Ashford Estate, Ashfordshire, December, a.t.b. 2014

"You know, you've been very quiet for a while now…"

Friederike el Britannia, Second Princess and Prime Minister of the Holy Britannian Empire, turned to her lover, Priscilla, who stood there, regarding her with a cautiously speculative expression. "Truly? I must confess, I hadn't noticed."

"Clearly," Priscilla teased with an affectionate half-smile. "We're alone, after all, and normally that means that you're chattering on as if you're trying to make up for lost time. Something's on your mind."

Friederike returned the smile, though it was equal parts mirthless and contemplative. "That is, quite possibly, one of the most egregious acts of understatement of this past year."

And Priscilla, to her everlasting credit, refused to be deterred. "Care to share?"

"Hah," Friederike chortled fondly, as she turned to look up the bannister of the staircase she stood at the foot of, up into the darkness of the higher floors as she awaited her favourite sibling's arrival. "Where do I even start…?"

"According to conventional wisdom, the beginning," Priscilla remarked facetiously.

"Silla," Friede half-chided, half-whined.

Priscilla lifted her hands in the universal gesture of surrender. "Fine, I'll stop. But seriously, Friede, start wherever you feel comfortable. I'm not going anywhere."

"No, I don't suppose you are, are you?" Friede sighed, shaking her head. "It's just… I suppose it's a little surreal, you know, that we're here today, on this occasion… Not even five years ago, I wouldn't have been able to imagine that we'd get this far, that she'd get this far… And yet, in spite of all of that, here we are, on the day of my little sister's wedding, waiting for her to be done so I can walk her down the aisle… It almost doesn't feel real, you know?"

"Well, I suppose our line of work isn't one that's known for making us the bearers of good news," said Priscilla as she drew closer to Friede, the black of her formal three-piece suit drawing a rather striking contrast against Friederike's own white-gold gown.

"That, it most certainly isn't," Friede sighed heavily, as she mentally continued to comb through her feelings to try and articulate what she could. "I just… Before that night, Silla, I was certain we'd lose her, one way or another. And then we got the news, and I couldn't help but think to myself that…that this was going to be what did it, you know? Sometimes I can't help but wonder that perhaps Milly was privy to that same impulse, and that it drove her to do what she did, throwing caution to the wind for that final last-ditch attempt… And perhaps most distressing of all is that—if I'm honest with myself—I don't think that I could have done it…"

Priscilla didn't immediately reply; for a few silent moments, all her lover did was to move even closer to Friede, pressing the two of them shoulder-to-shoulder, and allowing the princess a precious few moments for her to draw a much-needed measure of comfort from the mundane intimacy of it. The blue-eyed woman with the rose-gold hair Friederike had fallen in love with years ago smiled at her, a secret, furtive little thing, laced with a teasing sort of malice that marked a look shared between them and them alone; then, she spoke, each word chosen with a level of care Friede was scarce used to receiving, even now. "For what it's worth, while I don't think it's something you should lose even more sleep over, Friede, I do agree. After all, no one is capable of being all things to another. That you could never have been Justine's saviour isn't a sin. You two are just too similar for that to ever work."

Friede couldn't help but chortle, cocking an eyebrow. "Are we, now?"

"How else do you two get along so well?" Priscilla shrugged, her unrepentant expression reminding the Second Princess all over again how and why she'd fallen so very quickly. "You understand one another in a way I think few others are capable of doing. That's enough resemblance right there, I daresay~."

Friederike snorted. "You might even be right about that."

Priscilla hummed, shrugging again. "I generally am. You of all people ought to know that much."

"Fair enough," Friede nodded with a sigh. Then, the princess perked up as she heard the sound of an approaching shuffle, a gentle sort of clamour that heralded that the time had come. "And here we are…"

Sure enough, the two ministers didn't have to wait long before the sounds of what remained of the bridal party produced the bridal party itself. Juliette, Suzaku, and the rest were already out in the courtyard, where the wedding would be held in under an hour's time, so they awaited only three people: the pair who'd stayed behind to aid Justine with donning her wedding dress and getting herself prepared, two girls in the formally-attired forms of Euphemia and the strange verdette who went by the alias of 'Emilia Ravencroft' to avoid detection, but whom everyone seemed to refer to as 'C.C.'; and, of course, the lady of the hour.

Euphy was the first to make the descent, her black three-piece suit with its tailcoat smartly-tailored and subtle in its flattery of her figure; her hair was secured at the base of her neck with a silken ribbon that matched her attire and contrasted wonderfully against both the starched white of her cravat and the gilding of her waistcoat's brocade, while the wavy bubblegum-pink locks were interwoven with an altogether different contrast in the form of a cardinal's crimson plumage—not that Friede had genuinely expected her to not even make a token acknowledgement of the newest trends and fashions, even today (nor for her to leave behind her scarlet sash, iconic as it was).

C.C.'s gown was a heavy garment of burgundy fabric accentuated with liberal yet tasteful quantities of black lace (for all that some of it was sufficiently stiff to potentially qualify it as latticework, in Friede's estimation), but she wore her memorable lime-green hair down and styled into a simple braid, for all that it was decorated with the feathers of a great horned owl; and with the end of the train in her hands, as she worked to help Justine descend the staircase, it was at once abundantly clear that she'd deliberately chosen to avoid presenting herself in a way that might cause her presence to seem more remarkable than the bride's.

Though, looking properly at her sister, Friederike imagined that to be a rather laughable conceit.

Justine was no less magnetic to look upon now than she had been the night of her birthday party. She had long been fond of cape sleeves and gloves, and those were present here as well, to the point that there was very little, if any at all, of the porcelain flesh of her arms left on display. Black, as Friede had once noted to her, was very much her colour; and indeed, her wedding dress was that very hue, dark as the night sky. It was of a similar style to the gown she'd worn to the ball that celebrated her coming of age—in fact, it might well have been identical in structure, the feathered mantle included—but instead of the shimmering, sparkling skirt that gave the impression that distant stars glittered in its shifting folds, her skirt, much like the mantle that covered her slender shoulders, was constructed chiefly of a full array of corvine plumage, raven feathers that shone the same hue as Justine's hair as the light caught them; and finally, her veil and train were made of fine black lace, almost gossamer in its quality as it concealed Justine's face beneath a curtain of glimmering, spidery fabric. Friederike had never truly harboured any attraction towards her sister—and she certainly wasn't about to change that now—but she had to admit that no one was in any true danger of outshining Justine today.

Her favourite sibling made the descent without incident, of course; and C.C. took the opportunity to take a step back. Friederike let her eyes flick up and down her sister's form a few more times, and then she smiled at the younger princess. "You look…beautiful. I sincerely doubt your intended will have any idea at all of what hit her…"

"Thank you, Friede," Justine replied, and though the veil covered her face, Friede could pick out the motion of her full lips behind the exquisite lace (and the elder princess made certain to make a mental note to ask about it later, after all this was done) just as easily as she could hear the smile in her tone. "And not just for the compliment. For all of this. I'd made up my mind not to be disappointed if you weren't able to make it, but…truthfully, your presence here? It means a great deal."

"Think nothing of it. I wouldn't have missed this for the world," Friederike said fondly. Then, after a moment, she offered up the crook of her elbow, and added a raised eyebrow to her joyous grin. "Shall we be off, then?"

Justine lifted her gloved hand to the veil, catching a giggle on the back of it. Then she nodded, threading her arm through Friederike's. "Indeed we shall. Without further ado, if you please."

With that, the five of them began their journey through the vaulted halls and arcades of the estate, a procession surrounded by the wealth and trappings of one of the most powerful and prestigious noble families in the whole of the empire. Marble and granite, gold and mahogany, priceless art and centuries-old sculptures that dated back to before the Humiliation… Friederike had grown up surrounded by such trappings, such finery; she'd long since grown numb to it, in fact. It was a testament to the gravity of the situation, then, that she noticed any of it at all—and then she began to hear distant strains of music from out of the instruments of the same string quartet that had played at the ball to celebrate Justine's sixteenth, sourced from the New York Philharmonic's Chamber Orchestra, no less. The music was from a piece she faintly recognised—though she was admittedly not as well-versed in pieces composed for a string quartet as she was with works meant to be a bit more grandiose in scale—and that sense of niggling recognition tugged at the back of her mind as they approached.

"Aleksandr Porfiryevich Borodin, 'Quartet No. 2 in D Major for Strings'. First Movement, Allegro moderato," Justine, perhaps sensing Friederike's struggle, explained, the tone of her voice calm to the point that it began to seem almost wistful. "It took a while to find it, but once we did, no other option would do. I imagine it'll be something of a recurring favourite from now on…"

"A fine choice, I daresay," Friede nodded, reaching over to pat Justine's hand upon her elbow as an act of mutual reassurance as the right wall of the corridor down which they were walking gave way to large windows, displaying a verdant courtyard beyond that was firmly in winter's grasp. And yet, despite the frost that had the grass seeming ashen and pale, the sun shone down brilliantly upon the field, streaming into the corridor through the windows, and through the open passage on up ahead, where a red carpet awaited them, to mark the path to guide them up to the podium where it would be time at last for Friede to give her little sister away, once and for all… And with that recognition, she felt her grip upon Justine's gloved hand grow tighter. She took a deep breath, then, relaxing her grip, and turned her head slightly to say what she wanted to say, before they went through with this. "I don't believe I ever got the chance to…apologise to you, Justine…"

"Apologise? Whatever for?" Justine asked, turning to regard the blonde through the black veil.

