointers she could. Unsurprisingly, the pegasus knight was not only the best rider in her year, but the entire academy as well. The Manteuffels weren't literally raised in the saddle like their nomadic ancestors; but having rode a pony since she was four, it wasn't far from the truth either.
Five minutes passed...


"Excuse me for not being born ''noble''," Kaede retorted as she stood back up, rubbing her painful behind.  
Ten minutes later, she was almost wondering if he had quietly left, with the door's closing silenced by his spell.


The ''Air Cushion'' softened the landing enough to prevent injuries, but there was still some impact. Combined with all the ups and downs in the saddle, it made Kaede's butt hurt -- not quite a place used to it.
She slowly peaked out from under the covers, only to meet eye to eye with a boy of her own age.


The horsemanship problem was hardly a new one. Even during the pre-industrial eras of Earth, cavalry was predominantly a noble occupation, for only the wealthy could afford to grow up accustomed to any proper steed. Many farmers had horses and mules as well, but a docile, plow-towing animal was far different from one bred for the military.
Pascal wore a faint grin below turquoise eyes brightened by curiosity. His golden soft curls were neatly cut and draped over both ears. His visage was well-proportioned, poised confidently atop a balanced build. Even at a mere seven years old, it was already apparent that he would grow up to become a handsome young man.


As for Kaede, she had never even petted a pony before, let alone ride a galloping stallion.
For a moment she paused, her attention captured by his gaze, before she realized her need to pull the covers back up.


"Again?" she asked, watching Pascal whistle the horse back around.
"I just saw your eyes, by the way. You need not hide your tears any longer."


"No. Dinner is almost upon us, and that was already your fourth try this session. Give your backside a rest already."
His calm words of sympathy only annoyed her further.


Kaede quickly put her hands away. She wasn't aware it had been that obvious.
"I'm not crying!" she said as her hands pushed off the comforter.


"Nobody is going to become good in just a few days. Only a ''prodigy'' would be foolish enough to expect that, and your own horsemanship is hardly worth bragging about..."  
"Of course not. You are a Lotharin Princess after all. Although... you are not exactly what I expected."


Ariadne voiced her cutting words with a serene smile as she walked over from the wall Parzifal and her had been leaning against. Her delicate fingers extended back to cup her waist-length hair, a pink waterfall swaying between two sides in the castle courtyard's strong crosswinds.
With eyes full of amused curiosity, Pascal's slow speech had a nature of being almost... irritating.


"--Besides, isn't hanging onto a canter enough? Not like she's going to join a thundering charge, even in the very unlikely scenario that you did."
"What, did you expect me to wear a flower tiara as appropriate of ''tribal'' Rhin-Lotharingie!? You arrogant Weichsels are little better than Imperials!" she retorted in an almost yell.


With the reins back in his hands, Pascal's turquoise gaze was still examining Kaede as he began his reply:
Yet somehow, Pascal smiled:


"I was hoping she could act as my courier should the opportunity arise. The telepathic link grounded in our familiar bond would allow me to communicate with command directly through her -- exceedingly useful given how normal ''Telepathy'' spells cannot function in a battlefield full of clashing ether. It would be a good reason for her to come with me."
"Not really, although I thought princesses had more... you know, attitude. ''Bow down before me!'' and all that..."


"I thought mages often brought their familiars along?" Kaede puzzled.
Her cheeks heated as embarrassment permeated them, followed closely by annoyance and anger.


Thankfully, her own hair was long enough that she stuffed its end into her belt pouch. With most of her time spent reading, Kaede didn't usually mind the sheer length of her canary-white hair, which reached all the way down to her thighs. In fact, she rather enjoyed how soft and comfortable it was. But it was also rather annoying on windy days when she came outside.
She didn't need some petty Weichsel lord-junior to tell her that. She had already heard enough growing up. As the third and youngest child of the Geoffroi the Great, Emperor of Rhin-Lotharingie, she spent her years under the adoration of two older brothers. They were perfect noblemen, as handsome as they are talented, as capable as they are kind. Few younger sisters enjoyed the blessing of even one admirable and caring older brother, let alone two. Yet even though she loved them with all her heart, she couldn't help but feel the slow creep of inferiority every time she watched them from afar.


"Yes; and in most other cases, I would not worry about it," Pascal answered. "But bringing a ''girl'' from my household does raise questions -- and not the kind of rumor good for unit morale."
It certainly didn't help to hear the nobles, and even the ''servants'' chatter from behind corners, admiring how 'princely' her brothers were while expressing that she looked less of a princess than a mere countess' daughter.


Smiling as he watched Ariadne from behind, Parzifal strode up to his beloved and put his arm around her shoulders. As though treating a precious jewel, his hands carefully brushed her hair back into place. After receiving an appreciate smile from her, he turned his gaze towards Pascal:
"--But of course, none of really matters," the boy named Pascal continued. "Nevertheless, there are still some protocols to follow."


"Oh right, congratulations are in order, although it was quite expected after your promotion to Captain: now you're also the youngest person to command a Noble Reiter company."
He then bowed down, his hands waving with the perfect gestures of a nobleman placing a request towards a lady:


'Reiter' was one of the few military terms Kaede knew from German history -- one of the first cavalry in Europe who raised firearms to the status of primary weapons. The fact her familiar bond's 'translation' feature picked this word in specific meant that the magic actually tried to match Weichsel's language to her specific knowledge.
"May I have the honor of hearing your name, my beautiful princess?"


Unlike the professional 'Weichsel Cavalry' which used a combination of polearms, ranged weapons, and spells, the entirely aristocratic Noble Reiters were cavalrymen who served only as artillery-mages. Their lack of proper combat training reflected in their poor ability to hold out in a close encounter.
The praise 'beautiful' was never one she could seriously take from another, but she nevertheless responded with composure as she sat up in her bed:


Therefore, 'Reiter' was rather appropriate, not to mention far less confusing, than its literal meaning: horse-rider.
"Sylviane Etiennette de Gaetane, daughter of Emperor Geoffroi Jean de Gaetane of the Empire of Rhin-Lotharingie."


"Thanks," Pascal answered a bit awkwardly, clearly still not used to this new relationship. "Do you know which unit you are being assigned to yet? I presume you will be taking a healer's role with the Knights Phantom."
Pascal then stood back up straight, a playful smile stretching across his countenance:


"There's not enough new Knights Phantom to form another company, and new medical squads are only formed on a company-basis," Ariadne said dejectedly as she leaned into Parzifal's shoulder. "Our modus operandi is too different from any other unit to work together, so we're being added to bolster the ''Black Lancers'' company when we link up with the King's forces coming from Königsfeld."
"Now, that was not too hard, was it now? Although I could certainly see how one would be troubled by worries in such a stuffy room. What was father thinking!? No maps, no projectors, not even a single shelf of books, not to mention bright sun and open air to let the mind flourish!"


"Hence they offered me to pick any company from your battalion, since they're short on healers for the medic squads again. What do you think, Captain Sir von Moltewitz? Am I good enough, or do you still think I'm too boring?"
The girl named Sylviane blinked. The boy's lines seemed almost... contradictory. His first three items listed were precisely the culprits that palace servants often accused of stuffiness. Meanwhile free sun and air were simply not comforts normally given to any prisoner of war, which she certainly was.


Parzifal glanced away at the last second, and Kaede wondered if he regretted impulsively poking that old wound the moment his words left his mouth.
"So! How about it, my princess. Do you ''dare'' to brave the foreign lands of a hostile liege? Or would you rather cower within this bedchamber, doomed to dust and mold like the expensive but nonetheless useless furnishings of a trophy room?"


But if anything, it was Pascal who looked more uncomfortable, his prideful mask leaking just enough humility to identify as mildly apologetic:
''Who does he think he is!?''


"I would be ''honored'' if you joined me."
Her temper, although not exactly matching those of a royal princess, were at least finally rising.


The two men looked back upon one another, and turquoise gaze met aquamarine before each of them nodded in silent recognition and agreement with the other.
Yet oddly enough, Pascal seemed ''happy'' about it.


"Well, I'll inform the good Major this afternoon then. Not to mention, this also solves our other problem with bringing Kaede."
"Only if your bravado is capable of getting me out of this room," she retorted.


Both Pascal and Kaede stared at Parzifal for several moments. Neither could figure out the meaning behind his words before the two of them spoke at once:
"Now that, is a challenge no knight could possibly refuse. Shall we go then?"


"How?"
Pascal offered his hand, but Sylviane merely looked down at the white blouse with violet ribbons she was wearing.


"Easy," the healer's aquamarine eyes almost sparkled under his brown bangs. "Medical supplies."
"I need to get changed first."


