Part 1
Philip, back in his pajamas, had worn a groove into the bedroom carpet.
Back and forth. Back and forth. For Philip, each minute stretched into an eternity while Natalia faced a woman who could destroy everything with a single wrong question.
A woman who had once loved him—or so his fragmented memories suggested.
A woman who now had the authority to tear his entire world apart.
His head throbbed with each step, the concussion making itself known through waves of dull pain that pulsed behind his eyes. The physician had prescribed absolute rest. Philip had responded by pacing approximately three thousand steps in the past hour.
The door opened.
Philip spun around so fast the room tilted dangerously, his vision swimming with dark spots. He grabbed the edge of the bedframe to steady himself, his heart launching against his ribcage like a caged bird.
Lydia entered first, her expression carefully neutral. Behind her—
"Natalia."
Her name escaped him like a prayer.
She looked exhausted. The composure she'd maintained during the interview had cracked around the edges, revealing the strain beneath.
But when her eyes found Philip's, something in them kindled. A warmth that cut through the exhaustion like dawn breaking through storm clouds.
"Master." She took a step toward him, then another. "The interview concluded satisfactorily. I believe I maintained cover throughout, though the General is... formidable. Her interrogation techniques were sophisticated, and she asked several questions that required—"
Philip crossed the remaining distance and pulled her into his arms.
The sudden movement sent another spike of pain through his skull, but he didn't care. Natalia made a small sound of surprise—a soft exhale—before melting against him completely. Her face pressed into his shoulder, her hands fisting in the back of his jacket.
She was trembling.
"I'm here," he murmured into her hair, breathing in the faint scent of lavender. "It's okay." His words surprised even himself.
A pause. When she spoke again, her voice cracked almost imperceptibly.
"I was so nervous, Master. The entire time. I kept calculating probabilities of detection, running scenarios, monitoring her expressions for signs of suspicion." She pulled back slightly, her eyes bright with something that might have been tears.
Philip's thumb swept over her cheekbone in a slow, soothing rhythm. "You did amazing, Natalia. I'm so proud."
"Your pupils are dilated and your voice carries emotional resonance consistent with genuine approval." She leaned into his touch. "However, you should not be standing. Your concussion requires rest."
"I'm fine—"
"You are not fine. You nearly lost your balance when I entered. Your skin is pale, your pupils are slightly uneven, and you've been favoring your left side, which suggests residual pain from the impact with the marble stairs." She gently but firmly guided him toward the loveseat. "Please sit. I will feel significantly less anxious if you are resting."
Philip allowed himself to be maneuvered, sinking onto the cushions with a sigh. His head did feel better once he stopped fighting gravity.
Natalia settled beside him—close enough that their shoulders touched, her hand finding his with practiced ease. She pressed against his side with the determination of someone who had decided physical contact was medically necessary.
The System chose that moment to manifest.
She appeared draped across the bed across from them, propped on one elbow. She wore what appeared to be a judge's robe, complete with powdered wig perched at a rakish angle, but the robe had been modified to ensure a neckline that plunged scandalously low, barely containing her curvaceous figure, and the fabric had been slit up both sides to reveal vast spans of bare, sculpted leg. Tight-fitting leather boots with needle-thin heels completed the ensemble, crossed at the ankle in a way that drew the eye inexorably upward.
She gave Philip a wink.
"Nine out of ten for performance," she announced, "Your girl here lies better than most politicians, darling."
Philip's head snapped up. She did well?
"Oh, exceptionally well. The orphanage backstory? Flawless delivery. The Toosexy Foundation explanation? Served with such guileless sincerity that even I almost believed she didn't know how absurd it sounded." The System's eyes glinted with mischief. "Though I should mention—that particular talent cuts both ways."
What do you mean?
"A romantic partner who can lie that convincingly." The System examined her nails with studied casualness.
She looked up, her smile sharpening.
"When your girlfriend can fabricate an entire life history without a single tell? Spin elaborate tales about fictional orphanages and absurd foundations while maintaining perfect composure?" She tilted her head. "Well. Let's just say you'd never know if she was... faking it in other areas too."
I trust her loyalty, Philip replied firmly in his mind.
