Daybreak:Alpha Chapter

Chapter 10 -

"I never thought it would be this bad, Hakim."

Standing at the crest of a shallow, grassy knoll, the commander of the Cataliyan Caliphate's western front army looked down the aisles of his field hospital. Rows upon rows of white tents bore the red crescent -- the crystal light red of Samaran 'Fluid of Life' that all healers shared in common. Thousands of sick, quarantined troops overflowed even their capacity, overwhelming the amply prepared medical battalions attached to the army.

Baha ad-Din Salim ibn Ziyad pulled at the hairs beneath his thickly-bearded chin. It was a bad habit he regressed to every time he felt frustrated, and he doubted any general worth his salt could feel more helpless than he did right now.

"Flu, typhus, and now even dysentery? How could this happen? So quickly?" Salim turned about to face Hakim, his marid wazir.

"The problems have been present since the start, Your Eminence," Hakim answered, his countenance as blank as the tranquil water. "We walk among a land and climate alien to our kinds. Whereas they grew up on the arid savanna and scorching deserts and tropical coasts, they now trek beneath the gloom of a northwestern winter and its freezing rains."

"The human body is frail and slow to adapt," he added. "How could they not fall sick?"

"But why now? Why the sudden surge?" Salim countered. "We've entered Rhin-Lotharingie for over a month already. Our soldiers have been falling sick since week one, yet the healers have always managed to keep the sickness contained. I even moderated our pace of advance so the troops wouldn't become exhausted."

"All resources have limitations, Your Eminence," replied the advisor. "The heavy casualties incurred in our last battle exhausted our healers' ether and drained low our supplies of Samaran blood. How could they cope with another disease outbreak immediately afterwards?"

To most people, Hakim seemed merely a beautiful, scholarly young man clad in white robes. He was too tall to be inconspicuous, too pale to be a descendant of the desert tribes. But advisors of exotic origins were nothing new in the Caliphate. In fact, those of affluence often sought to claim wives or servants of distant origins, for it was widely considered a fashionable display of wealth... or in Salim's eyes, decadence.

But appearances were also deceiving. Hakim... wasn't even human.

Anyone who examined him closely would notice faded blue hues that seemed to billow across his very skin. The supple but solid tissues that contained the human form did not apply to him. Instead, his 'flesh' was almost an illusion, forged from layers of condensed embers to take on a tangible profile that could effortlessly blend in amongst humanity.

The reason? Because to the human commoners of the Caliphate, Hakim represented a race veiled in mystery: he was a jinni, a creature of smokeless flames.

The two societies shared a God, a Prophet, and even an empire -- yet they remain segregated to this day. Hakim was among the few who did intermingle with humans, for he was one of the marid caste, the elite class of leaders and scholars among his people's rigid social hierarchy.

The Caliphate's western front army had only twenty marids in total, plus several hundred ifrits -- jinni of the warrior caste. But the numeric racial imbalance did not stop the Caliphate's military traditions: every commander of the brigade level and above was paired with his or her own wazir, a marid who served as their second-in-command.

The other nations of Hyperion might have equated this role with the 'chief-of-staff' position. But in truth, it was far more complicated than that. The bond between a general and a wazir was forged for life -- usually the shorter, human life. But until death breaks them apart, the two shared all assignments, promotions, and punishments equally.

In other words, it was a relationship as sacrosanct as the institution of marriage.

"Battalions! Full stop!" came a distant yell from behind the two leaders.

The order was echoed down the road by one officer after another as wheels creaked and hooves stamped against hardened ground. A supply convoy of several hundred horse-drawn wagons snaked down the earthen path until it vanished between the wooded hills. They soon halted at the encampment's outer security perimeter. There, the captain on watch verified the newcomers' identity before letting them through.

The scene was almost suspicious -- it had been weeks since Salim witnessed such an unmolested column.

Most supply trains had to run a gauntlet of ambushes on their journey to the front, if they arrived at all. By the time they reached camp, the wagons would roll in with Lotharin arrows sticking out of their sides, with men in bloody bandages and half-burnt carts carrying those too injured to walk.

Salim's army of 80,000 soldiers consumed over 50,000 stones (nearly 300 wagon loads) of bread, 40,000 stones of meat, and 60,000 stones of forage per week. To ferry such immense quantities from the Caliphate and transport them safely across several hundred kilopaces of wooded Lotharin hills required a monumental effort from logistical and reserve corps.