''Oh right, walking Blood Bank of Samara,'' Kaede remembered.  
"Sure," he turned around and left.


Facing the grinning Parzifal and the giggling Ariadne, her wispy response came out completely flat:
But rather than departing, he merely went to the nearby dressers, pulled out a long, purple dress, and walked back to her.


"Oh ha ha, very funny."
"Here, let me help," he offered as he laid the dress down on the bed.


Meanwhile, Pascal looked even less amused than his familiar:
"Whoever heard of any man other than her husband helping a ''lady'' dress!? Now GET OUT!" Sylviane finally snapped.


"Fair warning: if she faints, I am holding ''you'' accountable."
She couldn't help but notice that Pascal was grinning as he strode away.


As Sylviane dressed herself in a purple two shades lighter than her dark-plum hair, she heard the boy toss more barely-veiled threats at the guards outside in between enticing them with bribery.


...
"--What use does my father have for you if your entire unit cannot even keep watch over two ''kids'' by the lakeside!? Or do you think you will be free of responsibility if father returned to find her gravely ill because she did nothing but mope inside a gloomy room all day? Would it not be better for everyone involved to breathe fresh air and stay happier while your friends earned some extra silver for bar tabs this weekend...?"


In just one meeting, Sylviane decided that she had never met a nobleman -- or noble son -- as rude, audacious, downright impertinent, and... Holy Father forbid, as ''interesting'' as Pascal.


After dropping the horse back off at the stables, Kaede followed Pascal back to the dorms because he wanted to "deal with something first."


Thus she sat down on the bed and took out a tome to read while he finished whatever errand he had.


Except that he stood staring at her.
<nowiki>----- * * * -----</nowiki>


"What is it?"


"I received something from the postmaster for you today."


Pascal spoke with a not-serious, not-joyous, not-angry, but oddly peaceful and gentle expression as he handed her a wrapped parchment scroll. He then turned the chair at his work desk around to face her before sitting down on it.
"I still can't believe I'm sitting next to Cross Lake."


''Why would someone send something to me?''
Sylviane's wisteria gaze swept across the calm waters, towards her home country beyond the opposite shores that blurred into the horizon. It was a peaceful autumn day. The soothing sound of gentle waves rolling onto the stone embankments was the essence of tranquility for the second largest lake in Northern Hyperion. Yet her eyes couldn't help but moisten as yet another surge of homesickness washed over her.


Kaede frowned as she took the scroll. Rolling it over, her eyes widened at the black dragon crest of Weichsel on its official wax seal. Her small hands almost fumbled in their rush to unwrap it, pulling it open before her gaze to scan through...
The princess suppressed it, hard. This was no place to be seen crying.


All speculative trains of thoughts came to crashing halts as she registered its impossible content.
Aside from the boy Pascal, who laid back besides her against the grassy earthen flood-dike, they were also watched by at least two dozen soldiers. Some of them were Pascal's armigers and had already learned the bodyguards' art of discretion. But most were garrison guards responsible for the captive princess, and she could almost feel their sweeping glances continuously crisscrossing over her back.


Although Kaede had always avoided thinking about it, and despite trying her best to forget it, her memories would never let go of that dreadful first meeting with the headmaster, or even the exact words his horrible raspy voice used to announced her fate in this world:
Sylviane had just enough martial training to realize how suicidal it would be to take her this many soldiers at once, even assuming she had a weapon. Yet just because she was helpless didn't mean she could allow them to see it.


"''No, Miss Familiar. You are neither a citizen of this country nor a holder of lawfully issued identification. Furthermore, you were summoned by a mage through his contractual ritual. In the eyes of our national laws, you are an non-entity who is only recognized as part of his responsibility. You are not property, but due to the lack of legal precedence, you are not far above it either.''"
"Let me guess -- your father wished he stood here," Pascal asked with nonchalance after a moment's thought.


She couldn't even begin to count the number of times those words, spoken in that exact same voice, returned to haunt her as she laid awake in bed into the depth of the night.
She almost spoke the truth before holding herself back and deciding for a more neutral answer:


Returning to the beginning of the scroll, Kaede carefully read each line and each word, taking care to ascertain its reality, that she wasn't merely misinterpreting through wishful thinking:
"Why do you say that?"


''By the powers invested in me by His Majesty King Leopold Karl-Wilhelm von Drachenlanzen, I hereby recognize and certify Miss Kaede Nika Suvorsky, member to the noble household of Sir Karl August von Moltewitz, Landgrave of Nordkreuz, as a resident of the Kingdom of Weichsel, with all the rights, privileges, and duties of...''
Pascal bolted back up before his bright turquoise gaze caught hold of her eyes once again.


She couldn't continue anymore as moisture invaded her eyes and blurred her sight.
"Do ''you'' know how strategically important this Lake is?"


''I can't believe it.''
It wasn't a question, but a challenge.


"This... this is..." her dry voice choked out.
Thinking back, Sylviane was beginning to realize that many of this seven-year-old boy's statements were precisely that: challenges, tests.


"It is an official certification of residency in the Kingdom of Weichsel, personally signed by the Department Chief of Immigration from the Ministry of the Interior. As long as you abide by our laws, this residency will turn into lawful citizenship after ten years of either living within Weichsel's domains or serving the interests of Weichsel on foreign soil -- which will certainly be the case when you travel with me."
''But for what?'' She didn't have a clue.


''Residency... it's been only... twenty-two days since I came to this world!''
"I don't remember the maps well, but father once said that the Cross Lake is where the Lotharingie Rivers united before flowing towards the sea."


Kaede had never applied for citizenship herself, but even she knew that such changes in status usually took years, months at the very least. She had already resigned herself for being completely without rights and reliant upon his protection for the foreseeable future...
"Do you know what that implies?" he asked again.


"How did you get this so--"
Sylviane took a minute to ponder it over. Even for royalty, she was still too young to receive schooling on military or economic strategy. But it hardly required official lessons to understand the importance of rivers to transportation, and therefore every aspect of civilization.


"The process normally takes at least two years. But since high government positions are mostly filled by military officers who retired into the reserves, my family has plenty of contacts within the ministries..."  
"Ummm... that whomever holds Cross Lake controls the two largest rivers of Rhin-Lotharingie, and... through them, power across the whole Lotharin heartlands?"


Pascal was totally unabashed. To him, using back-doors for personal affairs like this was his right:
It would take years before she realized how much difference this simple answer by a seven-year-old girl made in the course of her life.


"--Some bribery also paved the way, of course. But I saw how shocked you were over this when the headmaster first mentioned it. Given that particular worry, expediency became an urgent need."
"'Control' might be a tad excessive..." the boy followed up. "But definitely a strong military influence, and maybe dominance over trade. Not to mention the third river, Nordkreuz, that flows here from the northern parts of the Holy Imperium. One could definitely say that this lake is the crux, the most important strategic location in Northern Hyperion."


''Even so, he must have started the weekend after I came...''
Pascal then shrugged before a wide grin lit up his expression from cheek to cheek:


Kaede felt the wet warmth of tears streak down her cheeks as her glassy eyes continued to gaze upon the scroll. Her fingers were almost shaking as she slowly closed the thick parchment back into a roll.
"But good enough! Wow, a princess is a ''princess''. You really are different from all those other noble daughters. I have met plenty twice your age yet all they know is gossip and arts."


She finally let out the breath she had been unknowingly holding. Her hands brought the certificate close to her chest, protectively clutching what was easily the most precious item Pascal had given her since coming to this fantasy realm.
It was the first time Sylviane had received such conflicting words from outside the family. On one hand, his sincerity towards her worthiness as a 'princess' was so genuine she could almost taste it. On the other hand, he indirectly insulted one of her favorite interests -- one that her parents encouraged and the nobles praised.


Yet in hindsight, it wasn't his best present to her. More precisely, it was merely a representation of the rest:
Between shy modesty and annoyed retorts, her pride automatically seized the second:


In a land where she had absolutely nothing to her name, he had given her a warm and secure place to call home.
"What's wrong with arts?" Sylviane pouted. "I ''like'' music -- especially Lotharin music. It's festive, and joyous, and easy to understand. Never fails to cheer the heart. Not unlike Weichsel orchestral, all martial and so heavy on the drums and trumpets."


It was easy, so easy to consider this his obligation, as Pascal was the one who tore Kaede away from her past life by summoning her into this world. But she also knew that few individuals placed in such circumstances would have taken the same position or invested the same effort for her sake.
"That is because Lotharin music source from folk songs; hence they are popular among the commoners even here in Weichsel. But you misunderstand, Your Highness..."