"Oh, I don't doubt her loyalty." The System waved a dismissive hand. "But deception isn't always malicious, darling. Sometimes people lie precisely because they care. Little fabrications meant to protect. Convenient fictions designed to spare feelings."
Like what?
A slow, wicked smile spread across the System's face.
"Like lies meant to protect your ego."
Philip frowned.
The System dissolved into a theatrical coughing fit. "Cough—satisfaction—cough cough—levels—"
Philip's face ignited.
That's not—she wouldn't fake—
"Oh, I'm sure everything is wonderful now," the System said airily, patting her bosom as if recovering from her coughing spell. "But you never known until you tried. And I am simply noting that she could tell you the sky is green with that same sincere expression, and you'd start questioning your own eyes."
Her expression shifted then—the playful mask slipping to reveal something more serious beneath.
"But jesting aside, Philip, this matters. Right now, Natalia's moral compass points exclusively toward you. What benefits Philip is good. What harms Philip is bad. Everything else is negotiable." She leaned forward slightly. "That sounds flattering, I'm sure—being the benchmark in someone's entire ethical framework. But think about what it actually means."
Philip felt a chill creep down his spine despite himself.
"A compass that points to a person instead of a principle has no fixed north. It spins with emotion. It justifies anything if the intention is to benefit that person. Maybe not sure obviously, it is a manifestation of the fact that the ends justifies the means. History's greatest atrocities weren't committed by people who thought they were evil—they were committed by people absolutely convinced they were serving a greater good." She held his gaze. ". So moral frameworks that guides actions, not just intentions, are critical too."
So what do I do?
"Remember that little assignment I gave you? Helping her build a moral framework?" The System's voice lost some of its playful edge. "Consider this your reminder that the clock is ticking. She needs principles with actual teeth—rules that would constrain her actions even when she's absolutely convinced that breaking them would be for your own good."
The System leaned back, twirling a strand of hair around her finger.
"Because right now, to your darling Natalia, deception carries no more moral weight than breathing. It's simply a tool. A means to an end. No different from walking when she needs to close distance, or drinking when she needs to quench thirst."
She gave a sultry wink.
"Or rubbing herself against you when she needs to quench a different kind of thirst."
Philip's face erupted in flames.
You're enjoying this far too much.
"Guilty as charged." The System's grin was unrepentant. "But the point stands—without a moral compass that points somewhere other than 'Whatever Benefits Philip,' your sweet, innocent Familiar could rationalize anything. And she'd do it with a smile."
Her expression shifted then, the mischief fading into something almost serious.
"I'm not nagging you for fun, Philip. Well—not entirely for fun." She examined her nails with feigned disinterest. "Do it while she still looks to you for guidance. While you're still the wise mentor in her eyes, the source of wisdom to whom she naturally listens. Because that window is closing faster than you realize."
Her gaze turned knowing, almost pitying.
"Sooner than you think, she'll stop seeing you as her guide and start seeing you as her precious treasure to be protected. And once that shift happens... well. It's rather difficult to teach moral philosophy to someone who's already decided that you are to be loved and not heard. Any principle you suggest will get only token acceptance."
Before Philip could formulate a response, Natalia's hand tightened on his.
Natalia's hand tightened on Philip's. "Master, you seemed to be drifting off again. Maybe you should lay down on the bed. We could continue the discussion in bed."
The System's delighted cackle rang through Philip's skull as she enthusiastically patted the mattress beside her. "Yes, Philip," she purred. "Come to bed. Let us... aid your recovery."
Heat flooded Philip's face. Before he could formulate a response, Natalia moved with her characteristic efficiency. In one fluid motion, she swept him off his feet in a perfect bridal carry, the movement so gentle yet so utterly unstoppable that Philip found himself in her arms before his brain could catch up.
"Ooo, I do love it when the knight gets swept off his feet by the damsel," the System joked, her form already beginning to fade. "How delightfully progressive."
Natalia tucked Philip into the bed with the excessive care of someone handling priceless porcelain. Then—before he could fully register what was happening—she undress and folded her clothes onto the loveseat with inhuman speed and slipped beneath the blankets, enveloping him in her embrace before his brain caught up to events.