"With a mother like mine, I of all people ought to have known…" Friederike began, before pausing, suddenly at an uncharacteristic loss for words. "What I'm trying to say is…I'd known for a long time what Marianne was, and though I often considered it, ultimately I never once stepped in. And…I hope you can forgive me for my inaction…"

"There's nothing to forgive," her little sister replied simply. "Friederike el Britannia, not once have you failed to be exactly the sort of sister I needed you to be. I could not have asked for better."

"I'll do my best to keep that in mind," said Friede, keeping her voice calm despite not knowing how she was meant to feel about the turn this had taken. But then they stepped forth together into the unbound sunlight, with C.C. at their backs and Justine's Knight of Honour, Lord Jeremiah, stationed at the threshold, holding the bridal bouquet, and the elder princess knew immediately that whatever time the two of them had was up. "Here we are…"

Justine took a deep breath beside her, and Friede imagined she would be lying if she said she didn't relate to the feeling. With the music streaming forth from the chamber group ringing out across the way, as crisp and clear and bracing as the winter wind itself, she could scarce imagine that the air could possibly be any thicker with the momentous tension of the occasion; and yet, when Lord Jeremiah reached out to offer up the bouquet, a striking arrangement of flourishing, vivid red carnations intertwined with the small, violet bells of nightshade against a background of stark white lilies bound up in strong cords of Japanese ivy with its berries left intact, Justine's hands were calm and steady as she took them into her grasp, nestling the full arrangement against the inside of her elbow of her other arm. With a mutual nod to one another, a princess to her knight, Justine took her first stride out onto the crimson carpet, with Friede by her side every step of the way.

It had been bitterly cold the day before, but the wind had calmed overnight, such that it was actually quite comfortable for the two of them to take their measured steps out into the large open field between the manor and its immediate outbuildings, approaching the small crowd of witnesses—Justine's friends, a few of their shared siblings in Marrybell, Clovis, and Euphy, an assortment of the vassal families sworn to the House of Ashford, and a few of the couple's shockingly capable servants—who sat out upon cushioned wooden chairs arranged before the raised dais at the end of the carpet. Upon that dais stood the venerable old Grand Duke of Ashfordshire, Lord Reuben, dressed in an elegant black morning suit with a gold-trimmed violet stole draped about his shoulders (an affectation of the Catholic Church that had caught on as another mockery of the French, if she remembered correctly) that marked him as the officiant; and a step or two down from the ageing man, dressed in the same attire she'd worn during Justine's coming-of-age ball and looking every bit as dashing for it, was none other than Milly Ashford—the young woman who would be her sister-in-law in less than an hour's time.

Friederike heard Justine's sharp intake of breath, she noticed Justine's immediate recovery from the near-interruption of her gliding grace, and she knew then that all would be well.

To Milly's side of the wedding party stood Shinozaki Sayoko, while opposite her on Justine's side was Kururugi Suzaku; both of them were dressed in fine kimono (though Miss Shinozaki's was black while Suzaku's was white) and haori that matched the colours of their kimono, though Friederike couldn't claim to be able to read the family sigils, or mon, on either of them the way Justine most likely could. But beyond them, the rest of each party was dressed in suits, gowns, or full military dress uniform—Lord Jeremiah and Dame Villetta were of the last category, stationed as part of Justine's party, though they both seemed to have chosen to leave their ceremonial swords behind—and when it came time for her to place her sister's hand into that of her betrothed, seemingly all too soon, she nodded to each side in turn before moving back to the assembled witnesses, descending into her seat right next to Priscilla's as the musicians' final notes at last rang out into the descending silence, heralding the beginnings of the ceremony proper.

"Honoured guests, our friends and countrymen," Reuben began with a pleasant smile, projecting his voice across the small crowd with little to no visible effort. "We are gathered here today, beneath the grace of Serpent and Lion, to see these two young women, highborn betrothed of good standing and high esteem, conjoined beneath the auspices of matrimony. Do you, Carmilla Elizabeth Ashford, Scion of the House of Ashford, claim Her Royal Highness Justine vi Britannia, Fourth Princess of the Realm, as your lawfully wedded wife? To have and to hold, to honour and to cherish, in good fortune as in ill, until Death by force parts your entwinéd thread?"

Milly grinned, the expression equal parts joyous and triumphant, as she confidently, almost eagerly declared, "I do."

"And do you, Princess Justine vi Britannia, Fourth Daughter of the Imperial Family, claim Carmilla Elizabeth Ashford, Duchess of Ashfordshire and Scion of the House of Ashford, as your lawfully wedded wife? To have and to hold, to honour and to cherish, in good fortune as in ill, until Death by force parts your entwinéd thread?"

Justine nodded, and when she spoke, her confidence was defiant, as though challenging Death itself to steal this moment from her. "I do."

Reuben's smile softened, becoming just that much more genuine, before he continued onto the next part of the rite: "If there are any here assembled who believe these two should not be so bonded, by laws of men or of the tyrannous heavens, present now your declaration of challenge, or content yourself to hold your peace forevermore."

Silence abided for the space of three heartbeats, the customary duration, before Lord Reuben saw fit to proceed. "Let your faces be revealed to one another—let your intentions be true—that the bond between you, and your houses, may be secured in trust, and in good faith."

Taking her cue, then, Milly turned fully to face Justine, as Justine handed off her bridal bouquet to Suzaku, and then mirrored the motion; Milly's eyes were wide and blazing, her hands seeming to tremble, as she reached forth and drew back the veil of black gossamer that shrouded her bride from her sight. In a smooth, practised motion, the duchess lifted the veil back above Justine's head, and let it fall to join the train, revealing the princess's porcelain complexion to the audience, her full lips painted a dark plum and the silver of her ruby collar glinting lustrously in the sudden sunlight. Within seconds, those painted lips pulled back into a brilliant, radiant grin, every bit the equal of a full moon, and Milly, standing almost a full head taller, matched it; but they held fast nonetheless, meeting each other's eyes unflinchingly.

Then, from within the breast of his morning coat, Reuben Ashford pulled forth a length of crimson ribbon, and held it aloft. "Matrimony is a bond of lives, and an alliance of houses: but more than that, it is a vow of blood, commingled. In honour of the wisdom of our noble ancestors, from the days of the heathen kings of old, this crimson stripe is a pledge, of blood shared and shed, from this day, and onward, to all the days hence."

On cue, Justine lifted her arm with a flourish of her slender, tapered fingers, and though it was with a pale imitation of Friede's little sister's elegant, dramatic flair, Milly mimicked the motion well, bringing both their arms in line with one another, crossed, and intertwined. Reuben then moved forth, and with an ease that spoke of hours of practice, until the ageing man's fingers could accomplish the task without fail, he used the ribbon to wrap around their proffered arms, securing them to one another.

"Our way is the way of glory and conquest; our memory is that of our homeland, the isles that were stolen," intoned Reuben. "The Lion, for pride and rage; the Serpent, for cunning and vengeance. They are our eternal inheritance, that of every child of Britannia. With this tithe repaid, and this bond secured, I now declare that you are of one house, one blood, one destiny—now, and forevermore."

With a deft flick of his wrist, Lord Reuben slid the ribbon free, and stepped back once more. Now not even making a token attempt to suppress his proud grin, he told the newlyweds: "You may now kiss the bride."

Swift as the wind, Milly lowered her arms and wrapped them around Justine's waist, pulling them together sharply; then, as Justine's own arms reached up to lock behind her neck, she bowed her head and claimed Justine's lips in a kiss that was just barely within the bounds of propriety, to a chorus of thunderous applause—which quickly progressed to a standing ovation.

They broke the kiss after a few seconds locked together, and then hand-in-hand descended the dais, the wedding party following in their immediate wake as they passed through the applauding audience on the way back to the house for the reception—the wedding ceremony, as far as they and the law was concerned, had officially concluded.

So, of course, disaster chose that particular moment to strike.

The sight of a familiar silhouette walking gravely out of the house (with Justine's majordomo on his heels, no less) drew the wedding party, the guests, and the celebratory mood altogether up short. Friederike had been Major General Andreas Darlton's patron for over a year, and even now, when the man's presence was perhaps the least welcome it had ever been, she couldn't possibly think to describe their partnership as having been anything but extremely fruitful. And yet, she needed but to look upon the man's almost ursine frame, and the thunderhead that lingered upon his furrowed brow, to know that he'd arrived here bearing only grim tidings and ill portent.