Without adequate supplies, his frontline corps would be forced into 'foraging' -- which in military terms meant seizing grains and livestock from the local populace. Such behavior often encountered resistance, which soon escalated to murder and rape once the soldiers draw blood. Furthermore, even foraging couldn't even supply an army of such bulk for long; within days the troops would begin to starve, made only worse by vengeful peasants taking up arms as partisans and tightening the noose yet further on logistical lines.

In other words, atrocities against the innocent civilian populace was more than just a sin. It created a negative feedback loop that quickly spun out of control.

Thankfully, Salim had managed to avoid such a scenario thus far. Several battalions of reinforcements from the rear had ensured that this latest delivery of food and medicine came through. Meanwhile, the four rotting men hanging by their necks neared the entrance served as a potent reminder of his command's "zero tolerance policy" towards all acts of barbarism -- pillage and rape included.

"General!"

A yell came as a squad of light cavalrymen detached themselves from the supply column and galloped towards the hill.

"General!"

The newcomer leaped off his horse and scampered up the grassy knoll. Two dozen wary bodyguards squeezed the handles of their scimitars, for they were on the edge of the Cataliyan encampment and well outside the inner wards. But the officer paid them no mind as he rushed up and took a deep bow.

"Major Hamid," Salim addressed the youthful commander of the 86th Light Cavalry Battalion. "What brings you in such haste?"

"General Salim, I bring dire news," he began immediately. "Per your orders, my scouts have been patrolling the surrounding regions to ward off saboteurs and other partisan activity. Early this morning, we caught a squad of Lotharins poisoning a natural spring two kilopaces upstream through the disposal of animal carcasses."

Salim's eyes hardened as he turned to his wazir:

"They're poisoning the land..."

"Yes Sir," the Major confirmed. "I've sent my men to double check other water sources in our locale. They have already discovered three other springs, eleven wells, and one stream nearby to also be contaminated by the enemy. In three cases, the contagions were well camouflaged, and may have been left there as long as five days ago."

"It certainly helps explain our sudden influx of diseases," the marid Hakim nodded in contemplation. "The abundance of fresh, running water in these lands have made our officers lax in cleansing what they consume. Perhaps even more importantly -- this shows that our opponent has changed commanders."

"The Oriflamme who joined the battle?"

"Some prisoners claim it was their Princess."

Salim could only scoff at Hakim's implication:

"A mere child then. With the Emperor's untimely demise, her own authority swings in the balance. What can a maiden barely out of her teens command?"

"She doesn't have to," the Wazir warned. "The Weichsel Knights Phantom that devastated our Aerogyros must have arrived with her. Even if she stayed a mere figurehead, that crusader state has more than enough competent generals to lend an experienced commander."

...And the Lotharins might just be desperate enough to listen to those blackened warmongers.

Squeezing his bearded chin, General Salim went quiet as he considered it briefly. No follower of God would forget that it was Weichsel who sparked the First Crusade, thus igniting centuries of Holy Wars between the Caliphate and the Trinitian states.

"That makes sense. Lady Estelle may be a nonbeliever, but she is also a courageous and honorable woman," he spoke with earnest respect. "Such treachery is beneath her dignity and conduct. To poison the water supply would not only harm us, but also their own civilians for many months to come."

Not that there remained many of them, Salim thought, as most of the nearby villagers already fled across the river to take shelter behind the fortified walls of the Avorican Capital.

"Do we have any information on the status of their command?"

"None," answered Hakim. "We killed and 'captured' several of our own spies during the last battle, two of whom being signal officers that we relied upon to pass information from our agents within their camp. Intelligence has already taken efforts to re-infiltrate them back into the Lotharin ranks, but we have yet to hear back from either."

It really spoke for just how savagely Caliphate forces had mauled the Lotharin army -- that they ended up severing even their own spies' communication lines.

"What of the Lotharin saboteurs you encountered?" Salim addressed Major Hamid once more.

"We had cornered their squad, but..."

"But--?"

"Their leader did not surrender; he insulted God in his cowardice, and therefore I killed him in battle."

"What did he say?"

The cavalry major's expression tensed, having realized late that he had already said too much.

"...There is no deity but God," he then uttered before bowing his eyes to the ground.

It was a phrase sacred to the Tauheed religion; words spoken not only as a prayer, but as an official declaration of one's conversion -- a transformation for which all prior sins might be forgiven.

"Then why did you kill him?" Salim demanded, his calm but chilling voice penetrating all resistance in a display of his twenty years' experience as a military judge.