It may be his responsibility, but it was a responsibility he took in full measure and upheld even without being asked.
"Sylviane is fine," she cut in. "All this 'Your Highness' when you're the one actually in charge makes it feel like you're mocking me."


"Thank you..."
Truth be told, Sylviane couldn't help but feel jealous of Pascal. She had always felt daunted by her royal rank, always afraid she would not live up to expectations. Yet here beside her sat a boy her own age, who spoke and acted as though he was born to command others.


Kaede smiled back at Pascal through her blurry gaze. Her hand reached up to wipe away the tears, but even then she had trouble clearly making out his countenance.
"Sure, Princess Sylviane," Pascal beamed back, completely ignoring the annoyed pout she gave him. "As I was saying, I have nothing against the fine arts. But people cannot live on culture and artistry alone. What can noble art accomplish when the people starve from poor agriculture, when they wallow in destitution due to a lack of commerce? Father believe too many nobles forget this as they raise their heirs -- daughters especially -- and I fully agree."


"--I can't even begin to describe... but... this really, ''really'' means a lot to me. Everything..."
"But mother and father said that it was still too early for me to study what my elder brothers learned," she countered with a matter-of-fact tone. "They just want me to train a properly royal demeanor for now. They said an interest in the arts would help my image."


The wetness in her eyes wouldn't stop coming out, a small yet steady stream that her hands kept clearing away.
"Royal demeanor? Demeanor is easy to fake. Watch me!"


"--I know I should at least give you a hug or something in gratitude over this, yet I can't even stop crying here..."
Pascal hurriedly stood up over the dike. With his back straight and chin high, he began to gesture sternly at the lake with pointed fingers while calling out in a deliberately pitched voice:


Thinking back, Kaede had never felt more glad that she picked his side, never so assured that she made the right decision when she joined the assassination scheme against him for his protection. Yet she couldn't help but feel a pang of guilt over her brief indecision. Even back then, when she chose whether or not to partake in his murder, he had already started his work to help her feel at ease.
"Hmph! You better be grateful! That is a royal gift from the house of de Gaetane...!"


''I could have done so much wrong...''
"Don't misunderstand. I am merely issuing you a fair reward for your accomplishments..."


Wordlessly, Pascal stood up from his chair, walked over to the bed, and wrapped both of his arms around her thin shoulders.
"It's not like I favor you or anything! As a princess I must show kindness to loyal attendants, that's all!"


She could feel his protective warmth as he pulled her into his chest.
He then gracefully sat back down.


"The hugs are free," he said in that odd joking tone of his.
"Well, what do you think?"


Still buried in his chest, Kaede couldn't help but crack an unseen smile:
Sylviane's light-violet eyes were lost between astonishment and puzzled.


''Such inappropriate timing.''
"It definitely has 'attitude'. But nothing like what my tutors taught me."


She didn't even have the urge to hit him this time.
"Please! What do those old men and women know about being a ''princess''!?"


After nearly a minute, Pascal pulled back just enough to look down into her glassy eyes. His fingers reached up to carefully wipe them away, as though brushing aside delicate beads of pearl.
While not directed at her, Pascal's voice held nothing but disdain as he spoke of hired tutors:


"As much as I enjoy how huggable you are, we really should go down for dinner. Otherwise, Ariadne and the rest are going to believe I am chastising you over today's practice."
"I chased away three of them before father gave it up. Not a single one of them could stand up to me in either a contest or will or knowledge, always resorting to barbaric violence instead! Of course... if your mother had advice, that would be something else entirely."


Kaede couldn't help but smile back at him, her rose-quartz eyes still swollen red:
"Mother was only the daughter of a Count before father married her. As much as we love her, mother never even grew accustomed to being empress. There's no way I would bother her for such advice!"


"Then you better help me clean this up first. Otherwise, they'll ''know'' you've been bullying me."
"A mere Count?" Pascal's brows went up. "I thought noble marriages were usually made for more political gain than that? A county will not offer much to back up an Emperor's crown authority."


Sylviane snapped her irritated glare back onto him. Only then did she realize that his turquoise gaze held not an ounce of condescension, merely curiosity and surprise.


...
After taking a deep breath and donning her 'royal composure' once again, the princess started to explain:


"Father always said that political marriages are the folly of short-sighted nobles and certainly not the 'de Gaetane' way. He told my elder brothers and I that because we are royalty who bear the burden of the realm, we must take extra care to create warm, caring families. Because only a good family may raise a good heir, and only a good child may become an excellent liege..."


As Kaede followed Pascal into the main keep, they found Professor Albert waiting for him with a stern, almost grim expression:
"I'm still a child, so I don't really understand everything. But I know they're right! It is because of father and mother that my brothers became the kind, smart, and diligent young men they are today! Because after everything father and mother had done and devoted for us, we would never be able to bear the sight of our them disappointed and ashamed."


"Sir von Moltewitz, please come with me for a moment. There is something private I must inform you."
Turning back towards the lake, Pascal thought it over as his golden soft curls swayed in the waterside breeze. Then, with his eyes still far away, he began with pensive words:


Kaede tilted her head slightly as she looked at Pascal, whose poker face went on instantly.
"I think you are probably right. My mother died before I really knew her, and father is too busy to return home often. But it does not matter how far busy or how far away he is, he always makes sure to write to me, or send long messages every week through our Majordomo Wilfried. He is one of the main reasons I want to learn and understand all manners of stately affairs, and magic too--!"


"Go join Parzifal and the rest for dinner. I will be there shortly," he told her before following his advisor into the dark hallways of the stone keep.
Pascal's tone suddenly rose in excitement:


She hesitated for a minute before leaving. Something about Pascal, about the entire situation just didn't feel right. But at the same time, it didn't do her any good to wait there.
"I simply cannot wait for the day when I can receive ''Farspeak'' calls directly from him!"


This turned out to be the first time Kaede walked into the great dining hall by herself.
By the time he turned back around to meet the eyes of the princess, Pascal's gaze held a new light even as he repeated old words:


The tables were almost full, with as many older nobles as there were younger. All the new faces were aristocrats from the army gathering outside. Most of them wore standard Weichsel military uniforms, but some were dressed quite flamboyantly.
"Like I said, a princess is a ''princess''! You are just so much better than all those other noble girls!"


Kaede received plenty of odd stares on her way. Some were merely curious, presumably over where her master was. Meanwhile others held her in contempt, disgusted over how the familiar girl could be allowed to stride unescorted across noble grounds in her proud bearing, as though she deserved to eat there.
This time, Sylviane no longer had the distraction of another mood. This time, she turned away coyly as her cheeks blushed faintly.


Thankfully, nobody approached or stopped her.
"You're actually the first one outside my family who sincerely meant that," she admitted. "Everyone else keep whispering behind my back that I'm not graceful enough, or not beautiful enough, or lack that alluring aristocrat refinement..."


As she walked up to Parzifal's large group, Cecylia raised her curiosity first:
"Oh please, do not tell me you actually listen to those idiots," Pascal cut in, his hard eyes insistent if not imperative, more pressuring than any tutor she met:


"Where's Pascal?"
"Sure, some noble girls may ''look'' nice -- beautiful as a peacock! With just as much birdbrain! I have met many of them, and most of their thought capacity barely extends beyond squealing like pigs and chirping over which set of feathers to admire tomorrow. Seriously, those ''nobles'' can go jump off a cliff and the world would hardly have missed a thing."


"Professor Albert stopped him along the way to tell him something."
Sylviane knew that his statement was rather excessive and mean if not outright horrible, but she nevertheless smiled and grinned as he bashed upon the same people she always held an inferiority complex towards.


Parzifal and Cecylia had managed to save them two seats, so Kaede sat down and waited; her eyes kept peeled at the entrance.
With disdain rapidly draining away from his gaze, Pascal returned to his appreciative voice:


She was slightly surprised when she overheard that Cecylia had been assigned to the same battalion as Pascal, leading the 'Public Relations' section directly under Battalion Command.
"Now being a real ''princess'' -- that requires skills and knowledges. Royal demeanor is important too, but that is easy to learn and act! The rest is what truly requires work. I cannot say that I am sufficiently learned myself to teach you, but I could certainly help you study!"


After several minutes, Kaede watched as Professor Albert entered the hall, but with no sign of Pascal following him.
At the time, Sylviane mostly thought that Pascal was boasting. After all, even if he was smarter than the average, how much could a mere seven-year-old understand about affairs of state and governance?


The senior administration professor that served as the de-facto headmaster of the academy's educational role then turned towards a table and pulled out an open chair near the entrance. But before he would sit down, his gloves reached up and cupped his throat for a split second.
It took but days before the princess realized how wrong she was.