Justine was the first to break the silence. "General Darlton. It's been quite some time."

Darlton drew to a stop, respectfully bowing his scarred, square-jawed head to the newlywed couple. "Princess Justine. Princess-Consort Carmilla. My congratulations on your marriage. And Mycroft, I am glad to see that you're in good health. Would that I had better news to share. But I must speak with Her Excellency Princess Friederike as soon as possible."

Hearing her name injected renewed vigour into Friede's veins, spreading throughout her body, and she pushed through the crowd as politely and as swiftly as she could, so as to stand unobstructed before her capable subordinate. "Here I am, General. What is it?"

Friederike wouldn't go so far as to call Darlton a laconic man, per se, but he certainly preferred not to mince words, never employing art when matter would suffice; and she could count on one hand the number of times when she'd seen him struggle with how he wanted to say something—with fingers left over, even. And so with each new moment it took him to speak, each marked with an aborted false start, his tense jaw working in silence, Friederike could feel her heart sinking deeper and deeper into her stomach.

"The order has yet to be sent out through official channels—bureaucracy and all," Darlton settled on at last, his grimace growing deeper with each word nonetheless, his brow furrowing further with the sheer magnitude of his displeasure. "But this, I can confirm: the faction of Area Six's provincial nobles that call themselves 'Los Peninsulares' have released an official declaration of their independence from the empire, and have risen up in armed rebellion to assert that claim. And with Princess Cornelia leading the majority of our armed forces against the E.U. in the Iberian Theatre, we predict it'll take at least a month to mobilise a task force to put down the uprising.

"To combat this," Darlton continued, stone-faced and resolute, "His Imperial Majesty Charles zi Britannia has deputised his fourth daughter, Princess Justine vi Britannia, as the leader of the newly-formed Five Hundred Eighty-Eighth Irregulars. He commands that she is to arrive at the front in Area Six no more than ten days from now…and that her mission is to stall the rebels' advance by any means necessary, until such a time as a task force is formed and dispatched to the front lines to relieve her. Defiance…shall be deemed an act of disloyalty to the Crown."

The silence that followed was sepulchral.

Never before had Euphemia seen an event shift from joy to misery so very quickly. 'Whiplashed' was, to her knowledge, the only word that could appropriately describe how she felt just then, as she sat at her appointed spot in the dining room, the wedding reception they'd all had a part in planning for weeks now, if not months, having been mutated into something that straddled the line between a session of court and what she could only call a 'war council.' The newlyweds were nowhere to be seen, having taken a few others with them along with General Darlton, presumably to pump him for information and to decide what would need to be done in the face of this newest edict from His Majesty: Justine, Milly, Juliette, Friederike and Priscilla, Lloyd Asplund and his colleague, Justine's retainer and her knight, Dame Villetta and Lord Jeremiah respectively, were all locked away in some secluded chamber or other, and that left all the rest of the guests to sit in terse, strained silence, while the sumptuous five-course meal that had been prepared for the festivities of the reception was served to a hall full of people who had suddenly lost their appetites.

Thus did she find herself at present, seated at an oblong table, with Mycroft positioned to her right and Marry to her left, while Ozzy's seat was to the left of Marry; all four of them staring down at food that they'd been looking forward to gorging themselves upon only a few hours ago, and only being able to bring themselves to pick at it, at best. Euphemia felt her stress mounting at that realisation, that it had only taken a few hours for the entire situation to be flipped onto its head, and with better things for her to worry about than the finer points of table manners at the moment, she propped her elbows up upon the table, buried her head in her hands, and exhaled heavily.

"How could this have happened…?" Mycroft murmured, unknowingly echoing the same sentiment that reverberated through the halls of Euphemia's head even now.

Of course, unlike her steady, quiet, and loyal friend, Euphemia had an answer to that question; the knowledge only made the entire affair that much more bitter to the taste. It was an answer she spoke to him now, her voice thick with frustrated resignation. "Because it's what His Majesty has commanded…"

Marry reached over and rubbed at Euphemia's upper arm in soothing, cyclical motions, while Ozzy, to the other side of her, was silently glaring at her plate as though it had personally offended her, with every aggressive motion of her utensils turning into a lunge or a stab. It was a cold comfort, perhaps, that though her lovers were perhaps not as close with Justine as Euphy herself was, they seemed to mirror her anguish; but it was comfort nonetheless, and comfort had recently shown itself to be in short supply.

"I can't imagine how Milly must be feeling," Marry joined in. "She's looked forward to this day for practically her entire life. For it to end like this… It's almost unthinkable…"

Ozzy dashed her fork upon the plate, sending it clattering loudly across the cleaned porcelain, and mirrored Euphemia's gesture, burying her head into her hands. It was almost funny, Euphy mused, how not even the pall that had taken seemingly the entire estate into its stranglehold of a grip could dampen Oldrin Zevon's disciplined, athletic appetite.

"Oi, Sakura-chan," a brash voice with its rough-hewn tone called out, as its owner, a familiar figure, made her approach. "Mind if I sit here?"

"Hey, Suzaku," Euphy greeted fondly, for all that the salutation was more than half a sigh. "Yeah, sure, why not. Pull up a chair…"

Kururugi Suzaku wasn't a girl who was prone to hesitation; permission given, she pulled out a chair and crashed down into it, propping her feet up onto the table with her ankles crossed. It was…an interesting angle, to say the least, what with the avowed ruffian of a girl still being dressed in the same outfit she'd worn to the wedding ceremony, but Euphemia didn't even bother to make the comment. It was practically the definition of low-hanging fruit, after all. "Thanks a bunch. So, how're y'all holdin' up?"

"About as well as can be expected, given the circumstances," Euphy replied with a huff. "Though if it's this bad where we are…"

Suzaku nodded knowingly. "Can't imagine Mills's gonna take this lyin' down…"

As if on cue, a harsh bang rang out from the threshold of the dining room, as the lady of the house slammed the door open and tore over to where her spot at the high table would have been, if the reception had been allowed to go on as planned. As it was, once she was seated, Milly folded her arms upon the tablecloth, and planted her forehead against the fabric.

"Oh, well, wouldya look at that. Speak of the Devil," Suzaku mused aloud. "That can't have gone well…"

"I'd say that's probably a fairly reasonable reaction to having your wedding night interrupted by what amounts to a suicide mission," came a significantly less familiar voice—Euphemia looked up to see a slim, leggy young woman with short, dark purple hair and maroon eyes set into an unassumingly pretty face, dressed in what looked like a military uniform, black and without adornment. Her small, thin mouth was pulled into a mirthless smirk, and behind her were a trio of other girls—an auburn-haired tomboy, a curvy blonde whose features made her look bubbly, for all that her expression was anything but, and a surly slip of a girl with blue-black hair and dark amber eyes, all of them dressed in a similar uniform to the first, who looked to Euphemia and Marrybell specifically as her smirk shifted into a pleasant smile. "Good day to you, your highnesses. May we sit?"

"Sure. We let Suzaku, after all," Euphemia joked—in immediate response to which, the wild-eyed brunette in question blew a raspberry in her direction.

"Thank you, your highness," the purple-haired girl replied, inclining her head into a half-bow that was technically highly improper, but Euphemia was beyond pretending to care about shit like that. Then, in an immediate pivot, that same girl reached out, and in a surprising display of familiarity, slapped Suzaku's legs to the floor with a playfully scolding, "Down, girl."

"Killjoy," Suzaku spat back.

"Reprobate," the girl replied, as she smoothly took her seat to Suzaku's left, and the other three girls took up chairs lined up to the unknown young woman's opposite side: the blonde first, followed by the girl with the auburn hair, and finally the sullen one with wolf's eyes.

"I don't believe we've met," Euphemia remarked, still reeling from witnessing that exchange.

"Elizabeth Bernadotte, your highness," said the red-eyed girl, Bernadotte. "Sharpshooter. And these are Lady Liliana, of the House of Vergamon…"

"An honour, your highness," said the blonde with a smile and a nod.

"…Lady Marika, of the House of Soresi…"

"Your highness," the tomboy said with a sharp nod.

"…And last but not least, Lady Odette, of the House of Rochefort," concluded the self-proclaimed sharpshooter.

"Present," replied the sour-faced young noblewoman—who was quite strikingly beautiful, now that Euphemia looked more closely, in a fierce, severe sort of way.

"We were Justine's dorm-mates at Ad Victoriam," Bernadotte went on to explain. "She led us to an undefeated record. All of us finished at the top of the rankings under her command. Oh, and just as a bit of forewarning: there are a few more of us lurking around, so expect that they'll make their way here and look for a seat themselves over the course of the next while. We're kind of a close-knit group…"

"Comes with the territory," Suzaku shrugged. "So, what're y'all thinkin' 'bout this suicide mission business?"

"As if," snorted Lady Odette, plucking a butter knife from the table and twirling it across her fingers as she spoke. "If anyone's going to come out of that on top, it's Justine."