Then, as Natalia's embrace gently tightened around Philip, a tinge of uncertainty crept into her voice as she spoke. "However, there is one matter that concerns me."
"What is it?" Philip asked.
"During the interview, I noticed a strand of golden hair on the chair where General Dugu was seated." Natalia's expression grew troubled. "When she adjusted her position near the end of our conversation, she retrieved it. Discreetly. Professionally."
Philip's blood ran cold.
"She took it with her," Natalia continued quietly. "I believe she intends to have it analyzed."
"Analyzed?" Philip's voice came out strangled.
"Master Philip." A voice from someone whose presence Philip almost forgotten.
Lydia's voice cut through his spiraling panic. She stood by the door, and to Philip's shock, she was smiling.
"Please don't distress yourself unnecessarily," she said, "The hair General Beatrice Dugu collected will reveal nothing unusual."
Philip stared at her. "How can you possibly know that?"
"Because I planted it."
Silence.
"You... what?"
"I noticed Miss Natalia had shed quite a few strands during her recovery yesterday. I removed it and replaced it with a hair I had collected from one of the housemaids—a young woman named Sarah with similar coloring." Lydia's smile carried a hint of satisfaction. "When General Dugu's laboratory analyzes their sample, they will find perfectly ordinary human genetic material. Nothing like a Familiar's."
Philip's mouth opened and closed several times. "You... anticipated this?"
"Her Grace anticipated it. I merely executed the countermeasure." Lydia adjusted her spectacles with precise efficiency. "General Dugu's reputation for thoroughness is well-documented. The Duchess assumed she would attempt to collect physical evidence during the interview."
Relief flooded through Philip's chest—but it was short-lived.
"What if Dugu collected another strand of Natalia's golden hair by chance?" he asked, his mind racing.
"An excellent question." Lydia's expression remained serene. "Her Grace has considered that scenario as well."
"And?"
"Any hair collected from this estate could plausibly be attributed to Her Imperial Majesty, Empress Celestica." Lydia paused to let that sink in. "After all, she visits quite regularly. Her presence in these rooms is well-documented."
Philip frowned. "But how would that help?"
"Ah." Lydia's smile widened slightly. "That's the elegant part, Master Philip. The hair of all magical beings yield the same results under forensic analysis. It's a consequence of how magic works."
The implications crystallized slowly in Philip's mind. "You're saying... Natalia's hair would test the same as Celestica's?"
"The test would merely indicate that the sample belonged to a magical being. But magical beings have no distinguishing genetic markers—not ones that current techniques can differentiate, anyway." Lydia's tone carried quiet satisfaction. "If General Dugu's analysis reveals anomalies and she attempts to pursue the matter, we simply point out that the Empress frequently visits this household."
Philip slumped back against the loveseat, some of the tension draining from his shoulders. But one concern still nagged at him.
"What if Dugu requests to collect directly from Natalia? In a controlled setting where she can verify the source?"
Lydia's expression sobered. "That is indeed the vulnerability in our defense. If General Dugu ever manages to obtain a verified sample directly from Miss Natalia—witnessed, documented, chain of custody maintained—the Empress alibi would not apply."
"So what do we do?"
"We ensure that opportunity never arises." Lydia.
Curiosity flickered across Philip's face.
"Once General Dugu has no further pretext to detain you in the city—which should be the case once her hair test yields nothing—we should depart for the countryside estate on the pretext that the scenery there is better for recovery." Lydia folded her hands primly.
"And it gets us away from Dugu's surveillance."
"Geography is an excellent defense against spontaneous sample collection," Lydia agreed.
"But wouldn't the excuse be too... flimsy?"
"It would be," Lydia agreed. "If we didn't have the First Minister's backing."
The words hung in the air for a moment before their meaning fully registered.
"What?"
Part 2
Six thousand miles across the ocean, in a sprawling compound that dominated nearly two square miles of the Continental Republic's most desolate prairie land, Deputy Station Chief Marcus Webb was having what promised to be an exceptionally bad day.
The Avalondian Operations Command—or "The Farmhouse," as veterans sardonically called it—rose from the flatlands like a small city unto itself. Seventeen interconnected buildings spread across the compound, linked by underground corridors and above-ground walkways that hummed with encrypted communication lines. The nearest town was forty miles of empty grassland away. The nearest neighbor was a cattle rancher who had been on the Bureau's payroll for three decades and knew better than to ask questions about the "agricultural research station" that consumed more electricity than most industrial cities.