"B-but he spoke them out of fear of our arms!" the Major stammered under the oppressive pressure that loomed in the atmosphere. "They were an insolent lie to God!"

"How do you know? Did you split his heart open and see?"

"Sir, I..."

"Answer me, how do you know? How could you be sure of his insincerity?"

"How do you know?"

Kneeling down to the earth, Major Hamid could only bow in regret as the General repeated the question again and again.

"I do not... I cannot!"

With a softening sigh, Salim looked down upon the subordinate who failed to remember one of the fundamental teachings of the Prophet.

"It is not our role to pass judgment upon his faith and piety. If he lies in the name of God, then it is God who shall judge and punish him. Whom are you to take such decisions into your own hands in arrogance?"

For minutes, no words came back as the Major could only stare into the dirt in guilty silence.

Even if there is no military code to adjudicate this, I have to pass judgment, Salim exhaled a deep breath.

The Major had broken a law of God, a law of moral conscience. For discipline and ethics were to be upheld among the soldiers, he must serve as an example and be punished accordingly.

But at the same time, Major Hamid was already a seasoned veteran with countless deeds of battlefield valor; if the penalty was excessive, it would discourage the other men. Furthermore, Hamid was among the best wilderness scouts in the army; it would be difficult to replace him and maintain the same level of efficiency.

Salim pursed his lips as he felt his scholarly mind turn, seeking legal precedence as far back as the Prophet's Companions. But unlike his theological counterparts who administered civil law, time was one leisure that he did not have. Every minute in a war zone could be measured in lives; he needed a swift decision so that the Major -- or his replacement -- could be sent back with new orders.

"Major Hamid," the stern-faced General said after a half-minute of deliberation. "You are hereby ordered to fast for the next two months, from sunrise to sunset as if they were the Holy Month of Revelation, in repentance for your sin. Furthermore, you will surrender two years of your salary as blood money."

Relief flooded the young Major's face before bowing again:

"Yes Sir!"

It was easy to be considered merciful when one had a reputation for legal severity.

"Hasten your search and identify any fresh water sources remaining, Major Hamid," the General continued. "Focus on our rear where there is less chance of sabotage. Put a watch on any unspoiled water supplies; you may pull two infantry battalions to assist you as needed."

"Yes Sir! It shall be done!"

"In the meantime," Salim added as his voice softened and he squeezed the young man's shoulder. "Repent, reflect, and atone. I will pray for God to forgive you, for it is his law you have broken."

"Yes Sir! ...and thank you," the Major saluted again, this time with gratitude reflecting through his eyes.

As the cavalry commander descended the hill, General Salim exchanged a look with his wazir Hakim:

"You don't approve, dear brother?"

"It simply seems... unlike you," the marid stated, his expression as emotionless as ever.

Salim returned his gaze to the young Major's back with the traces of a smile. There was a time when he was just like his wazir. But the more he aged -- and the more children his wives gave him -- the more he realized that being logical and impartial was far from enough to being a responsible leader."

"The Caliph once gave me advice to be more fatherly to my men; I am trying to follow it still."

"Sentimentality has little to do with legality though," Hakim simply replied.

"Sure," Salim admitted. "But it has everything to do with humanity."

After all, it was the Prophet himself who said that 'Kindness is a mark of faith, and whoever has not kindness has not faith.'

The General then watched as the descending Major grew distracted, perhaps even entranced for a brief moment, by the figure of a new arrival traversing up the slopes. The woman's face was obscured by a black veil that revealed only a pair of large, onyx eyes. But in spite of her armor and the robes she wore underneath, it was obvious that she was slender of build and her every step possessed a heavenly grace.

Salim couldn't help but shake his head as he watched the encounter. Boys.

It wasn't rare to see a woman in the army. The tribes of the south had been forced to enlist women ever since they ran out of manpower during the Dragon-Demon Wars -- over a thousand years before the coming of the Prophet. But although women had relinquished their role among the line infantry and assault cavalry, female-only battalions could still be found among both the logistical and specialist troops.

Of course, the two genders were strictly segregated by both unit organization and camp arrangements. Just because God allowed the two groups to work together didn't mean he tolerated frivolous indecency.

Nevertheless, it was an unusual sight to see a woman wearing the red-striped lamellar armor of the Mubarizun -- champions of the Caliphate armies.

Salim felt his thought clash as he eyed the newcomer. He had nothing against women; he loved his wives dearly, and had already sent two daughters to institutes of education in law. But hell would freeze over before he allowed any of them to clash blades against the finest killers of his enemy.