"We'll be right behind her, naturally," said Lady Marika.

"Assuming she'll have us, of course," Lady Liliana rushed to specify.

"I wouldn't worry about that all that much," Suzaku replied, leaning back in her chair. "Justine ain't the kinda gal who's gonna be caught makin' the same mistake twice, that's for damn sure."

"It's a quality I'd like to believe we all share," said the sharpshooter, as her expression shifted back into its more genuine, smirking state. "But we'll see. You have the four of us behind her, at any rate."

Suzaku nodded once, sharply. "Glad to hear it."

"I'm sorry, did I miss something, or are you recruiting people for Princess Justine's suicide mission, to join her on the road to her death?" Ozzy asked, her tone equal parts incredulous and accusing.

"She won't be dying," Lady Liliana refuted firmly. "Not so long as we're there to prevent it."

"And besides," Bernadotte smoothly interjected. "It's not so much recruitment as it is confirmation. An RSVP, if you will."

"Well, I, for one, think it's good that our dear sister has friends like you upon whom she can rely," said Marry, picking through the sparse remaining contents of her plate for some inspiration to appetite. She never had been very good at forcing herself to eat, after all. "And did I mishear the name 'Rochefort'?"

"James Rochefort, Duke of Middle Pacifica, is my father, yes," Lady Odette replied with a put-upon sigh, twirling the butter knife about to grab it by the tip of the blade between the pads of two fingers. "My elder brother, Edmund, is the heir, however. I'm currently without extenuating obligations. Unlike the good Lady Soresi, here…"

Lady Marika scowled. "Yes, well, neither Leonhardt nor I are exactly in a rush to follow in Justine's footsteps. And if my family objects to me risking my life like this, they can either contribute a detachment of household troops, or they can burn. Either or."

"Even Kewell?" Lady Odette teased with a malicious little grin.

Lady Marika's eyes narrowed. "Especially Kewell."

"That's quite enough, you two," Lady Liliana reprimanded, without even deigning to look at either of them.

Amazingly enough, though both of them grimaced, they acceded nonetheless.

"…Well, you're all quite spirited, aren't you?" Marry offered after a beat of awkward silence. "I'm given to imagine it must have been a very eventful school life for you all…"

"I don't think I'd go so far as to say that you're entirely mistaken," the violet-haired sharpshooter replied genially. "Only that your highness seems to have something of a gift for understatement."

"Hear, hear," Suzaku crowed, slamming her hand onto the table with a jolt.

"…I don't think you're meant to do that, Suzaku," another new voice joined in, this one quite a bit softer in tone and diction than the others. Euphemia looked around in an attempt to put a face to the voice, and in the process came upon an approaching pair: a tall, full-figured girl, distinctly patrician in her beauty, with azure-blue hair that was pinned up in the back, decorated with the feathers of a bluejay, and otherwise styled in ringlets, garbed in a high-waisted silken gown, royal blue, with brocade and what looked like fine silver wire as decorative accents, and a heavy gold-trimmed violet shawl wrapped around her shoulders; as well as another girl half a head shorter, with hair an even more vibrant shade of pink than Euphemia's own that was secured in a high ponytail, dressed in black breeches and riding boots, a starched white shirt and a waistcoat that matched the other's gown in both hue and decoration to mark their coordination, a white muslin cravat about her neck, and a black tailcoat overtop it all. Yet when the voice spoke again, it was the taller woman's lips that moved. "It's poor manners."

"And since when have I given a damn about that, Takane-chan?" Suzaku shot right back.

"I'll keep reminding you regardless," the girl Suzaku had apparently nicknamed 'Takane', much the same as how Euphemia herself had been nicknamed 'Sakura', due to her hair colour's resemblance to the eponymous flower, replied, equal parts coy and resolute. Her companion, Euphemia couldn't stop herself from noticing, seemed substantially less comfortable than her blue-haired counterpart; but whether there was some measure of bad blood between the other rosette and the rest of Justine's group, or she was just a bit jittery in the presence of unfamiliar royalty, was anyone's guess. The blue-haired girl curtseyed once the two of them drew closer, and in a voice that was clear as a bell, she said, "A pleasure to make both of your acquaintances, your highnesses. I am Hecate, of the House of Gaunt; and this here is my paramour, Maria Valentine, of the House of Lupin."

"The feeling is mutual," Marry replied before Euphemia could think to. "Come, come, join us! I'm quite eager to meet Justine's friends. You all seem like such an interesting bunch…"

"We would be honoured," Hecate nodded, leading the way to take the chair to the immediate right side of Suzaku, which Maria pulled out for her, before taking her own seat on the other side of Hecate.

"The House of Lupin…?" Ozzy repeated, blinking as she visibly searched through her recollection. "As in, Arsène Lupin? The Duke of Rocambole?"

"My adoptive brother, in fact," Maria confirmed with a perfunctory nod, seeming immediately more at ease with her surroundings than she'd been a moment prior. "We attended Ad Victoriam together, as it happens. Got bowled over by Princess Justine and her Royals, just like every other team in our class…"

"The Merry Men acquitted themselves rather well, at least," said Hecate. "There was no shame in it. Losing to us, I mean."

"We all found a way to get over it, believe me," the rosette chuckled. "None of the teams who went up against you lot ever seriously expected to win, especially not towards the end there."

"How very wise of you," said yet another new voice, teasing and husky. The woman it belonged to was of average height by the standards of Britannian women, standing at around one hundred seventy-five centimetres tall (which would put her around five or so centimetres taller than Justine, notably), with wavy raven hair that hung unbound down her shoulders and back, and amber eyes perhaps a few shades brighter than Lady Odette's; she possessed a slender, modestly-endowed frame, and she approached in black breeches, high black boots, a quilted black doublet decorated with silver thread, and black leather riding gloves upon her hands. Beside her, then, was a taller, tan-skinned girl, whom Euphemia's naked eye judged to be around the same height as Suzaku, with long snow-white hair that had been styled into an undercut, and—okay, no, those were wolf's eyes, she'd been mistaken earlier. Her features were sharp and angular, with narrow eyes that were very slightly tilted inward, and altogether the distinct elements of her face corroborated the initial impression her golden eyes gave. Her body was corded with lean muscle, and the way she walked could be accurately described as 'loping,' giving the outfit she wore, which was almost an exact match of the shorter girl she accompanied, a sensibility that was very much distinct from her companion's. Said companion, of course, was the one to acknowledge them, bowing from the waist, her amber eyes and the darkness of her brow striking and seductive against her marble complexion. "You shall have to excuse us, your highness, your highness. We saw there was an unofficial reunion of the Royals that was taking place, and so we made our way over here with all possible haste. My name is Yennefer, and this is Sif, of the House of Blaiddyd. May we join you?"

"Oh, yes, of course," said Marry, nodding swiftly and indicating an open seat beside the one Maria Valentine had claimed for herself. "By all means, make yourselves comfortable. Any friend of Justine's is a friend of ours."

The white-haired girl, Sif, snorted indelicately. "And here I thought that was our line."

"Neither the time nor the place, Sif," Yennefer admonished with a fond sigh, as she moved forth to seat herself; Sif followed suit shortly thereafter.

"Good evening, Sif, Yen," Hecate greeted warmly, smiling softly. "Have you had a chance to speak with Brynhildr, to let her know what's transpired?"

"Believe me, we tried," said Sif, leaning back in her chair as she spoke. "But Trisha's birthday party is apparently in full swing, so we didn't get nearly enough time to tell her. Not as if it matters…"

"She'll find out soon enough, I suppose," Yennefer sighed, leaning forth and folding her arms upon the tabletop.

"I'll write her a note," Sif huffed. "Though I can't imagine she'll have much of a need for it, unless she's somehow dumb enough to think that we won't be going with Justine."

"It is something of a foregone conclusion, I suppose," chimed in one additional new voice, its dulcet tones calm and smooth as it came out of the mouth of a girl with long, dark, mossy green hair that had been taken back from her forehead and bound at the back of it into a bun, though much of it still hung unbound down her back. She was thin and reedy of frame, with a distinctly bookish look about her, and her emerald eyes seemed neither wholly alert nor wholly fatigued, but seemed almost to linger in some ambiguous place in between the two. She lifted a slender, green brow into an arch, and beheld them as she moved to take her own spot at the far end beside Lady Odette, settling her very conservative silk dress, featuring various contrasting verdant shades, into the confines of another dining chair, and folded her hands in her lap. "Sif. You're still dying your eyebrows."

Sif nodded, but it was Bernadotte who responded. "Lindelle. It's good to see you. I take it you'll be coming with us too, then?"

The green-haired girl scoffed. "Of course I am. Why would I ever trust anyone else to look after all your collective scrapes and bruises, hmm?"

Suzaku threw her head back in a hearty laugh. "Well, I'll be. The gang's back together. Glad to have ya on board, Sōhei-chan."