"May I have your attention please."
While other children their age spent most of their time playing outside while learning language, numbers, etiquette, and equestrian skills, Pascal had already skipped ahead several stages. Instead of comparing dresses and dance steps or matching bravado with toy swords, the young lord spent every day dragging her to study map displays and book projections:


Despite his polite words, his magically amplified voice did not speak them in the tone of a request, but as an order.
--Administrative sectors and the effect of synergistic coupling on managerial efficiency.


Kaede already heard the rumor that the King had offered Professor Albert von Marienfeld a restored generalship and the position of commanding officer over two brigades. But the professor turned it down, stating that the nation's immediate needs were of no greater importance than its long-term survival, for which it must have capable officers and administrators. A protracted war with the Caliphate will only increase the demand for cadets upon the Königsfeld Academy; therefore his greater duties were on the teaching floor, not the battlefield.
--Trade networks and their convergence points' need for transport expansion.


Under his command, the entire dining hall quieted down within seconds. Even the nobles not obligated to obey him fell silent in respect and courtesy.
--Climate zones and the inevitable limitations of agriculture based on weather.


"Before we offer our nightly prayers to the Holy Father, I have two announcements to make. I ask you all to brace yourselves, for neither of them bear pleasant news."
--Resource maps and the optimal placement of supply-production chains.


Kaede's stomach twisted itself in knots as she anxiously awaited the bad news that almost undoubtedly involved Pascal.
--Military strongholds and their potential for mutual support and coordinated defense.


"First, His Holiness Pope Vigilius has recognized the late Duke Guy of Avro-Calent a martyr of the faith and canonized him as a saint..."
The list went on...


It was an obvious backhanded slap towards the Emperor of Rhin-Lotharingie, who gave the order for a general retreat from the Lotharin-Cataliyan borders. But what came next was far, far worse as Professor Albert continued in his stern but grim voice, with only a barely detectable trace of disgust that he had to deliver such a revolting message:
For over a year Sylviane stayed at the von Moltewitz estate in the Landgraviate of Nordkreuz as a political hostage. Landgrave Karl August von Moltewitz never disrespected her, and even King Leopold of Weichsel treated her as the royalty she was during his cordial visit. Other than her limited freedoms and the dozen soldiers constantly tailing her, she could easily be mistaken for some other noble daughter staying at the fortified estate as Pascal's study-mate.


"--Distressed by the loss of the helpless and the faithful to infidel hands due to the ungodly cowardice displayed by Emperor Geoffroi of Rhin-Lotharingie, who performed no deeds yet basked in sin over the past decades in his greed against the pious people of the Holy Imperium and even against the Church itself, it is with great sorrow that Pope Vigilius hereby excommunicates Emperor Geoffroi Jean de Gaetane from the Trinitian faith, for he has clearly left the grace of the Holy Father..."
After many months, Sylviane slowly came to the realization that she had never been a foreigner in his eyes. She had held a suspicion since her first week that the entire meeting with Pascal may have been set up by the elder von Moltewitz. But in the end it hardly mattered whether or not the old Marshal plotted and schemed, for Pascal himself was truly sincere.


Hushed murmurs began across the hall as people discussed where the war would turn to now, or how King Leopold could possibly aid a heretical ally using an army mobilized in the name of the Holy Father.
It was his precious chance to garner a new friend.


But Professor Albert warned about ''two'' pieces of ill news. The canonization of a new saint, as political as its motives were, simply wasn't unpleasant enough.
...One of his only.


"Second, I regret to inform you that tragedy has befallen our own Kingdom of Weichsel. On this morning, during a trip out to inspect the Capital's outlying defenses, Field Marshal Sir Karl August von Moltewitz, Commanding Officer of the Weichsel Military Forces and Landgrave of Nordkreuz, plus twenty-eight staff members and bodyguards, were cowardly ambushed by unknown assassins. Reinforcements from Königsfeld did not arrive in time to intercede, and the entire group has been confirmed dead."
Yet despite all their time spent huddled in libraries and studies, despite all their heated lakeside discussions and peacefully humored strolls, it was Pascal's words during her last day beside the shores of Cross Lake that would forever be engraved into her memories:


This time people didn't even try to stay silent. Conversations erupted across the dining hall like wildfire, fueled by the war anxieties everyone had built up over the course of the past week. Some individuals even began shouting matches as their arguments flared...
"Tell your father I think he should hire healers to check the his court nobles for vision problems," the nine-year-old Pascal said nonchalantly as his beautiful aquamarine eyes left the sunlit glittering lake and turned towards her.


But Kaede had already stopped paying attention.
Sylviane almost giggled. Saying something equivalent to ''tell the Emperor to do this'' was just... such a Pascal thing to do.


She only waited long enough not to be an embarrassment to Pascal in the eyes of the gathered nobles. He would need his dignity more than ever in the coming days. But the moment Professor Albert finished and the hall erupted into chaos, she pushed back her chair and began striding towards the entrance.
"Why is that?"


There was no way Pascal was coming here.
"Because blindness is their only excuse for belittling the sight of the most beautiful girl I have ever met."


In the back of her mind, Kaede also realized...
Pascal was beaming, completely unabashed.


This was the first time Pascal broke his word.
For a second, Sylviane almost thought she misheard. For a moment after that, she thought he was joking or perhaps teasing her again.


Then, her entire face ripened like an apple as she realized that he was absolutely serious. If embarrassment actually burned as hot as it felt, Sylviane was certain that her lightheaded mind, her overheating shoulders, her fluttering chest... her entire body, would have erupted with steam.


...
Her light-violet eyes reflexively turned away as they fled his gaze and sought the cool blue ripples of the lake.


"D-d-don't get too ahead of yourself," her failing voice stuttered out. "I am the Royal Princess of Rhin-Lotharingie!"


Pascal was not in his dorm room.
"Of course, Your Highness."


Kaede thought it was unfair that he could always figure out where she was, but not the other way around.
Joyous pride filled Pascal's voice as he lifted and kissed the back of her hand.


Only then did she finally remember the telepathy channel. She had been subconsciously avoiding it. In this kind of situation, its use felt like cheating.
...
 
But it was still better than not being there.
 
"<u>Where are you?</u>"
 
She didn't even bother to ask 'are you alright'. That would have been purely insensitive. There was no way he could be fine after his father's death. Whatever odd 'daddy issues' Pascal had, there was also no doubt that he only spoke the word 'father' with reverence and respect.
 
"<u>On the roof.</u>"
 
Pascal's mental voice could not be any more monotoned.
 
Kaede climbed up three more flights of stairs, emerging into the rooftop chill to find Pascal standing in the middle of the gently falling snow. His hardened turquoise gaze did not turn, still watching the far-side battlements and the indigo planet draped over the black horizon.
 
A barely noticeable layer of snowflakes had already accumulated on his broad, uniformed shoulders.
 
It felt almost like the morning after she came to this world, had their roles been reversed.
 
Uncertain of what she should do, what she ''could'' do, Kaede tentatively took her first step towards Pascal.
 
"Sorry about..."
 
"You don't need to apologize," she stopped his dry words.
 
Kaede knew perfectly well why he did not come as promised to the dining hall. Once he entered it, there was no way for him to leave with dignity until he finished his meal. An entire hour spent under the gaze of hundreds, whose eyes were pitying at best and gloating at worst; a full dinner spent listening to people's sympathies, regardless of whether they sincerely bared their hearts or merely paid lip service per aristocratic courtesy...
 
Neither of those would be something Pascal's pride could handle, not in this delicate moment when his mask was at its most brittle state.
 
"I am fine, rea..."
 
"You don't have to hold it in," she interrupted him again.
 
Under the distant glittering starlight, basked in the glow from the indigo planet, Kaede could see a single shining tear silently slide down his half-turned cheeks.
 
Pascal did not cry when she knocked out two of his teeth and broke three of his ribs on this spot. He did not complain once about pain when his left arm was mangled by assassins -- a feat even Reynald respected in the redhead's exaggerated storytelling. Nor did he flinch when he faced the most humiliating moments of his life, apologizing to Parzifal and Ariadne over years of regret on this very rooftop.
 
It wasn't even a matter of masculine pride. The man was born and raised to be a soldier, a commander, a leader.
 
He was simply ''not allowed'' to break down, or to even show weakness.
 
He ''must'' be confident and assured at all times, never to reveal a single doubt towards the inevitability of victory.
 
Yet as Kaede took her last step behind him, as she reached around with both of her thin arms and wrapped them across his lower chest, Pascal's voice finally cracked:
 
"I WARNED him..."
 