...Even if they were also women.

But then... Salim felt his lips twist into a faint smirk. She and her girls are probably the reason why my supplies arrived unhindered.

Not only were these women famous for their keen awareness of the surroundings, but few men could challenge a dervish of ascetic traditions to a sword fight and live.

"Colonel Farah ad-Durr Ismat ad-Din, commander of the Crimson Dervish Mubarizun squadron, reporting for duty, General Salim!" a crisp yet soft voice emerged from her hidden lips as Farah took a deep, respectful bow.

"Welcome, Colonel Farah," Salim returned a polite nod. "If memory serves, your are the third wife of His Excellency, Emir Salih."

He wasn't particularly happy that he couldn't read her expression. But then, it would hardly be appropriate for his to stare at the wife of another man.

"Yes, General," Farah replied before preempting his next question: "and my husband is glad to see me participate in safeguarding God's faithful and bringing down this so-called 'Saint' of the infidels."

...

As the meeting on the hill continued, neither the Caliphate commanders nor their bodyguards paid any attention to the two disheveled, stray kittens playing among the tall grass just outside earshot.

They were partially right. One of the kittens was a true stray, who stayed with the army thanks to the bits of food that sympathetic soldiers would toss her way. However the other had been carefully disguised with dirt, grime, and natural coloring, as well as intricately woven illusory wards that concealed her magical aura as a familiar.

The playtime was but a pretense, as she kept a keen eye and two ears on the Cataliyans' conversation at all times. Both sensory feedback relayed straight to her master -- prone and hidden among fallen leaves in a dense patch of the woods nearly three kilopaces away.

So a new challenger appears, Cecylia Renata von Falkenhausen mused to herself as she stroked the largest body of her matryoshka cat. Three days of lying on the cold, hard ground had all been worth it. Her ceaseless observation had gained dividends on its own, but that was nothing compared to the treasure trove of insider information that she overheard now.

Thank the Lord for human carelessness, she smiled to herself.

Of course, as one of the detail-obsessed dhampirs, she had none of that particular weakness.

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

"Halt!"

Cecylia exhaled a silent sign as the Lotharin officer called for her to stop. The main allied encampment had four layers of security checkpoints backed by patrols. But by the time she passed the innermost perimeter, she had already been stopped over a dozen times.

It wasn't even because she looked suspicious. Cecylia had swapped her disguise as a peasant teenage boy for her Weichsel regimentals before entering camp. Compared to the mishmash of clothing that common Lotharin soldiers called a 'uniform', her crimson-on-black officer's dress easily identified her in the crowd.

"First Lieutenant Cecylia von Falkenhausen of Weichsel," she turned to salute the Lotharin Captain, a young Avorican nobleman judging by the crest sewn into his seafoam-green tunic.

Cecylia didn't miss the pursing of his lips in disapproval, or the disgust in his gaze as they met her scarlet-crossed pupils.

"What does a sinner like you want with our Saint and Princess?" He almost spat out.

His fingers never once reached for her offered identification scroll. In fact, he stayed just outside arm's reach, as though her mere touch carried a vile contagion.

"I'm on my way to the allied commanders to report the successful completion of my mission," Cecylia kept her tone professional and her head held high

"What kind of mission would that be, to whore yourself before the enemy just like your ancestors did during the Demonic Invasion?"

A few of the nearby men jeered, but the Lotharin Captain held his expression in contempt, as though his guess had been serious.

This is why I didn't want to stay in camp, Cecylia thought as she held her face expressionless. And he's even worse than usual.

She had prepared herself for it before departing Weichsel; but it had still hurt on the first day when even the lowly cook proclaimed 'we don't serve your kind here'.

Unfortunately, masking herself with illusions while traversing the encampment just wasn't an option. Cecylia's spellcraft wasn't adroit enough to conceal any illusory auras stronger than a cosmetic spell against close scrutiny by trained security officers. To give them suspicion on top of existing prejudice would only serve a recipe for disaster.

"The details of my mission are for command's ears only."

...Not for an insignificant, loathsome half-wit like you, she finished the rest in her head, not wanting to give him an excuse to escalate this further.

"I'm sure a Cataliyan assassin would claim the same thing," the Captain sneered back.

"There are no dhampirs in the Caliphate, and no assassin would be foolish enough fake one outside of Weichsel."