"Why wouldn't I be on board?" Lindelle retorted. "I'm just as much a Royal as the rest of you."

"Damn right ya are," Suzaku declared, reaching out to tap more lightly on the table. "Hear, hear!"

And the rest of them echoed her, raising their arms in unison and replying as one: "Hear, hear!"

"All of you are mad," Ozzy marvelled, incredulous.

"Of course we are," replied Lady Marika, as if she was offended that this was somehow a revelation to the rest of them."And it's a good thing, too. If we weren't, this'd never work."

"Hear, hear," Lady Odette called.

"Hear, hear," they all answered in unison once more.

"Hear, hear…" Lady Maria echoed faintly, and Hecate gave her an affectionate pat for her trouble.

"Certainty of death," Lady Odette began, flipping the knife across her knuckles once again.

"Small chance of success," Lady Liliana continued without missing a beat.

"Sign us the Hell up!" cried all nine of them, again as one.

"Do you guys rehearse that, or something?" Mycroft, who'd been mostly pretty quiet up until that point, asked of the assemblage.

"Not specifically, no," replied Yennefer. "We're a bit of a close-knit group, is all."

"That's what Miss Bernadotte said," Euphemia couldn't help but point out.

Yennefer shrugged. "She was right to say it. Just as I am."

"Speakin' of which," Suzaku chimed in. "Look sharp, and step lively. I guarantee ya, we're gonna get called to weigh in, and it's gonna be any moment now…"

"They have been in there for a while," Lady Liliana remarked with an understanding nod.

"How are you all so…gung ho about this?" asked Mycroft. "You're volunteering yourselves for an irregular unit, all of you. Do you not know what that means? It means you're not entitled to requisition personnel, or materiel, or much of anything past supply shipments. Food and water, bullets and bandages. You don't even get guns! And Area Six's nobles aren't a poor lot! The gold veins that the Spanish Empire tapped centuries ago are still being mined to this day. In all likelihood, you'll be facing household forces and retinues, all of them well-armed, well-trained, well-supplied, and you're doing it all on their home turf. It's a suicide mission in every sense of the term."

"Why shouldn't we be?" Lady Marika scoffed in response.

That brought Mycroft up short. "What…?"

"Why shouldn't we be?" Lady Marika repeated. "Live or die, we'll have shown Justine the truth of our loyalty. And besides…I mean, yeah, it's probably going to suck, for all the reasons you just stated and likely more, but we trust Justine. We trust her to bring us home alive. And if you somehow think that's beyond her, Lord Mycroft, well then, I don't think there's a way I can explain it to you that's going to make you get it…"

"Well said," Suzaku nodded, her tone calmer and more serious than it had been throughout all the rest of this conversation.

"And besides," Miss Bernadotte added, her thin lips lifting and twisting into a sly grin. "It's not as if we're exactly slouches ourselves, either."

"I believe the commoner turn of phrase is 'ride or die,'" said Hecate.

"That, it most certainly is," Bernadotte chuckled, nodding sagely.

"We swore our lives to Justine," Lindelle explained. "And we're not about to let the first true test of that loyalty make liars out of us."

"She's right," Sif interjected. "Our vow means something, and it's time for us to prove it."

"Hear, hear," Lady Liliana called out.

"Hear, hear," all nine of them repeated once again.

"Do all of you have to do that every single time?!" Ozzy sighed aloud.

Lady Maria shrugged. "They got like this at school, too. Trust me when I say you get used to it."

"I suppose you almost have to," Oldrin conceded in resignation.

Right then, the door through which Milly had entered a while earlier swung open. Suzaku turned to face it, and the other eight immediately followed suit, while Maria caught the cue and joined in a beat later. Standing in that threshold, then, was Dame Villetta, a grave look on her face as she jerked her head in the direction of the corridor beyond, and then retreated, letting the door close behind her.

"Welp, I'm guessin' that's our cue," Suzaku remarked mildly, popping the 'p.'

"You don't say," Miss Bernadotte rejoined sarcastically, prompting a wave of low chortling out of the seven other members of their team.

Hecate leaned over towards Maria, Euphemia noticed, and lifted their entwined hands to lay a kiss upon the back of the rosette's. "We won't be long, I promise."

As Maria nodded, Lady Odette palmed the knife she'd been doing tricks with, and tossed it onto the table with a brief clatter before standing, just as the others moved to do. A shuffle of chairs moving as their occupants quietly rose was the only sound that escaped them all of a sudden; and though they didn't waste the time it would take to form an orderly queue, they seemed not to need to, proceeding towards the door they'd been called beyond in an eerily organised fashion, like the discipline of it had been inscribed into their bones at birth. One by one, Justine's friends filed through the door, each and every one of them completely calm and flawlessly composed, their expressions giving away nothing at all.

Soon enough, the last of them passed beyond that threshold, leaving Euphemia, Marrybell, Oldrin, and Mycroft to linger there, once again adrift in that same acute silence that had presided upon the dining hall less than twenty minutes before.

It was suffocating.

The room where they'd taken General Darlton was of middling size for the Ashford Estate—which was still fairly large, as rooms went. The old war room was where Lord Reuben, the only grandfather that Justine had ever known, and now hers by law, had planned out all his most instrumental manoeuvres during the Emblem of Blood, bringing his house into a position that primed them for ascendancy, and knowledge of that intimate history made standing in it under such dire circumstances a novel experience for Justine in more than a few ways, not the least of which because she was still clad in her wedding dress.

Milly had quit the room in disgust half an hour ago, and in the time since, they hadn't accomplished very much of consequence, beyond sitting or standing around in that same room, dwelling on the nature of this insurmountable problem. After all, what was there to discuss when all of them knew that there was no way out of this? His Majesty, for whatever reason, had decided that either she would die a traitor, or die on a distant field for an impossible victory.

And that's what it was, truly: Sayoko had checked with the rest of her shinobi, gathering all the intel they had to hand on the situation of Los Peninsulares' war potential—to say the prognosis looked grim was not so great an understatement that it was indistinguishable from a falsehood, but it was a close-run thing. Even the forces that Cornelia commanded in Spain and Portugal would have a rough go of it, taking on the rebels once they'd had a chance to entrench themselves, not the least of which due to the level of parity in terms of technology between the two factions. The rebellious noble families had entire ledgers filled with orders for the purchase of Sutherlands, and a little bit of digging found that even a few shipments' worth of Gloucesters that Friederike had been tracking the progress of on the black market after a reported clerical error on HCLI's books, the partisans had snapped up a few days ago (albeit at exorbitant mark-ups that the rebels could nevertheless afford to pay).

To His Majesty's credit, Justine and Friederike both had no choice but to admit, however much they might have begrudged it, he hadn't demanded anything of her that was so impossible as to be preposterous. Instead of demanding she put the rebellion down herself, he called upon her to prevent the very process of entrenchment that would give a force of Cornelia's size so much trouble. Still impossible, of course, but it demonstrated a measure of restraint that saved His Majesty from seeming incapable or incompetent. It was a gamble, yes, but one where he stood to lose very little at all either way. To deny the cleverness of it was to deny the grim reality of her circumstances, the crushing gravity of her situation.

"I'm sorry, Justine," Friederike huffed, seeming acutely miserable. "If I had…"

"Don't, Friede," Justine sighed, nipping that in the bud—much to Priscilla's apparent gratitude. "If you had kept your ear to the ground, you still wouldn't have been able to do anything to prevent this. There isn't anything for you to apologise for—you've done nothing wrong."

"Still…" sighed her elder sister, leaning her chair against the wall as her seated posture slumped in fatigue. "I'm sorry this had to happen…"

Justine smiled bitterly, and nodded. "I'm sorry, too… I suppose I'm not exactly making a very good first showing as a wife. Before I even get to my wedding night, I'm commanded to go marching off to war. A war I'm not meant to come back from alive, no less…"

"This is completely beyond the pale," swore Friede. "For years now, more and more affairs of state have been deemed to be beneath His Majesty's notice, and the moment he deigns to descend from his ivory tower on high, he does this…!"

A knock on the door sounded, and all of the war room's occupants turned to face it. From where he stood behind and beside Justine, Jeremiah moved towards the door and pulled it ajar to see who was on the other side of it. After a moment of hushed convention, he pulled it all the way open, to reveal that Villetta had returned, and had not done so empty-handed; for indeed, just behind her, and perhaps merely a step or two beyond the threshold, stood all nine of the other members of the Royal Force.

Justine sighed heavily, but she could feel herself smiling: she couldn't even pretend to be displeased to see her friends, especially in such dire circumstances. "Come in, all of you. There ought to be more than enough room—Hell knows this chamber's been far more crowded in the bygone days of interregnum…"

Villetta stepped back, and allowed all nine of them to file in, situating themselves at different points around the room, and allowing Justine's second-longest serving subordinate and friend to bring up the rear. The door was closed behind her, and she came around to stand next to Justine, as Jeremiah took up his spot directly behind the princess. Watching her back, as it were, in a very literal sense of the phrase.

