"Your Highness..."
Silence.
"Your Highness?"
"Your Highness, where are you?" the young attendant called out, evident confusion creeping into his voice as he looked around the Duchess's chambers.
Slowly, he stepped farther inside, his eyes wandering from corner to corner. He tilted his head left and right, opened the wardrobe, checked behind the folding screen, even pushed open the bathroom door.
Nothing.
An uneasy feeling settled in his chest.
In the end, he wandered toward the open window.
White curtains fluttered softly in the cold midnight wind, dancing like ghosts.
The attendant leaned onto the railing, his fingers tightening around the stone as his gaze drifted toward the distant horizon.
And then he froze.
For a moment, it was as though he had forgotten the Duchess entirely.
Far away in the darkness, the night itself seemed to burn.
The horizon glowed treacherously, endless waves of fire devouring the edge of the world. Smoke crawled into the heavens like dark veins, while distant thunder rolled across the sleeping city.
No.
Not thunder.
Artillery.
If he narrowed his eyes, he could see tiny silhouettes moving across the sky. Aircraft. Searchlights pierced through the darkness like silver spears, desperately hunting shapes hidden among the clouds.
His hand trembled against the windowsill.
"Is this city really doomed?" he whispered.
And then it came.
The bells of Big Ben echoed through London.
Slow.
Heavy.
Almost funeral-like.
It was midnight.
The darkest of all hours.
Somewhere in the dark streets of London, a convoy of military trucks thundered past, moving with desperate haste, their backs packed tightly with exhausted soldiers.
Charlotte quickly averted her gaze.
Quietly, she stepped through the night, her heels striking against the pavement louder than usual..
"Here... drink something."
A mother sitting against the wall of a damaged building whispered softly to her young son beside her.
Their eyes met.
For a moment, time seemed to stop.
A cold shiver crept down Charlotte's spine.
The boy looked exhausted. Dirty. Terrified.
And yet his mother still forced a faint smile onto her lips.
"It will be over soon..." the Duchess whispered quietly to herself as she walked past them, tightening her coat against the cold.
The mother continued to watch her retreating silhouette in silence.
Charlotte kept moving through the dark, hollow streets of London.
Most people had already vanished. Hidden inside their homes, fled to the countryside, or crammed deep into the underground stations.
Above her, the air raid sirens screamed without pause.
A sound so constant it had almost become part of the city itself.
Only when her legs began to ache did Charlotte finally slow down.
She clenched her fist tightly, taking a deep, trembling breath before finally gathering enough courage.
Then she turned the corner.
An inconspicuous building stood before her, dark and unremarkable among the sleeping streets.
Above the entrance, large white letters spelled out BBC.
Yet two soldiers guarded the entrance, rifles resting against their shoulders.
They quickly noticed the lone woman approaching through the darkness.
"Miss, what are you doing out here?!" one of the soldiers shouted, stepping toward her as he carefully lifted the hood she had been wearing.
Charlotte did not answer immediately.
Instead, she looked at him quietly.
Tired.
Almost hurt.
"Do you not recognize me?" she asked softly.
The soldier froze for a moment.
"Y Your Highness..." he muttered, straightening his posture instantly. "The Duchess of Luxembourg... the voice of resistance."
He scratched the back of his head awkwardly.
"I have seen you often. I am usually stationed here whenever you come for broadcasts."
Charlotte lowered her eyes for a moment.
Almost as if exhausted.
"Then you know why I came."
The soldier hesitated.
"But... Your Highness, the city is being evacuated. We were not informed of any scheduled broadcast."
Charlotte leaned slightly closer, lowering her voice.
"And do you think His Majesty would announce something like this publicly?"
The soldier blinked.
She let the silence sit for a moment before continuing.
"The King asked me personally to record one final message." Her lips trembled slightly, though whether from fear or calculation was impossible to tell. "For the soldiers... for the people."
She looked briefly toward the burning horizon.
"London is afraid."
Then back at him.
"And frightened people need hope."
Charlotte prayed.
She prayed...