Kaede kept her silence as she leaned her head into him, hoping, ''praying'' that their bond, the empathic link she cursed so many times, would give Pascal the emotional support he badly needed.
 
"--Given what Reynald said about the Mantis Blades, I told him, TOLD HIM, that after their attempt on my head, he was in serious, grave danger as the logical next alternative. That IN NO UNCERTAIN TERMS he should ''immediately'' discontinue his habitual personal visits to individual army camps for the coming months, ''at least'' until the Weichsel army is fully engaged in the war and the Imperium has missed its window of opportunity... but when does he EVER listen to me!? I am just the naive son who could not even graduate from the academy in time for him to see it!"
 
It wasn't entirely fair. Kaede stood certain that had Pascal received a similar warning, he probably would not have altered his habits either. Generals did not succumb to fear over the mere likelihood of danger. They certainly did not alter schedules and change routines with ease -- which would clearly announce their fright to their soldiers.
 
Besides, had the elder von Moltewitz stopped his visits, how long must he cower under the threat of assassins? As the Marshal of Weichsel, every enemy of the state wanted him dead on a daily basis.
 
The thin line between courage in the face of danger and reckless stupidity could only be seen through hindsight, yet it was the willingness of commanders brave enough to tip that line that gained them the trust, admiration, and loyalty of their troops.
 
But this was no time for Kaede to wax philosophy.
 
She could only hold back her thoughts as Pascal wept for his loss in his own way.
 
Even so, his next words -- spoken as unforgiving as the arctic cold -- almost made her own heart freeze:
 
"I should have gone to him ''myself''."
 
Survivor's guilt was famous enough that she recognized it immediately.
 
"Don't be ridiculous Pascal. Your father undoubtedly took two of his best bodyguard squads. They must have faced at least several Mantis Blade teams, if not other mercenaries. ''How'' could you have done what they couldn't!?"
 
Kaede knew that she was no psychiatrist, but Pascal was also a stronghold of logic and willful integrity.
 
She did not need to debate such points with him.
 
"But... but..."
 
All she needed to do was point out the obvious, then let him argue it out with himself.
 
"B-but... he was the only family I had left..."
 
Kaede could feel Pascal's tears streaming down through his broken voice.
 
She didn't say anything. She didn't even know ''what'' to say. All she did was bury her own tear-stained cheeks into his back and tighten her arms around his firm chest.
 
She knew his mother had died early. But in hindsight, if Pascal had been raised by servants, then his extended family must have been lacking as well.
 
Her borrowed genealogy references did mention that Pascal's father Karl was also an only son. His parents, or Pascal's paternal grandparents, were young nobles displaced by political fallout from the Rhin-Lotharingie Independence War. The name von Moltewitz was Karl's creation, by merging a family surname prefix to the clan name suffix of his Weichsel bride.
 
Pascal and her had a brief discussion over it once. But he never mentioned his mother's side, even though plenty of his maternal relations should still be alive...
 
"Y-your mother's family?" Kaede was almost afraid to ask.
 
Pascal didn't answer.
 
He only began after his voice finally regained a fragment of its composure:
 
"Father's relationship with mother's side of the family deteriorated after she died. A Northmen invasion after that laid waste to my maternal grandparents' estate, and everyone blamed him for not sending reinforcements fast enough. They accused father of delaying aid over a ''personal'' grudge, even though the half the coast was under attack and he just ''couldn't'' blatantly favor his own family..."
 
There was no need to explain what happened after that.
 
Everyone always expected leaders to be accomplish everything, to be perfect and superhuman, to flawlessly address every need. In turn, those with responsibility were blamed and accused and reviled and criticized over every cent of error, even as they juggled the pros and cons of every decision, agonized over every sacrifice they made for a strategic victory -- for the 'greater good'.
 
After all, there was no point to winning the battle and losing the war. Yet in sacrificing a pawn to assure victory across the board, a leader could only cut off a part of themselves.
 
For some, that meant their flesh and blood.
 
For others, their heart and soul.
 
Perhaps that was part of why history had precious few enlightened absolutists, overshadowed by hordes of greedy and cruel tyrants who had lost their humanity.
 
Yet Pascal was doomed to face the worst of it, for nothing accentuated the contradiction in the human decision-making more than the realm of military strategy.
 
In that moment under the sky, the stars, and the planetoid moon, Kaede finally realized the core of Pascal's being:
 
Why he was confident, arrogant, and intolerant.
 
Why he expected the best from everyone, only to lay scorn upon those who could not meet his demands.
 
It was because he expected the same qualities from himself.
 
It was his wish to be 'perfect' in his worldly role. To not merely rise beyond the renown of his father, but to achieve what his father could not.
 
Losses may be inevitable in war, but he would at least seek to win them without 'sacrifice'.
 
But no floor was smooth from the cut of a single tile. No rope could hold from the strength of only one strand. And just the same, no general could win 'perfect' victories without staffers, lieutenants, and even soldiers of the highest quality.
 
In seeking his 'perfection', Pascal inadvertently created his greatest flaw:
 
Even though he had the charisma to persuade and intimidate, his social skills were abysmal.
 
It was why he summoned her.
 
Without friends, no leader could stay in the light. Not even an aspiring one.
 
Kaede's decision turned out to be remarkably easy.
 
It was less than an hour ago when she read her certificate of residency. Now, it felt as though a lifetime past.
 
But within it was one line of words she would ''never'' forget:
 
"''Kaede Nika Suvorsky, member to the noble household of Sir Karl August von Moltewitz''..."
 
That household now belonged to Pascal.
 
"You're wrong about one thing, Pascal."
 
Still embracing him tightly, Kaede's wispy voice came muffled by the proximity of his uniform jacket. It was barely more than a whisper, yet its content rang clearly in the silence between them:
 
"No one will ever replace your father, but he's not the only family you have left."
 
Pascal didn't say a word as he brought his own arms up, covering her small, chilled hands with the warmth of his palms as she continued:
 
"I'm sure the people of your estate, those who watched you grow up and raised you, all consider you part of the same family."
 
She also thought of his fiancée Sylviane. But having never met the other side of their political betrothal, she couldn't be sure of the princess' intentions.
 
Not to mention that for the first time, she felt... odd, about bringing up the name of his betrothed.
 
Kaede paused for a few more seconds as she reviewed her decision. She knew exactly how critical this moment was, and she would neither tarnish it with false promises, nor soil it with ambiguous misunderstandings.
 
"Even more than that, you have me... I can't promise I'll always be here. I can't swear I won't dream of my old life and world. But I ''will'' always be your familiar. I ''will'' always be one of your family. And so long as I remain on this realm, I will support you to the best of my abilities..."


This was her declaration, her solemn pledge.
Sylviane never figured out if Pascal intentionally did it or if his lack of social common sense simply left him misguided. But her father, Emperor Geoffroi, certainly did not appreciate her altered 'royal demeanor' upon her return. With the rest of the family now gone, he took it upon himself in the following months to stamp every vestige of it out of her.
 
Families could still separate, grow apart. But even by the unlikely chance Kaede discovered how to return to her world, they would still be master and familiar, still try to remain part of each others' lives.
 
Hyperion was no longer merely an endless dream or nightmare. She would finally, truly embrace it as her ''reality''.
 
"--You have my oath."
 
Pascal's large hands wrapped around her own, gripping them with firm determination. His gaze, however, never left the distant horizon.
 
"Thank you. That is more than I could ever ask for."




Line 481: Line 319:




(still trying to decide to keep this scene or not... while I like the sentiment, may be too much relationship acceleration, especially in this delicate situation where it could really hurt his character).
"Your Highness?"
 
Many things changed between Pascal and Kaede that night.
 
One of those occurred after the both of them laid down and pulled up the bedcovers.
 
The overhead light was still on as Pascal turned towards her, his gaze pulling in her rose-quartz eyes as she did likewise.
 
"What is it?" she smiled back at him.
 
Her countenance was serene. Her visage was beautiful, from her long silky hair, to the thinly-curled lashes above caring eyes still tinged with a trace of worry, to her small nose and cute lips...
 
She was angelic.
 
Pascal was sure, for the second time, and he was staring at his personal guardian angel.
 
How else could all the changes to his life in the past few weeks be explained?
 
Yet never before has he needed the blessing of another as much as tonight:
 
"I once told you that I would never touch you while sleeping without consent, but... may I hold on to you while we sleep?"
 
Her flawless white skin immediately flushed seven shades of scarlet.
 
Pascal knew he was being unfair to ask on such a night, especially after what just happened. He even purposefully left out a word from his request.
 
But Kaede didn't say a thing. Shyly pulling the covers up a little further, she returned two small but firm nods.
 