"You're all just a bunch of kids. Is this what this country's coming to?" Darlton sighed. "That we send children off to do the impossible or die trying?"

"It is as it always has been, general," Justine replied melancholically.

"And besides, we have done nothing of the sort," Juliette added. "This was His Majesty's doing. His design, and his alone. No one else needs to bear any responsibility for it…"

"So, you all will be accompanying Justine, I take it?" Friede asserted sceptically.

"Well, ya knew I was gonna be goin' already," Suzaku shrugged.

Marika stepped forth to say her piece. "Those of us who can will do our best to bring along some household troops of our own. As many as we can likely spare… But come what may, we're going with her. What kind of friends would we be to abandon her in her hour of need?"

"Living ones," Darlton replied, leaning forth with his legs spread, and propping his elbows upon his knees as he hunched over. "You've got, what, a couple hundred, maybe even a few thousand you can bring to bear here?"

"Closer to the high hundreds," Sif interjected with a brusque shrug of her own. "Some of us aren't even proper nobles, after all. Yen and I'll be lucky to be able to rustle up a couple dozen, and we're not the only ones here who're among the gentry."

"That's true," Hecate confirmed. "The House of Gaunt has a retinue of only around three hundred, and we're among the wealthiest of our class. In an attempt to dissuade her, Marika's family might even refuse to contribute any forces outright."

"I'm going regardless, but she's correct," Marika nodded, a devil-may-care smirk with an edge like a razor finding its way onto her features. "The House of Soresi as a rule does nothing that might go against its political interests. Hells below, there's a non-zero chance that my throwing my life, or more importantly, my betrothal, into jeopardy, and openly supporting a princess His Majesty has all but marked for death will be enough to get me disinherited entirely…"

"Do any of you have any idea of the scale of the undertaking you'd be facing? Even in the best-case scenario?" asked Darlton. "According to the intel Princess Carmilla's network has managed to gather, the enemy Knightmare Corps alone numbers in the tens of thousands. That's to say nothing of their infantry, or their airborne capabilities… You're volunteering for nothing short of a slaughter."

"Justine's going into this either way," Lisa countered, shrugging as she leaned forth across the table. "Where she leads, General Darlton, we follow. It's as simple as that."

"Hear, hear!" called Odette.

"Hear, hear!" all nine of them responded at once.

"If nothing else, this's gonna be one hell of a scrap," Suzaku remarked. "I dunno 'bout you lot, but I wouldn't be able to live with myself if I let it pass me by. I got a rep to uphold, after all."

"If anyone's going to get us out of this alive, it's Justine," Lisa continued.

"So we're all behind her. Every last damned step of the way," Marika vowed.

"We faltered once," Odette chimed in, grimacing as she spoke. "I don't think there's a single one of us who can look back on it without shame."

"Never again," Liliana declared, stepping forth to stand alongside Lisa; Lisa then stood from where she was bending forward, and slipped her arm around Liliana's waist as she spoke. Justine made a mental note to congratulate them for finally acting on all that tension that'd dogged the pair throughout their final months at Ad Victoriam; it was good that they'd been able to find some measure of joy in each other. "That was what we swore to. Regardless of whether any, or all of us, survive this or perish in the attempt, this is our time to make good on that oath. We don't intend to forsake it."

"Hear, hear!" Sif called out.

"Hear, hear!" the rest of them responded.

Justine turned to look at them with a wistful smile. "And I don't suppose there's anything I can say here that'll dissuade you all, is there?"

"Nope," said Suzaku, popping the 'p'. "Face it, Justine—you're stuck with us. And I swear to ya, we're goin' the fuckin' distance."

"Come what may," Hecate added.

"Come what may," came the responding murmur in unison.

Darlton looked at them incredulously, and after a moment, he buried his head in his large hands, a heavy sigh ripping its way out of his barrel-shaped chest. "You kids are insane…"

"In that case," Justine began, her smile broadening to a grin. She resolved, in that moment, to never lose sight of how fortunate she was to have found friends like these. "We go by academy rules. You all give me the very best you have to offer, and I'll make it work. Do you understand me? This will be the point of no return. If any of you want to turn back, the time to do so is now."

"With all due respect, Justine, not on your fucking life," Odette called out.

"Hear, hear!" Yennefer called, voicing her agreement.

"Hear, hear!" all of them echoed.

"Well then," Justine chuckled, shaking her head. "It seems we all have a lot of work to do."

Just then, another knock resounded upon the door.

"I'll get it," Villetta volunteered; she crossed the room towards the threshold, and pulled the heavy wooden boundary open, to reveal Doctor Croomy on the other side, not having changed out of the rather bold dress she'd chosen for the wedding, and wearing a pleasant smile besides—though the twitch of some of the muscles around her eye would have given away Lloyd's presence even before he leaned in and made himself clearly visible, the brown tailcoat and suit he'd worn to the wedding and all.

"Speaking of work," Lloyd began in his characteristic sing-song tone.

"Do you want to die, Lloyd?" Jeremiah growled.

Lloyd immediately recoiled in alarm. "You mean, in the traditional sense?"

"Peace, Jeremiah," Justine ordered, raising a hand. Her gallant and dutiful knight, to his everlasting credit, backed down immediately. "My dear Earl of Asplund, it's generally considered extremely poor form to be lingering and eavesdropping upon conferences held in rooms like these. A less well-informed partisan might get the impression you were up to some skulduggery."

"I assure you, your highness, I'm up to nothing of the sort," Lloyd replied, bowing with a flourish, and adjusting his glasses as he rose. "Quite the opposite, in fact. I come bearing gifts."

"Any boons you might have to offer would be greatly appreciated," Justine nodded.

Instead of replying, he flashed a thumbs up to his colleague and friend, who in turn flashed a cue of her own; in moments, then, a line of servants, commandeered from the estate's staff, filed into the chamber, carrying with them a series of large, nondescript oblong metal boxes. The war room's table wasn't actually in use at the moment, and so, one by one, they set these slim yet hefty cases upon its surface, and then filed out shortly thereafter. Once they were all gone, Taliesin emerged alongside Doctor Croomy—answering the question of exactly how the two scientists had managed to secure the assistance of so many servants, and on such short notice, to boot. "There's no cause for concern, your highness; in fact, I imagine that you'll be quite pleased with the quality of the boons I have to give. There's one for each of you—even for yourself, Dame Villetta—so don't be shy. Come, come, open them!"

Justine, electing to take the lead, shrugged, stepping forth to the table and directing her attention to the oblong case that had been laid in front of her. It was of an aluminium alloy, she knew at first sight, with clasps that held it together on either side of its handle; and so she slipped her fingers into the clasps, finding the catches and releasing them with a soft click. She lifted the lid of the case without a moment's hesitation, and beheld—

"Meet the latest and greatest innovation in Maser vibration technology," Lloyd intoned theatrically. "The vibroblade. It utilises a high-frequency electromagnetic field oscillation phenomenon to exponentially increase the cutting power of the weapon. This beauty was modelled and constructed after the manner of sword that your highness favours—based, of course, from an example of the highest quality, to ensure that the resulting armament was a sword worthy of your highness."

Justine reached into the case, her fingers curling almost reverently around the irregular shape of the black-and-gunmetal scabbard of the tachi. There was a slot for a magazine, she noticed, as well as a trigger; and accordingly, a magazine was set aside within the black cushioning of the metal case's interior. She set her hand upon the hilt, curling her fingers about the grip, and pulled the weapon out of its sheath just a bit, marvelling at how the dull grey of the blade sparked with electricity and shifted into a livid scarlet, before returning it back to its home fully.

"In addition to the blade, which is a miniaturised version of a pair of Maser vibration swords we've built for the Lancelot—which, your highness will be pleased to hear, is currently undergoing its final stages of development before field testing," Lloyd continued, "the vibroblade, which we've taken the liberty of naming 'Murasama' in honour of the ancient smith who forged its template—well, actually, it's a result of a mistranslation of the man's name that occurred relatively early on in development, but nevertheless stayed on and stuck as a convenient method of differentiating the weapon from its template, but details—comes with a ballistic scabbard, to facilitate the quick-draw techniques associated with this type of weapon…"

"It's magnificent," Justine marvelled, wide-eyed and covetous.

"I'm pleased to see that it's to your satisfaction, your highness," said Lloyd, bowing his head. "And I made sure to design similar weapons for each of you. It was a challenge, adapting this technology not only to miniaturisation, but also to such differing shapes of weapons, but a worthwhile one, which has and shall continue to advance the development of armaments for future Knightmare Frames."

And true to his word, one by one, her friends stepped forth and opened their respective cases. There were vibroglaives, vibroswords (which were distinct from vibroblades, as the latter was apparently used for weapons of Eastern design instead of European), and Suzaku even got a pair of vibroblades herself, each in the shape of an uchigatana, much in the vein of the style she'd finally settled upon recently. The severity of the prior discussion was all but forgotten in the excitement of the unveiling, to the point where even the good General Darlton had begun to look over at them with interest.