From the air, the compound might pass for what it claimed to be—a sprawling federal agricultural research center, complete with experimental crop fields, livestock facilities, and enough mundane-looking outbuildings to bore any curious pilot into looking elsewhere. The reality was rather different. Those "grain silos" housed the most sophisticated long-range communication arrays in the Western Hemisphere. The "cattle barns" contained server farms processing intelligence from three continents. And the main administration building—a deceptively plain five-story structure at the compound's heart—served as the nerve center for every Republic intelligence operation across the Avalondian Empire.
Building Seven alone, where Webb's department was headquartered, stretched nearly three hundred meters in length. Its four subterranean levels housed enough analysts, handlers, and support staff to populate a small town—all dedicated to the singular mission of knowing everything worth knowing about an empire that controlled more landmass than any other nation on Earth.
The main operations floor occupied the building's deepest level, a vast chamber where crystalline displays flickered with real-time data feeds from across the Avalondian Empire—from the fog-shrouded streets of Albecaster to the sunny beaches of the Southern Dominion, from the restless Dominion of Yorgoria to the distant protectorates in Africa. Holographic maps rotated lazily in the air, marking handler positions, communication intercepts, and threat assessments in a constantly shifting tapestry of information.
"Run that by me again," Webb said, his voice carefully controlled despite the cold sweat forming along his collar. "Slowly. Use small words."
Senior Analyst Harrison Chen—whom everyone called Harry—adjusted his spectacles and pulled up the relevant data with a gesture that managed to convey both professional competence and personal dread.
"At approximately eleven-thirty hours local time, our perimeter detection systems flagged unusual traffic to the Foundation's public-facing infrastructure." He expanded one of the holographic displays, revealing a web of connection logs. "Specifically, someone accessed the Toosexy Foundation website from a device registered to the Avalondian Imperial War Office."
Webb pinched the bridge of his nose. The Toosexy Foundation. Of all their cover organizations—the perfectly respectable-sounding charitable fronts, the meticulously crafted academic institutes, the boring-but-believable trade associations—someone in Avalondian military intelligence had somehow stumbled onto the one foundation whose name alone usually protected it from suspicion.
"Someone in the Avalondian military," Webb said flatly, "searched for the Toosexy Foundation. On the Vortex. Using their official work device."
"Correct, sir." Harry zoomed in on the connection data. "The device was registered to a Lieutenant Chen—no relation—who is assigned to the personal staff of General Beatrice Dugu."
"Dugu." The name landed in Webb's stomach like a lead weight. "The General Dugu who's currently leading the investigation into the War Office bombing? That Dugu?"
"The very same, sir."
"And her investigation somehow led them to one of our cover organizations?"
Harry's expression suggested he wished he had better news to deliver. Or perhaps different news. Or perhaps no news at all and permission to go home early.
"It gets worse, sir." He pulled up another display. "The access originated from a location flagged in our system as a Priority One monitoring target—the Redwood residence in Albecaster."
Webb stared at the screen. Then at Harry. Then back at the screen.
"The Redwood residence? As in Duke Redwood? As in the estate where Meadowlark is currently embedded?"
"Correct, sir. Meadowlark's last position report placed her within that household."
The room had gone very quiet. Around them, other analysts had stopped pretending not to listen, their attention fixed on the unfolding catastrophe with the morbid fascination of witnesses to a carriage collision.
"How did they make the connection?" Webb demanded. "Meadowlark has been embedded in that household for years. Her cover is impeccable. Her documentation passed seventeen separate verification protocols. There's no way a routine bombing investigation should have led them anywhere near her."
Harry shifted uncomfortably. "That's what we're trying to determine, sir. The investigation appears to be focused on the bombing itself, not on Meadowlark. But during Dugu's visit to the ducal residence—apparently to interview the injured heir and his companion—someone on her team accessed our website. And lingered. For quite a few minutes."
"Companion?" Webb's eyes narrowed. "What companion?"