''She's just way too cute.''
 
He carefully wrapped his arms around her before slowly pulling her closer, as though afraid to break a delicate gem.
 
He could almost feel her heartbeat quicken and her cheeks burning as he held her soft body against the firm musculature of his arms and chest. His right hand then reach behind her head, gently stroking her silky long hair as he tried to calm her back down.
 
''...Too huggable as well.''
 
Closing the last breath of distance, Pascal placed a tender kiss on her forehead.
 
"Thank you, and good night."
 
She never even commented, or perhaps never noticed, that he did not specify merely 'tonight'.
 
Pascal held onto Kaede until her breath evened out, until she had drifted away under the rhythmic strokes of her long hair.
 
It was the first time he noticed her falling asleep before him.
 
It was her way of expressing how truly she had accepted him.
 
After his loneliness finally subsided, Pascal couldn't help but feel somewhat guilty for forcing her into it. He carefully -- with a bit of magical help -- extracted his arms from her, and settled for just holding onto her hand.
 
 
...
 
 
It was not until hours later, late into the night, when a still-wide-awake Pascal felt the pinging sensation of an incoming ''Farspeak'' spell.
 
His mind soon visualized the source -- it was from his fiancée. The first time in weeks that she was willing to speak to him.
 
Pascal rushed, mentally of course, to open up the channel from his receiving end.
 
For nearly a minute, silence reigned across the channel as neither he nor Sylviane spoke.
 
''Farspeak'' calls had a range and reliability unmatched by conventional ''Telepathy''. But it also had glaring weaknesses: each person may only join one such link, both ends must concentrate on keeping the channel open, and the spell not only took minutes to cast but could also be easily missed if one wasn't paying attention.
 
Pascal was anxious, but it was common courtesy to allow the caller to speak first, especially after they've already spent minutes shaping the spell.
 
Then, her message began with only two sorrowful words:
 
"<u>I'm sorry.</u>"
 
It was the one opening that Pascal did not know how to respond to. Should he offer to take the blame for their last call, or should he accept her sympathy?
 
He was about to choose option one -- better safe than sorry -- when a second line soon arrived on the heels of the first:
 
"<u>I'm on my way to Königsfeld and will arrive by tomorrow morning. Official business first, but I will ''definitely'' see you afterwards to talk.</u>"
 
"<u>Thank you...</u>"
 
Pascal was a fast thinker when he needed to be, but he was not ''that'' quick. Before he could even expand his phrase into a proper response, she had slipped him a quiet third communique:
 
"<u>I missed you.</u>"
 
Then the link cut off.
 
Even if it didn't, it would have taken Pascal at least a minute to recover from that.


Three simple words, spoken in a shy, almost embarrassed voice, yet drowned in a mixture of exhaustion and longing that Sylviane had never expressed.
The words of Sir Robert de Dunois, wayfarer mage and Oriflamme Armiger to the ''Vermilion Princess'', pulled Sylviane's thoughts back to the present.


He always believed that at least part of his interest towards her was because their personalities were peas from the same pod, even if she was far more approachable and friendly.
"Just planning ahead, Sir Robert."


But his fiancée made one error in judgment.
Sylviane Etiennette de Gaetane lied through her royal mask of imperturbable confidence. Her shoulders felt heavy, burdened by the responsibilities that may spell victory or defeat for the entire realm. But she could not reveal an ounce of it -- not to her closest guards, not to the ministers in court, not to anyone, except maybe the two most important men in her life.


After the news of today, Pascal knew exactly why she was coming to Weichsel. There was no way he would just sit back and watch while she fought tooth and nail for their fathers' legacy.
Fairy tales aside, being a royal princess had never been about an admirable and enjoyable life. It was hard, and lonely, and just outright tiring.


His first order of business upon daybreak now stood clear: he must travel to Königsfeld for an audience with the King as the new Landgrave of Nordkreuz.
It was but another reason why no true heir of 'de Gaetane' ever wanted the throne.


History might only remember the Caliphate's declaration of Holy War days ago as the ignition point, but for Pascal Kay Lennart von Moltewitz, it was tonight when the war truly began.
Sylviane's wisteria gaze looked ahead, from the plaza that held Königsfeld's diplomatic teleportation beacons, across the stone-paved Drachenlanzen Royal Pathway lined with the King's finest men on both sides, and towards the powerful Black Dragon Castle that loomed over the city.


And it would not stop until all of Hyperion lay changed.
"The Black Eagles stand before us. Form up and show them the pride of Rhin-Lotharingie!"


"Yes, Your Highness!"


As Sylviane strode ahead, her twelve Oriflamme Armigers -- the second best knights of Rhin-Lotharingie -- fanned out behind her with perfectly coordinated steps to form the wings of an inverted-V. Each of them wore a uniform of gold and vermilion on crimson, draped by an enchanted cape that billowed flames of golden-orange to match her own.


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All around them, the citizens of Weichsel watched in spellbound awe as the Oriflamme advanced towards the Black Dragon, heralding a unison of Kings.
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| Return to [[Daybreak_on_Hyperion|Main Page]]
| Forward to [[Daybreak:Volume_1_Chapter_15|Chapter 15]]
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Revision as of 20:45, 3 February 2014

Chapter 1 - By the Crossing Shores

The chamber was lavishly furnished and fit for royalty. Spacious enough to fit three carriages, its wide floors were covered by intricately decorated rugs of the richest wool. Dressers and drawers built from the finest mahogany lay interspersed along the walls, while two renowned watercolor landscapes sat within gilded frames as large as bookshelves. Atop the nearby bedside counter sat a tray of gleaming silver, filled with breakfast pastries and sweets almost too beautiful to eat.

None of that changed the fact it was a prison, occupied by a young girl no more than seven years old.

The sun pouring in through the windows was approaching a noontime high; but the girl still laid awake in bed, curled up under the bedsheets with only her head poking out. Her light-violet eyes were bloodshot after an entire night spent weeping, with tears still staining her soft cheeks.

It was part of why she refused to come out of bed. No one must be allowed to see her like this, not even the maid who delivered the food.

To reveal her disgraceful state would be worse than embarrassment. It would humiliate the proud people of her entire nation before the eyes of their enemy.

Perhaps it was just as well, as her depressed mood certainly did not wish to partake in anything else.

The sound of scampering footsteps resounded from outside her door, which had laid silent for hours other than the occasional soft clink of armor.

"She is inside right? Open the door."

The childish voice couldn't have belonged to anyone older than a mere boy. Yet it was spoken with imperturbable pride and confidence capable of matching any crown prince.

"I'm sorry Milord, Marshal---"

The soldier's feeble retort was cut off before he could finish.

"My father has already left this morning, which leaves me lord of this castle. Perhaps you are not aware of how insolent your behavior is towards a presiding lord? The word of a mere garrison against the prodigal son of a Landgrave and Weichsel's hero. Who do you think your officer will believe when my armigers come to arrest you?"

Even across the wide room and through closed doors, the girl could feel the pressure of the young boy's threats.

"But the Marshal expressly forbid any---"

"Does that include the maids who deliver food? Does that include the King should he stop by? I am now the castle's lord. It is only natural that I pay homage to our guest of honor. Did my father expressly forbid me from carrying out my duties as nobility demands?"

"No Milord!" The soldier almost shouted, before clinking armor could be heard beyond the door once again.

The soft click of a door unlocking soon followed, and the girl rushed to toss the bedcovers over her head once again.

"Thank you, soldier. Carry on."

Light footsteps marched in, and the thick doors shut closed behind them.

For a minute, nothing happened. Then she heard a single word spoken near the door, voiced in Ancient Draconic -- the preferred language across Hyperion for mnemonic spellcasting.

He must be older than me then, the girl thought. She was still one year too early to learn, and few mages managed to cast any actual spells before the age of ten.

"I know you are awake. Do not worry though; that was merely a simple Silence spell on the door."

She neither moved nor answered, so the boy continued on in his self-assured voice:

"My name is Pascal Kay Lennart von Moltewitz, son of Weichsel Field Marshal Karl August von Moltewitz, heir to the Langrave of Nordkreuz. What of Your Highness?"

Still she neither shifted nor replied, and a nervous silence soon fell between the two.

One minute passed...

Five minutes passed...

Ten minutes later, she was almost wondering if he had quietly left, with the door's closing silenced by his spell.

She slowly peaked out from under the covers, only to meet eye to eye with a boy of her own age.

Pascal wore a faint grin below turquoise eyes brightened by curiosity. His golden soft curls were neatly cut and draped over both ears. His visage was well-proportioned, poised confidently atop a balanced build. Even at a mere seven years old, it was already apparent that he would grow up to become a handsome young man.