"These will pierce or cut any armour, any weapon," said Lloyd. "They disrupt and break down their resistance on the molecular level. Not even the tungsten of a Sutherland's armour will be able to turn aside a direct strike from one of those; though, of course, you won't be maiming any Knightmares. At least, not without an unfeasible quantity of time."

"A prohibition of leverage," Justine mused aloud, nodding.

"Precisely, your highness," Lloyd affirmed with a broadening grin.

"Wicked…" Odette gasped off to the side as she marvelled at her own vibroblade.

"You've outdone yourself, Lloyd," the newlywed princess remarked, smiling at the man she'd come to see as something of a colleague purely by accident. It was almost enough to make her feel guilty about what she'd arranged for him—almost, but not quite. "I'm impressed. Keep up the good work."

"Thank you kindly, your highness," Lloyd replied, bowing from the waist. "You may consider it a wedding present, if it pleases you: from us who work at Annwn, to you and yours."

Cécile Croomy nodded vehemently behind him, having seen no cause to attempt to rescue him; and Justine wondered exactly how gracious they would feel if they knew what she'd set into motion (though, in fairness to her, Doctor Croomy was liable to just see it as another eccentric genius to manage, rather akin to a second cat). Still, Justine nodded. "Then if it isn't too bold of me, on behalf of both myself and my wife, I wish to express my most heartfelt thanks."

"I have a gift of my own for you, my lady," Taliesin interjected, stepping forth into the threshold as he spoke. She noticed then that he was carrying a case of his own, though this one was calfskin instead of aluminium. "Though admittedly, mine is not quite so practical as Earl Asplund's, I must confess…"

"I'm sure it'll be lovely regardless," Justine assured her majordomo. "May we see it?"

"Certainly, my lady," the immortal nodded, stepping forth and sliding his own leather case—more a slimmer version of a trunk than anything else, truth be told—down onto the war room's table, right beside its aluminium counterpart, into which 'Murasama' had already been replaced. The man accompanied it, his white-gloved fingers finding the releases of the latches with no difficulty to speak of, before easing the lid of it open, to reveal metal pauldrons and black leather…

Justine reached into it, and grabbed hold of the leather garment by its lapels, lifting it out of the case with a faint sense of recognition. "It's…"

"A coat, your highness," Taliesin supplied, his tone coolly businesslike and professional. "I had it made for your use after your graduation. It may prove useful in obscuring your figure on the field and in the trees of the jungle, thus aiding any attempts to evade gunfire. Not to mention, there are several parts of Area Six where it gets quite chilly after nightfall…"

"Thank you, Taliesin," Justine said with an earnest smile as she beheld the full length of it. The coat was almost as tall as she was; the shoulders were decorated with two pauldrons each, layered atop one another, and the sleeves were quite substantially cuffed, a design detail Justine surmised to have been in large part derived from coats made in the Rococo style; its hemline seemed to have been serrated, presumably for the effect of a dramatic flourish; and what she'd initially thought were lapels was in fact a high collar, stiff and seemingly meant to be worn upturned. Already, she thought of how it might look paired with the outfit she had settled upon as her normal choice in attire, a means of limiting how much time she had to spend at the beginning of each day deciding what she wished to wear, and the resulting effect she envisioned in the lens of her mind's eye was nothing short of magnificent. "It's perfection."

Taliesin smiled wistfully. "I rather thought you might say that, my lady…"

They were headed off to war.

It was a conflicted feeling that Suzaku nursed in her breast at that, much to her own surprise: on the one hand, wars were where the toughest, bloodiest, most exhilarating scraps were fought, a dance upon the knife's edge between life and death, above the clamour and cacophony of carnage and conflict. And yet, on the other, though her best friend did her best to conceal her distress and misgivings, she made no effort to go a step further and attempt to hide them from Suzaku; as such, Suzaku was able to read them upon her, clear as day.

It wasn't as if she didn't get it, on some level. Justine was a leader, in many ways that Suzaku knew she could never be. Not that she cared all that much that such a position was beyond her: Justine had that role covered, and she did a damned fine job of it, whenever she hadn't gotten herself stuck inside her own head—and besides, who really wanted that sort of responsibility weighing them down, anyways? Certainly not Suzaku. She was there to fight, to hit things. That was what she was good at.

Yet, all the same, the fact remained that Justine did fill that role, and she took the responsibility that came with it very seriously. So Suzaku could easily imagine how the prospect of taking such a green force, well-trained but outnumbered and undersupplied, into what amounted to—and she'd quite honestly begun to grow tired of hearing this term, but—a suicide mission, a no-win scenario where she was either expected to produce a miracle or die trying, might weigh very heavily indeed upon Justine vi Britannia; and it left quite the sour taste in her mouth, a bitter coal of resentment, that Charles zi Britannia, the man who was at least nominally Justine's own father, had made it all but impossible for his daughter to get excited about this like Suzaku herself was. She couldn't help it: any sort of schism between herself and Justine always got under her skin, especially since the debacle that'd been the dirty trick Bony McBitchface had pulled before both she and her second-in-command performed their famous disappearing act. It hit directly in that irrational part of herself that remembered the bitter isolation, the soul-sucking boredom, and the all-consuming sense of ennui from her childhood, before she'd met Izanami-sensei, that had made each and every day a pointless grey slog; and in that sense, she supposed that might well have been the core of how she and Justine had become such fast friends, why their souls had blazed and resonated with one another to such a degree in the heat of their very first mortal struggle…

Bottom line, she needed to clear her head.

Night had fallen, and there wasn't really anyone around this area of the estate, not at this pitch-dark hour, the longest and blackest night of the year where not even the moon on high saw fit to show itself. The pallid and dreary gaze of distant stars alone shone in the uninterrupted shroud on high; and even then, all Suzaku could think of while looking up upon them was how vast the darkness above her seemed, the pall, the cosmic sepulchre that stretched on into the expanse between these distant suns and far-flung worlds. She had brought the vibroblades Lloyd had made for her along with her, seeking to start acclimating herself to their weight, their balance, and the extra cutting power they were said to be able to produce, and they were both strapped to her side as she stepped out into the yard where the wedding had been held that morning.

Yet, there was some impulse, some crimson thread that beckoned her onward; and she gave it heed.

Past the outbuildings, she walked, through the cold and silent night, the stillness of winter stifling even the most adventurous of nocturnal creatures. Only the wind rushing through the trees reached her ears, the creaking of the trunks against the breeze, the rustle of pine needles and deadened branches, as she went off of the beaten path, and descended into the lightless forest that surrounded the estate for a great distance in all directions—all the better to hide traps, ambushers, and defensive fortifications. And because she had spent so much time with Justine, Suzaku felt as though she could recite the comparison that her best friend would draw to the ancient Battle of the Teutoburg Forest, almost verbatim.

She didn't know how long she walked, surrounded by this umbral half-world in the dead of winter, in lifeless silence and frozen stillness that she barely felt, unable to even think to reckon with how strange it was for her to be this unaffected. But however long it took her, eventually she came upon a vast clearing in the middle of the grandfatherly pines and firs; all her senses were at once alight, and when she scanned the area with her eyes, she was able to pick out a patch of white, standing at the far edge of that clearing.

In that moment, all became clear. She stepped forth into the circle without a moment of hesitation.

"So, you've come," her voice observed, ageless and croning, a croaking death-rattle clad in smooth, tempered steel, with an edge that had glutted itself upon untold centuries of bloodshed.

If onryō did exist, Suzaku couldn't imagine they'd seem much different from the woman she loved.

"I have," she replied into the silence that followed, her affirmation punctuated by a moaning updraft and the rustle of dead leaves, sent dancing in its wake.

"I thought you might," said Izanami-sensei, her long, inky black hair sent flowing in the gust, both her haori and her kimono in their immaculate white dancing along with it. She was a spectre of death—not an onryō as Suzaku had always thought,but a shinigamimade flesh. "Your friend goes to war. You mean to join her."

"I do," replied Suzaku, the excitement of it having thoroughly bled from her. What worth was it, if her closest friend could not delight in the bloodshed and battle alongside her? "I am by her side until the very end. Come what may."

"Mm. Then it seems you are a brat no longer," Izanami-sensei declared, her voice heady with all the finality it seemed to carry. "You've become a fine young woman…Suzaku."

The wind howled into the silence that followed, for in her astonishment, Suzaku had no words to give.

"But a fine woman cannot survive what is to come. It is not enough," the immortal woman, the idol of death Suzaku had admired since her girlhood years, continued. "Wars such as the one you go to, and all the ones that shall follow from it—they have devoured multitudes of fine young men and women, in hordes and numbers that are far beyond counting. They swallow them, you see; they swallow them generations at a time. And I would not see the last decade of my life so wasted."

"Then I must be more than just a fine woman," answered Suzaku; the realisation of it was as natural as her next breath.