The retort seemed almost nonchalant, despite the dark history it held. For centuries, the Imperium had prosecuted the dhampirs for their ancestors' betrayal. The Tauheed Caliphate that rose in the south proved even more ruthless; with their continent permanently scarred by the ancient Dragon-Demon Wars, they considered the vampiric descendants to be tainted beyond redemption and therefore worthy of only a quick death.

Cecylia had heard of dhampir communities settling within the Grand Republic of Samara and nations further east. But even though the Blood Oath her predecessors swore made the Falken-clans effective slaves to the Weichsel monarchy, it was still the only country where dhampirs truly gained a respectable position in society.

Meanwhile, the Lotharin nobleman's brows furrowed as he snapped back:

"Are you calling me a fool?"

"Not at all. I was merely informing you of some little-known facts..."

Cecylia was still explaining herself when she heard a distant call from behind.

"Cecylia!"

Her eyes soon fell upon the short and cute Samaran girl who walked up with a slight limp, arm waving in good cheer.

"Is there a problem with her identification, Captain?" Kaede added with mild confusion as she came closer.

The Lotharin nobleman pursed his lips, obviously recognizing whom the familiar girl belonged to.

"No, not at all," he simply stated before leaving with his men to resume their patrol.

"What was that about?"

Kaede wondered aloud as she staggered up to Cecylia, who soon wrapped an arm behind the smaller girl -- albeit just barely -- to support her.

"In the eyes of most Trinitians, we dhampirs will always be miscreants who transgressed against the Holy Father," Cecylia spoke plainly as she helped Kaede back towards camp's central area.

"...We're used to it though."

The familiar girl, however, only puzzled back:

"But that was over a thousand years ago, right? Today you're a Trinitian just like he is... unlike me, a Samaran and therefore a heathen."

Cecylia couldn't help but smile at Kaede's innocence.

"Except being Samaran makes you a 'tolerated heathen'. It means even if you are a nonbeliever, all but the most hard-lined inquisitors will forgive you for being misguided by your 'past life' memories. Of course, the Grand Republic's 'Blood Bank' diplomacy certainly helped."

"By the way, what happened to your leg?" the dhampir then added.

With a soft sigh, Kaede merely replied:

"The Princess happened."

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

"...And that concludes my report," Cecylia finished as she faced the assembled commanders of the allied force, doing her best to ignore a dozen repellent stares.

"Eight new battalions; that's over four thousand reinforcements..."

"They'll be advancing again in two, maybe three days," surmised the battle-hardened Duke of Helveteu, his eyes nailing into the river fords before the Avorican Capital on the map table.

"With their air cavalry this time; not surprising they're being transferred to this front, after the Knights Phantom gave their aerogyros a thrashing."

"Wasteland drakes..."

The room almost shuddered at the prospect of facing those contaminated monsters from the demon-tainted lands.

"Regardless, we'll stick to the current stratagem," Pascal affirmed from besides the authoritative figure of General von Mackensen. "Keep wearing down their forces using any and all asymmetric means, until we bloody their noses at the fords."

"Let's hope the Princess will be up and ready by then," a Lotharin Colonel added without much enthusiasm.

"She will be," Pascal replied, though sounding far less assured than his usual self.

The assembled leaders soon returned to their flurry of tactical planning, arguing over whose battalions should be positioned where alongside the riverfront fortifications. Meanwhile, Pascal exchanged a nod with General von Mackensen before extracting himself from the crowd.

"Cecylia, I need to speak with you," he muttered as he passed her on his way to the door.

...

"I met Kaede on my way in; she already told me what happened..."

Leaning back against the command cabin, Cecylia began as soon as Pascal brought up the Sanctum Veil ward to prevent any eavesdropping.

"Then you know why I want you to talk to her," Pascal uttered flatly as he looked up to the late afternoon sun. "Her Highness has not emerged from her cabin since two nights ago, and you are one of her closest friends."

"You really should stop that."

"Stop what?"

As their eyes met, she noticed that his turquoise orbs showed not a sign of his usual brightness and clarity. Instead, they were clouded by a melancholic fog, as though his purpose was lost amidst the haze.

Cecylia swallowed. Her retort had come in exasperation, but it was also in violation of her longtime personal policy: she shouldn't involve herself in a feud between two close relations.

It would be better if she just stayed on the sidelines, observing as the neutral third party. Years of fighting between her siblings had taught her a crucial childhood lesson. To interject would not only add her bias as fuel to the conflict, but also place herself in the line of fire in exchange for nothing in return.

Cecylia still remembered her older sister's disdain on that day she left for the front lines, never to return.

But was that fair?