For a moment she paused, her attention captured by his gaze, before she realized her need to pull the covers back up.

"I just saw your eyes, by the way. You need not hide your tears any longer."

His calm words of sympathy only annoyed her further.

"I'm not crying!" she said as her hands pushed off the comforter.

"Of course not. You are a Lotharin Princess after all. Although... you are not exactly what I expected."

With eyes full of amused curiosity, Pascal's slow speech had a nature of being almost... irritating.

"What, did you expect me to wear a flower tiara as appropriate of tribal Rhin-Lotharingie!? You arrogant Weichsels are little better than Imperials!" she retorted in an almost yell.

Yet somehow, Pascal smiled:

"Not really, although I thought princesses had more... you know, attitude. Bow down before me! and all that..."

Her cheeks heated as embarrassment permeated them, followed closely by annoyance and anger.

She didn't need some petty Weichsel lord-junior to tell her that. She had already heard enough growing up. As the third and youngest child of the Geoffroi the Great, Emperor of Rhin-Lotharingie, she spent her years under the adoration of two older brothers. They were perfect noblemen, as handsome as they are talented, as capable as they are kind. Few younger sisters enjoyed the blessing of even one admirable and caring older brother, let alone two. Yet even though she loved them with all her heart, she couldn't help but feel the slow creep of inferiority every time she watched them from afar.

It certainly didn't help to hear the nobles, and even the servants chatter from behind corners, admiring how 'princely' her brothers were while expressing that she looked less of a princess than a mere countess' daughter.

"--But of course, none of really matters," the boy named Pascal continued. "Nevertheless, there are still some protocols to follow."

He then bowed down, his hands waving with the perfect gestures of a nobleman placing a request towards a lady:

"May I have the honor of hearing your name, my beautiful princess?"

The praise 'beautiful' was never one she could seriously take from another, but she nevertheless responded with composure as she sat up in her bed:

"Sylviane Etiennette de Gaetane, daughter of Emperor Geoffroi Jean de Gaetane of the Empire of Rhin-Lotharingie."

Pascal then stood back up straight, a playful smile stretching across his countenance:

"Now, that was not too hard, was it now? Although I could certainly see how one would be troubled by worries in such a stuffy room. What was father thinking!? No maps, no projectors, not even a single shelf of books, not to mention bright sun and open air to let the mind flourish!"

The girl named Sylviane blinked. The boy's lines seemed almost... contradictory. His first three items listed were precisely the culprits that palace servants often accused of stuffiness. Meanwhile free sun and air were simply not comforts normally given to any prisoner of war, which she certainly was.

"So! How about it, my princess. Do you dare to brave the foreign lands of a hostile liege? Or would you rather cower within this bedchamber, doomed to dust and mold like the expensive but nonetheless useless furnishings of a trophy room?"

Who does he think he is!?

Her temper, although not exactly matching those of a royal princess, were at least finally rising.

Yet oddly enough, Pascal seemed happy about it.

"Only if your bravado is capable of getting me out of this room," she retorted.

"Now that, is a challenge no knight could possibly refuse. Shall we go then?"

Pascal offered his hand, but Sylviane merely looked down at the white blouse with violet ribbons she was wearing.

"I need to get changed first."

"Sure," he turned around and left.

But rather than departing, he merely went to the nearby dressers, pulled out a long, purple dress, and walked back to her.

"Here, let me help," he offered as he laid the dress down on the bed.

"Whoever heard of any man other than her husband helping a lady dress!? Now GET OUT!" Sylviane finally snapped.

She couldn't help but notice that Pascal was grinning as he strode away.

As Sylviane dressed herself in a purple two shades lighter than her dark-plum hair, she heard the boy toss more barely-veiled threats at the guards outside in between enticing them with bribery.

"--What use does my father have for you if your entire unit cannot even keep watch over two kids by the lakeside!? Or do you think you will be free of responsibility if father returned to find her gravely ill because she did nothing but mope inside a gloomy room all day? Would it not be better for everyone involved to breathe fresh air and stay happier while your friends earned some extra silver for bar tabs this weekend...?"

In just one meeting, Sylviane decided that she had never met a nobleman -- or noble son -- as rude, audacious, downright impertinent, and... Holy Father forbid, as interesting as Pascal.


----- * * * -----


"I still can't believe I'm sitting next to Cross Lake."

Sylviane's wisteria gaze swept across the calm waters, towards her home country beyond the opposite shores that blurred into the horizon. It was a peaceful autumn day. The soothing sound of gentle waves rolling onto the stone embankments was the essence of tranquility for the second largest lake in Northern Hyperion. Yet her eyes couldn't help but moisten as yet another surge of homesickness washed over her.

The princess suppressed it, hard. This was no place to be seen crying.

Aside from the boy Pascal, who laid back besides her against the grassy earthen flood-dike, they were also watched by at least two dozen soldiers. Some of them were Pascal's armigers and had already learned the bodyguards' art of discretion. But most were garrison guards responsible for the captive princess, and she could almost feel their sweeping glances continuously crisscrossing over her back.

Sylviane had just enough martial training to realize how suicidal it would be to take her this many soldiers at once, even assuming she had a weapon. Yet just because she was helpless didn't mean she could allow them to see it.

"Let me guess -- your father wished he stood here," Pascal asked with nonchalance after a moment's thought.

She almost spoke the truth before holding herself back and deciding for a more neutral answer:

"Why do you say that?"

Pascal bolted back up before his bright turquoise gaze caught hold of her eyes once again.

"Do you know how strategically important this Lake is?"

It wasn't a question, but a challenge.

Thinking back, Sylviane was beginning to realize that many of this seven-year-old boy's statements were precisely that: challenges, tests.

But for what? She didn't have a clue.

"I don't remember the maps well, but father once said that the Cross Lake is where the Lotharingie Rivers united before flowing towards the sea."

"Do you know what that implies?" he asked again.

Sylviane took a minute to ponder it over. Even for royalty, she was still too young to receive schooling on military or economic strategy. But it hardly required official lessons to understand the importance of rivers to transportation, and therefore every aspect of civilization.

"Ummm... that whomever holds Cross Lake controls the two largest rivers of Rhin-Lotharingie, and... through them, power across the whole Lotharin heartlands?"

It would take years before she realized how much difference this simple answer by a seven-year-old girl made in the course of her life.

"'Control' might be a tad excessive..." the boy followed up. "But definitely a strong military influence, and maybe dominance over trade. Not to mention the third river, Nordkreuz, that flows here from the northern parts of the Holy Imperium. One could definitely say that this lake is the crux, the most important strategic location in Northern Hyperion."

Pascal then shrugged before a wide grin lit up his expression from cheek to cheek:

"But good enough! Wow, a princess is a princess. You really are different from all those other noble daughters. I have met plenty twice your age yet all they know is gossip and arts."

It was the first time Sylviane had received such conflicting words from outside the family. On one hand, his sincerity towards her worthiness as a 'princess' was so genuine she could almost taste it. On the other hand, he indirectly insulted one of her favorite interests -- one that her parents encouraged and the nobles praised.

Between shy modesty and annoyed retorts, her pride automatically seized the second:

"What's wrong with arts?" Sylviane pouted. "I like music -- especially Lotharin music. It's festive, and joyous, and easy to understand. Never fails to cheer the heart. Not unlike Weichsel orchestral, all martial and so heavy on the drums and trumpets."

"That is because Lotharin music source from folk songs; hence they are popular among the commoners even here in Weichsel. But you misunderstand, Your Highness..."

"Sylviane is fine," she cut in. "All this 'Your Highness' when you're the one actually in charge makes it feel like you're mocking me."

Truth be told, Sylviane couldn't help but feel jealous of Pascal. She had always felt daunted by her royal rank, always afraid she would not live up to expectations. Yet here beside her sat a boy her own age, who spoke and acted as though he was born to command others.

"Sure, Princess Sylviane," Pascal beamed back, completely ignoring the annoyed pout she gave him. "As I was saying, I have nothing against the fine arts. But people cannot live on culture and artistry alone. What can noble art accomplish when the people starve from poor agriculture, when they wallow in destitution due to a lack of commerce? Father believe too many nobles forget this as they raise their heirs -- daughters especially -- and I fully agree."

"But mother and father said that it was still too early for me to study what my elder brothers learned," she countered with a matter-of-fact tone. "They just want me to train a properly royal demeanor for now. They said an interest in the arts would help my image."

"Royal demeanor? Demeanor is easy to fake. Watch me!"