"A woman named Natalia, sir. According to Operative Goldfinch's reports, she's described as Captain Philip Redwood's..." Harry paused, consulting his notes as if hoping the words might have changed since he last read them. "...mistress."
"A mistress."
"Yes, sir. She's the subject of Dugu's investigation. Apparently she displayed some rather extraordinary capabilities during the bombing—capabilities that raised suspicions about her origins."
Senior Analyst Rebecca Torres looked up from her station, her dark eyes sharp with the particular intensity of someone who had just connected dots she wished had remained unconnected. "Sir, I've been cross-referencing the timeline. The search query was specifically about scholarship funding for combat training. The Foundation's educational outreach programs."
"So they're not investigating the Foundation itself," Webb said slowly. "They're investigating this Natalia woman. And their investigation led them to our cover foundation."
"Which means someone used our foundation's programs to train this woman," Torres concluded. "Except..."
"Except we don't have any operative named Natalia embedded in that household," Harry finished. "I've already confirmed with the Identity Security division. Meadowlark is our only operative in the Redwood residence. And her cover name is not Natalia."
The silence that followed was the particular silence of intelligence professionals confronting a mystery they desperately wished would resolve itself through clerical error.
"Then who is she?" Webb asked. "And how did she end up with ties that trace back to our Foundation?"
Analyst First Class David Park—the youngest member of the team—raised his hand with the hesitance of a man about to suggest something unpleasant.
"Sir... what if she's not one of ours at all?"
Webb turned to look at him. "Explain."
"Well, sir, if someone wanted to expose our embedded operatives without direct confrontation—what better way than to plant an agent who intentionally draws Avalondian authorities' attention to our cover foundations?" Park's voice gained confidence as he warmed to his theory. "And then just wait for local authorities to pull that thread."
"You're suggesting she's a foreign operative," Torres said slowly. "Whose objective is to subvert our network?"
"Not just foreign, ma'am." Park pulled up a regional map, highlighting the geopolitical situation with quick gestures. "She is likely an Arussian operative. The Arussians have been escalating operations across Avalondia for months. And they have every motive to damage Republic-Avalondian relations."
The temperature in the room seemed to drop several degrees.
"You're suggesting," Webb said, his voice very careful, "that Arussian intelligence has planted an operative in the Redwood household specifically to expose our network to Avalondian authorities for the purpose of undermining the trust between our two nations."
"It would explain everything, sir. The capabilities Dugu observed. The conversation that somehow drew attention to our Foundation. The timing—right when the Avalondians are at their most paranoid."
Harry made a sound that was almost a laugh but came out wrong. "Maybe it was just too sexy for them to ignore."
Webb's glare could have frozen the Atlantic Ocean.
"Sorry, sir." Harry's ears achieved a shade of crimson typically reserved for warning beacons. "Inappropriate timing."
"The timing," Torres said, apparently deciding to rescue her colleague through redirect, "is actually the most concerning element. Sir, consider the sequence: coordinated bombings across the Empire, martial law declared, Dugu assigned to investigate, and within seventy-two hours she's interviewing a woman whose words lead the authorities to our covers." She paused. "What if the bombings themselves were designed to create this exact scenario?"
"You're suggesting the Arussians bombed the War Office," Webb said slowly, "to create a pretext for an investigation that would expose our network?"
"It fits their operational profile, sir. Complex, multi-layered, willing to accept significant collateral damage for strategic objectives." Torres pulled up another display—intelligence summaries from their sources within the Arussian power structure. "We've had reports for months suggesting something was being planned. High-level communications mentioning 'redirecting Avalondian attention' and 'compromising Avalondian assistance to the Coalition.'"
Park was nodding vigorously. "And if they can make it look like we were behind the bombings—by drawing the authorities to our cover pages and our operatives—"
"Then Avalondia turns on the Republic," Webb finished grimly.
"The trust is undermined. Arussia gains breathing room on the Vakerian front."
Torres' voice went cold. "Which means they've already mapped us. Meadowlark isn't exposed by accident—she was targeted. The Arussians may know exactly who and where she is."
A heavy silence fell over the room.
"Sir." Another analyst—Senior Communications Specialist Yuki Tanaka—looked up from her monitoring station with an expression that suggested the day was about to get worse. "I'm receiving a flash communication. Priority Black. Origin code confirms it's from Angelica."