The last time two of her closest friends fell out, they refused to acknowledge one another for years. Cecylia had been forced to choose a side between Pascal and Ariadne, hardly speaking to the other until a certain familiar finally forced the lord of pricks to mend his ways.

This time, the fallout wouldn't just be between two individuals either. No, it impacted the destiny of nations, including the country that provided a sanctuary for her entire family.

It's not just friendship, she forced the final decision upon herself. Duty calls.

"Stop calling her that," Cecylia berated as she took a deep breath. "You're opening up extra distance between the two of you for no good reason."

"She is the one who insisted upon the formality, not me..."

Seeing a flicker of guilt in his eyes, she grabbed on and began yanking it with all her might:

"--Oh please, get off your high horse already. Yes, Sylv's behavior was far too excessive. But you know better that all three of you are at fault here! And Kaede was the poor soul who ended up absorbing Sylv's backlash, so what are you doing wallowing in self-pity for?"

"I am not wallowing..."

"Aren't you?" the dhampir's eyes darkened as she trampled right over his weakening retort. "I'm guessing you approached me because you haven't spoken to her at all since the fight -- am I right?"

"I have been busy coordinating..." he tried to stress.

"Yes, bury yourself in work and call it a reason," Cecylia locked her blood-red gaze onto him like an unrelenting snare, stopping even his attempts to look aside.

"--This army would mean nothing to us foreigners if Sylv falters. You know this is true! Or do you think that pretender Gabriel will gladly switch to our side over the Imperium?"

As depression seemed to overcome Pascal, Cecylia realized that she was channeling her pent-up frustrations with too much fervor. She closed her eyes for a moment to calm herself back down, feeling the dispersing ether as the intensity faded from her pupils.

A dhampir's gaze had the ability to drain concentration and resolve from a victim at point-blank range. It wasn't a trait that Cecylia used on her friends often -- the last occurrence was when she had fun weakening Kaede for a tease back at the academy. But as all innate abilities go, it was hard to hold back once emotions flared.

They were yet another reason why she preferred to stay out of any personal drama.

"Pascal..." she started slow this time. "This isn't like you and Ariadne two years ago. You can't afford to just let the problem simmer with this much at stake..."

"I know that," the young Landgrave blurted out as he rested his forehead against the cabin wall. "But..."

"Sylv isn't just your fiancée Pascal," Cecylia interjected. "She's also your family and your closest childhood friend. She represents your aspirations in a way nobody else can, and you know as well as I do that your life would never have the same meaning with someone else."

"--I know all that too!"

"Then why aren't you taking this seriously?"

"I am taking this seriously!" Pascal snapped straight with a glare. Then, with his head leaning back against the wall: "I just do not know what I should be doing!"

He can command entire armies, but he doesn't know how to smooth things out with his own fiancée, Cecylia sighed. Typical Pascal.

Moving up to next to him, the dhampir girl extended a supportive hand onto his shoulder:

"Just... talk to her, earnestly," she advised. "At this moment, your forgiveness is more important to Sylv than anyone, anything else. Then once you forgive each other, maybe, hopefully, the two of you can work out something so you can avoid this the next time."

"The next time?" Pascal gaped in confusion.

"Of course," Cecylia stared intently. "You're oozing with arrogance and takes everything for granted; she has trouble keeping her emotions in check; and Kaede won't just suddenly vanish and stop causing misunderstandings between you two. This incident will happen again. The only difference is how the three of you will react to it."

"What..." she added in the speechless silence that followed. "Did you think maintaining a relationship was easy?"

"No... but..."

Cecylia shook her head and almost rolled her eyes too:

"Just remember: the best relationships -- the ones where both sides have the most to gain -- are also those that have to overcome the most obstacles."

"Who did you learn that from?" Pascal puzzled.

"Ariadne," Cecylia grinned back, knowing fully well that the mere idea of seeming less mature than her would leave Pascal irritated and anxious for a challenge.

...And sure enough, she didn't miss the double twitch from his temple.

"Well then," Cecylia stretched her arms as she stepped away. "I'll go talk to Sylv first. But remember Pascal," she spun around and pointed a teasing finger at him. "you're the only one who can truly bring her out of it, so I expect you to follow up well!"

"No pressure," came his final mumble.

...

Of course, the real dilemma that plagued Cecylia wouldn't occur until later that night -- when she had to decide how much of her day she should report to King Leopold of Weichsel.

Back to Chapter 9

Return to Main Page

Forward to Chapter 11