Pascal hurriedly stood up over the dike. With his back straight and chin high, he began to gesture sternly at the lake with pointed fingers while calling out in a deliberately pitched voice:

"Hmph! You better be grateful! That is a royal gift from the house of de Gaetane...!"

"Don't misunderstand. I am merely issuing you a fair reward for your accomplishments..."

"It's not like I favor you or anything! As a princess I must show kindness to loyal attendants, that's all!"

He then gracefully sat back down.

"Well, what do you think?"

Sylviane's light-violet eyes were lost between astonishment and puzzled.

"It definitely has 'attitude'. But nothing like what my tutors taught me."

"Please! What do those old men and women know about being a princess!?"

While not directed at her, Pascal's voice held nothing but disdain as he spoke of hired tutors:

"I chased away three of them before father gave it up. Not a single one of them could stand up to me in either a contest or will or knowledge, always resorting to barbaric violence instead! Of course... if your mother had advice, that would be something else entirely."

"Mother was only the daughter of a Count before father married her. As much as we love her, mother never even grew accustomed to being empress. There's no way I would bother her for such advice!"

"A mere Count?" Pascal's brows went up. "I thought noble marriages were usually made for more political gain than that? A county will not offer much to back up an Emperor's crown authority."

Sylviane snapped her irritated glare back onto him. Only then did she realize that his turquoise gaze held not an ounce of condescension, merely curiosity and surprise.

After taking a deep breath and donning her 'royal composure' once again, the princess started to explain:

"Father always said that political marriages are the folly of short-sighted nobles and certainly not the 'de Gaetane' way. He told my elder brothers and I that because we are royalty who bear the burden of the realm, we must take extra care to create warm, caring families. Because only a good family may raise a good heir, and only a good child may become an excellent liege..."

"I'm still a child, so I don't really understand everything. But I know they're right! It is because of father and mother that my brothers became the kind, smart, and diligent young men they are today! Because after everything father and mother had done and devoted for us, we would never be able to bear the sight of our them disappointed and ashamed."

Turning back towards the lake, Pascal thought it over as his golden soft curls swayed in the waterside breeze. Then, with his eyes still far away, he began with pensive words:

"I think you are probably right. My mother died before I really knew her, and father is too busy to return home often. But it does not matter how far busy or how far away he is, he always makes sure to write to me, or send long messages every week through our Majordomo Wilfried. He is one of the main reasons I want to learn and understand all manners of stately affairs, and magic too--!"

Pascal's tone suddenly rose in excitement:

"I simply cannot wait for the day when I can receive Farspeak calls directly from him!"

By the time he turned back around to meet the eyes of the princess, Pascal's gaze held a new light even as he repeated old words:

"Like I said, a princess is a princess! You are just so much better than all those other noble girls!"

This time, Sylviane no longer had the distraction of another mood. This time, she turned away coyly as her cheeks blushed faintly.

"You're actually the first one outside my family who sincerely meant that," she admitted. "Everyone else keep whispering behind my back that I'm not graceful enough, or not beautiful enough, or lack that alluring aristocrat refinement..."

"Oh please, do not tell me you actually listen to those idiots," Pascal cut in, his hard eyes insistent if not imperative, more pressuring than any tutor she met:

"Sure, some noble girls may look nice -- beautiful as a peacock! With just as much birdbrain! I have met many of them, and most of their thought capacity barely extends beyond squealing like pigs and chirping over which set of feathers to admire tomorrow. Seriously, those nobles can go jump off a cliff and the world would hardly have missed a thing."

Sylviane knew that his statement was rather excessive and mean if not outright horrible, but she nevertheless smiled and grinned as he bashed upon the same people she always held an inferiority complex towards.

With disdain rapidly draining away from his gaze, Pascal returned to his appreciative voice:

"Now being a real princess -- that requires skills and knowledges. Royal demeanor is important too, but that is easy to learn and act! The rest is what truly requires work. I cannot say that I am sufficiently learned myself to teach you, but I could certainly help you study!"

At the time, Sylviane mostly thought that Pascal was boasting. After all, even if he was smarter than the average, how much could a mere seven-year-old understand about affairs of state and governance?

It took but days before the princess realized how wrong she was.

While other children their age spent most of their time playing outside while learning language, numbers, etiquette, and equestrian skills, Pascal had already skipped ahead several stages. Instead of comparing dresses and dance steps or matching bravado with toy swords, the young lord spent every day dragging her to study map displays and book projections:

--Administrative sectors and the effect of synergistic coupling on managerial efficiency.

--Trade networks and their convergence points' need for transport expansion.

--Climate zones and the inevitable limitations of agriculture based on weather.

--Resource maps and the optimal placement of supply-production chains.

--Military strongholds and their potential for mutual support and coordinated defense.

The list went on...

For over a year Sylviane stayed at the von Moltewitz estate in the Landgraviate of Nordkreuz as a political hostage. Landgrave Karl August von Moltewitz never disrespected her, and even King Leopold of Weichsel treated her as the royalty she was during his cordial visit. Other than her limited freedoms and the dozen soldiers constantly tailing her, she could easily be mistaken for some other noble daughter staying at the fortified estate as Pascal's study-mate.

After many months, Sylviane slowly came to the realization that she had never been a foreigner in his eyes. She had held a suspicion since her first week that the entire meeting with Pascal may have been set up by the elder von Moltewitz. But in the end it hardly mattered whether or not the old Marshal plotted and schemed, for Pascal himself was truly sincere.

It was his precious chance to garner a new friend.

...One of his only.

Yet despite all their time spent huddled in libraries and studies, despite all their heated lakeside discussions and peacefully humored strolls, it was Pascal's words during her last day beside the shores of Cross Lake that would forever be engraved into her memories:

"Tell your father I think he should hire healers to check the his court nobles for vision problems," the nine-year-old Pascal said nonchalantly as his beautiful aquamarine eyes left the sunlit glittering lake and turned towards her.

Sylviane almost giggled. Saying something equivalent to tell the Emperor to do this was just... such a Pascal thing to do.

"Why is that?"

"Because blindness is their only excuse for belittling the sight of the most beautiful girl I have ever met."

Pascal was beaming, completely unabashed.

For a second, Sylviane almost thought she misheard. For a moment after that, she thought he was joking or perhaps teasing her again.

Then, her entire face ripened like an apple as she realized that he was absolutely serious. If embarrassment actually burned as hot as it felt, Sylviane was certain that her lightheaded mind, her overheating shoulders, her fluttering chest... her entire body, would have erupted with steam.

Her light-violet eyes reflexively turned away as they fled his gaze and sought the cool blue ripples of the lake.

"D-d-don't get too ahead of yourself," her failing voice stuttered out. "I am the Royal Princess of Rhin-Lotharingie!"

"Of course, Your Highness."

Joyous pride filled Pascal's voice as he lifted and kissed the back of her hand.

...

Sylviane never figured out if Pascal intentionally did it or if his lack of social common sense simply left him misguided. But her father, Emperor Geoffroi, certainly did not appreciate her altered 'royal demeanor' upon her return. With the rest of the family now gone, he took it upon himself in the following months to stamp every vestige of it out of her.


----- * * * -----


"Your Highness?"

The words of Sir Robert de Dunois, wayfarer mage and Oriflamme Armiger to the Vermilion Princess, pulled Sylviane's thoughts back to the present.

"Just planning ahead, Sir Robert."

Sylviane Etiennette de Gaetane lied through her royal mask of imperturbable confidence. Her shoulders felt heavy, burdened by the responsibilities that may spell victory or defeat for the entire realm. But she could not reveal an ounce of it -- not to her closest guards, not to the ministers in court, not to anyone, except maybe the two most important men in her life.

Fairy tales aside, being a royal princess had never been about an admirable and enjoyable life. It was hard, and lonely, and just outright tiring.

It was but another reason why no true heir of 'de Gaetane' ever wanted the throne.

Sylviane's wisteria gaze looked ahead, from the plaza that held Königsfeld's diplomatic teleportation beacons, across the stone-paved Drachenlanzen Royal Pathway lined with the King's finest men on both sides, and towards the powerful Black Dragon Castle that loomed over the city.

"The Black Eagles stand before us. Form up and show them the pride of Rhin-Lotharingie!"

"Yes, Your Highness!"

As Sylviane strode ahead, her twelve Oriflamme Armigers -- the second best knights of Rhin-Lotharingie -- fanned out behind her with perfectly coordinated steps to form the wings of an inverted-V. Each of them wore a uniform of gold and vermilion on crimson, draped by an enchanted cape that billowed flames of golden-orange to match her own.

All around them, the citizens of Weichsel watched in spellbound awe as the Oriflamme advanced towards the Black Dragon, heralding a unison of Kings.

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