The room went utterly still.
Angelica. The operational designation for the Republic's most classified foreign action agency—the shadow organization that handled operations too sensitive, too deniable, or too catastrophically important for the SIB's involvement. Their operatives moved through the world like ghosts, leaving behind only results and the occasional international incident that diplomats would spend years pretending hadn't happened.
And their senior field coordinator for Avalondian operations was a legendary man known only as Josh.
"Put it through," Webb ordered.
Tanaka's fingers moved across her console. A moment later, text began scrolling across the primary display—encrypted, decoded in real-time.
The message was characteristically brief:
HAIR SAMPLE. HANDLED. EXTRACT MEADOWLARK. NOW.
J
Seven words. The entire room stared at the display in silence.
"That's... it?" Park asked, unable to help himself.
"That's Josh," Tanaka said, her voice carrying something between reverence and resignation. "Fewer words, fewer interception vectors. If any enemies crack our encryption, a message that says nothing specific reveals nothing specific."
"Wait." Webb held up a hand, his brow furrowing. "Hair sample? What hair sample? I haven't received any briefing about—"
"Sir," Harry pulled up another display, his fingers moving rapidly. "The report just came through from Goldfinch while we were reading Josh's message. General Dugu collected a strand of hair during her interview at the Redwood estate. She's submitted it for Priority Alpha forensic analysis. Josh's team intercepted it and did a preliminary test on it. It turned out to be Meadowlark's hair."
Webb stared at him. "So we just got the report?"
"The timing was—"
"And Josh already knows about it?" Webb's voice pitched upward. "Josh intercepted it, assessed the threat, arranged countermeasures, and sent us extraction orders—all before I even knew there was a hair sample?"
"Angelica operates on a different timeline than we do," Tanaka said quietly. "Different resources. Different access. Different everything."
Torres was already pulling up operational protocols, her mind catching up to the new information. "But why extract Meadowlark? If the hair sample has been handled—whatever that means—then the evidence is gone. The immediate threat should be neutralized."
"Unless..." Harry's face had gone pale. "Unless the handling itself creates new exposure. If Josh's people had to arrange an accident at the forensics laboratory—let's say a fire. Fires leave traces. Investigations into laboratory fires ask questions. Questions lead to..."
"To wondering who had motive to destroy evidence in a terrorism investigation," Webb finished grimly.
"Dugu will suspect foreign interference," Torres added.
"And if Natalia is an Arussian plant," Park pressed, "they'll ensure the Avalondians notice the accident. They want the trail followed."
Torres' voice went cold. "Which means they've already mapped us. Meadowlark isn't exposed by accident—she was targeted. The Arussians may know exactly who and where she is."
A heavy silence fell over the room.
"Seven words," Harry said quietly, almost to himself. "He assessed all of that—threat identification, countermeasure implementation, secondary risk analysis, extraction recommendation—and gave us the correct response in seven words. While we were still figuring out that there was a problem at all."
"Of course he did," Tanaka replied, something like awe in her voice. "He's Josh."
"They're operating on a completely different level," Torres said. "We're over here tracking website access logs and they're out there reshaping the entire operational landscape."
Webb was still staring at the seven-word message, his expression unreadable. "This is why Angelica exists. This is why we don't ask questions about their methods or their budgets or how they always seem to know things before we do."
"High-impact special operations," Park said, a note of wistful envy entering his voice. "Not sitting in a glorified bunker in the middle of nowhere, pretending to research crop yields."
"Hey," Harry protested weakly, "someone has to do the boring work."
"Someone does," Webb agreed. "And right now, that someone needs to coordinate an emergency extraction." He straightened, the familiar weight of operational necessity settling onto his shoulders. "Tanaka, establish secure contact with Meadowlark's handler. Torres, I need exit route options—assume all primary extraction points are compromised. Park, start building a cover story for why a long-term household servant suddenly needs to visit a sick relative in the countryside. Harry—"
The console chimed.
Another Priority Black message materialized on the main display, cutting Webb off mid-sentence. Four words glowed against the dark screen:
PLEASE. GET YOUR SHIT TOGETHER.
J