And she was heard.
The soldier nodded.
"The broadcasting room is safe from air raids, so some technicians have taken shelter there for the moment. A broadcast should still be possible."
"I will lead you..." he began, yet Charlotte gently interrupted him.
"No need, soldier," she said softly. "Please, make sure no one enters."
The guard hesitated.
Charlotte lowered her voice slightly, as if sharing something confidential.
"I have heard there may be people trying to prevent me from doing this," she said quietly. "You know... spies."
The soldier widened his eyes, his sense of duty overpowering his sense of reason.
Quietly, Charlotte stepped inside the building.
Outside, the distant fires only seemed to grow brighter.
Or perhaps they were coming closer.
Clack.
Clack.
Her heels struck the marble floor rhythmically as she hurried through the dim halls.
Faster.
Faster.
She rushed down the staircase, gripping the railing tightly, careful not to slip.
Then she stopped.
A figure stood a few steps below her.
"Your Highness?! What are you doing here?" the man asked, completely bewildered.
"I am here to record one final broadcast, and with immediate haste," Charlotte said, continuing past him without slowing.
The man did not stop her.
Instead, he furrowed his brows, ascending a few steps.
Then he stopped again.
Slowly, he shook his head.
Meanwhile, Charlotte had reached the lowest level.
She looked around.
Cold concrete stretched before her, replacing the polished elegance above. The underground corridor extended toward a distant metal door left slightly ajar, a narrow gap revealing silhouettes moving inside.
Technicians.
Voices echoed faintly through the bunker.
Yet Charlotte quickly turned the opposite way.
Another door stood there.
Small.
Inconspicuous.
Yet perhaps the most important one in the entire building.
Her breath caught in her throat as her fingers tightened around the handle.
Click.
Unlocked.
"Hah..." Charlotte breathed out in relief, quickly slipping inside.
So far, everything had gone smoothly.
Too smoothly.
"Huh?"
"Who are you?" a man suddenly rose from behind a large table packed with electronic equipment.
Charlotte widened her eyes.
Charlotte opened her mouth.
"A...broadcast..."
The technician frowned.
"Your Highness?"
He took a cautious step forward.
Charlotte stumbled back instinctively.
Charlotte's hand disappeared under her coat. When it came out again, the small handgun gleamed dully under the emergency lights.
The technician froze.
"Don't move," she whispered, her voice cracking. "Please… just don't move."
"Your Highness… what is this?"
"I don't know anymore," she answered honestly. The gun shook violently in her grip. "But I need this room. Now."
Heavy fists hammered against the locked door behind them.
"Open up! Your Highness, are you in there?!"
Charlotte flinched. Her eyes darted back to the technician.
"Turn it on. Live. The frequency on this paper."
The man stared at the crumpled note, then at the gun, then at the door that was now being rammed with brutal force.
"I… I can't just—"
A shot cracked through the room. The bullet slammed into the concrete wall beside his head. Plaster rained down.
The technician dropped to his knees, hands raised, face white.
"I'll do it! I'll do it!"
Somwhere in France
"You can do this, honey," the woman said. Her voice was soft and sweet, a stark contrast to the cold atmosphere of the room. "You will succeed. I am sure of it."
Edward felt her fingers adjust his tie one last time before she leaned in to kiss his cheek.
"I know," he replied quietly.
He turned and walked toward the door, passing two tall soldiers in dark uniforms. They were Ghosts, their broad frames looming in the dim light, their faces hidden beneath the deep brims of their hats.
His heart was a drum in his chest. Every beat seemed to vibrate through the room.
The door clicked shut behind him, sealing him in absolute silence. He stared at the small desk in the center of the room. A microphone and a pair of earphones sat waiting, connected to a mass of cables that snaked into the masonry like black vines.
Edward took his seat. He cleared his throat and adjusted his tie out of habit. He looked toward the door, where one of the soldiers gave him a single, sharp nod. The light on the desk flickered to life.
Then his lips parted, his voice echoing through the room.
"People of Britain..."
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