"Indeed," Izanami-sensei breathed. "There exist monsters in this world, Suzaku; monsters born of blood, and of the joy of spilling it. Such monsters, I believe, as might prey upon the scavenging beast that is war, that stalks it as prey and devours it as it has so many generations of fine men and women before. In the course of my travels, I have seen and known many who have reached for that monstrosity, only to falter and fall, their bloody joy corrupted by anger and hatred and fear, which is most insidious of all. For there are things in this world that men give names to, that they might reach and grasp for their nature. So, too, have men named this monster.

"Its name," Izanami-sensei pronounced, each word weighed with a gravity like the parting upon the banks of the Sanzu, "is 'Shura.'"

The winds howled; perhaps in fear, perhaps in exhilaration. It was no matter.

"You mean for me to become this monster," Suzaku said, for when she spoke of it, it was not truly a question. "This…Shura."

"It is your final test," spoke the immortal, the onryō, the shinigami, taking one step forth, and then another, and then another, drawing her tachi in a shimmer of silver, glinting in the starlight, from her hip as she walked."Your final act as my student. You shall become Shura, or here is where you shall die."

Suzaku nodded. She understood what was before her, now, what had drawn her here.

Both vibroblades came alive in Suzaku's hands with a sharp snap-clack, their livid crimson glow disturbing the darkness of the night that surrounded them. She held one in each hand, and twirled them to limber up her wrists, getting herself ready for the duel ahead of her; unbidden, she found herself stepping forth in answer, a dance older than music trilling through every synapse, every blood vessel and scrap of muscle tissue in her entire body, and with each new step, she mirrored Izanami-sensei's (no, Izanami, she corrected herself; because live or die, Suzaku would be her student no more after this night) footwork, her prowling, loping step. Life, or death. Do, or die. There was no room for aught else in the narrowing space between them, not when they were across the clearing, and not when they began to circle each other, two skulking beasts of battle taking each other's measure. Suzaku felt the call in her blood, like a litany: Tatakae… Tatakae… Tatakae… It was a refrain of anticipation, of the joyous thrill that would follow. And if this had been years ago, Suzaku knew, she would have growled and she would have snapped, like a wild dog. She knew now that she had not been ready then.

But now? Now that she had met Justine, had been in the presence of a dragon and understood what it was she had been missing all this time? She felt as though she just might be.

Of course, she thought to herself, in this intimate space of the final moments before thought became extraneous and unnecessary—a distraction, a liability, even—while she locked her green eyes with Izanami and her luminous, cold, glacial blues, there's only one way to know for sure…

Instant by instant, time ticked past, glacial and tense, each and every breath and heartbeat drawn out like a knife, as they circled each other, stalking, skulking, prowling, waiting… Waiting… Waiting…

Another howling gust of wind sent leaves fluttering between them, Suzaku's sleeveless black haori and the hem of her hakama dancing through the wind, her chestnut hair flowing free like Izanami's shifting inky locks.

In the gust, the fabric snapped, and the tension snapped with it.

"Koi! Suzaku!" came the cry, and the battle began.

It's a new moon tonight, C.C. noted, staring out the window of her darkened chambers. The solstice, the new moon, and the dawn of a new war, with two girls' wedding day in the crosshairs. It's almost poetic, actually… A convocation of bad omens, you might say…

She sighed, leaning back against the windowsill as she gazed upon distant, pitiless stars, the solitary lights in the umbral blanket of the winter sky. She remembered reading about the peculiar manner in which light traversed the heavens—that the firmament she now beheld was an image of how it was aeons into the past, and that there were some stars that would be born, would live, and would perish, and their light would never reach the planet she called home, not even if she waited for untold eternities. The universe was not only expanding at an accelerating rate, C.C. knew, but also the rate of acceleration was also accelerating: when that light reached where Earth stood in the celestial dance, there it would stand no longer, drawn abroad by the ceaseless expansion of space at a speed that was faster by far than the light could traverse the featureless, empty darkness.

Then again, ever since she'd lost her mortality, she hadn't been able to shake the sense that perhaps that darkness on high was not quite so empty as was presumed…

And suddenly, there came a knocking—a knocking upon her chamber door.

C.C. felt her brow furrow, letting her golden eyes dart to the digital clock upon a nearby table. The numbers '23:58' glared out at her in baleful pale green.

Who in Hell is knocking on my door at this hour? she asked herself, rising from where she had been reclining up against the window-frame in a shifting rush of burgundy velvet silk and golden brocade—upon being given the choice, C.C. had elected to take inspiration from the gown that Juliette had chosen to wear to her sister's birthday ball, complete with black lace and pagoda sleeves, and she hadn't seen the point in changing out of such garments the moment the reception was called off, the festive mood having been quite thoroughly spoilt—and padded towards the door in silken slippers, growing increasingly perplexed as she drew closer to the threshold.

Then she swung the door open, and some measure of it suddenly made sense.

"Justine," C.C. recognised, her golden eyes going a little wider in shock. "Shouldn't you be in your bedchambers, celebrating your wedding night?"

And indeed, just before her was Justine vi Britannia, Marianne's firstborn; she had taken the time to change out of her wedding dress and back into her normal attire, C.C. couldn't help but notice, with black boots and black breeches, a black blouse with lace cuffs and close-fitting black gloves, and a black leather corset fastened about her chest. Her hair, however, was uncharacteristically down, a shimmering cascade of heavy raven silk that ended at a point just beneath her ass—it actually took C.C. aback for a moment, just how unlike Marianne she looked, with her face having bled off its doll-like quality with her baby fat to yield forth a visage even more harshly striking and starkly sculpted than what she'd had the day they properly met, almost five years past. Her hair was parted, and it obscured one of her eyes, but not even that quirk of happenstance successfully seemed to diminish the sheer and unmitigated intensity of her amethyst gaze. "Milly wasn't feeling very celebratory. And truth be told, neither am I. I was hoping I might impose upon you for a short time, if it's not too much trouble…"

"Umm…sure," she decided in a moment, wary by force of habit. Six hundred years full of aimless wandering had done little and less to endear her to the concept of surprises. Regardless, she pulled the door further ajar, welcoming the girl she'd once chosen as a prospective contractor into the ominous darkness of her rooms while she began to wonder at the purpose of Justine's visit. Justine, for her part, didn't remark upon the fact that C.C. had been sitting in complete darkness, and instead merely inclined her head in thanks with a step over the threshold and into the chamber as the door closed behind her. Nevertheless… "My apologies for this. I hadn't known to expect a visitor, let alone at such an hour…"

"Think nothing of it," Justine refused, the mezzo-soprano of her speaking tones ringing out into the blinding blackness, and sounding even more melodic than usual in the process. "I haven't woken you from a sound sleep, I take it?"

"Hmm? Oh, no, nothing of the sort," C.C. replied smoothly, moving through the consuming shadow that drenched her room in umbral tones in a journey to the nearest lamp. She found the switch at the base of the fixture, and with a firm press of a finger, she turned the light on, bathing her modest parlour (though, as this was the Ashford Estate, 'modest' was relative) in a warm yellow glow, however dim it may have been. "I was merely doing a bit of stargazing from my windowsill."

"Mm," Justine hummed, walking towards the guest chambers' shelves, decorated with a smattering of similarly impersonal texts that ranged from popular novels across several periods to historical accounts of random, disconnected eras and events. C.C. personally felt as though that liminal randomness was a far more honest portrait of her than she herself could possibly have painted, had she been given leave to select the books upon all those shelves…

"Not that I'm not glad for the company," the immortal witch began, broaching the subject, "but why have you come here, Justine?"

The newlywed princess sighed, her shoulders slumping. "If I say that it was to indulge myself with the pleasure of your company, C.C., I somehow doubt you'd take me at my word."

"You'd do it in a more open place if that were true," C.C. pointed out. "And certainly not tonight, of all nights. Your desire to avoid even the appearance of infidelity is too strong for it to be otherwise."

Justine chuckled mirthlessly. "You may have a point, there…"

C.C. crossed her arms across her bodice, cocking her head slightly as she beheld the girl she'd once thought to one day pass her Code on to. "You're not usually this evasive."

"The stakes are not usually this high…" Justine replied, her tone carrying a wistful edge to it. "And nor am I usually trying to grapple with being responsible for the lives of every last one of my friends… It's weighed on me ever since this was first announced. Somehow, I knew that they'd come, just the same as how they knew I wouldn't turn them away. I could have, you know. By rights, I likely should have. But…it would be a mistake to do that. No matter how I look at the situation, that truth cannot be avoided…"

"You're afraid of your friends dying, then?" she asked, keeping her tone businesslike: if so, it was a pain that C.C. was familiar with, and not even half a decade ago, she would have responded to the honest expression of that feeling with a callous remark, as if her cruelty could erase the suffering of her past.

Justine chuckled, still facing away from her; but instead of the bookshelves, she now faced the dark window, outside of which lingered the moonless night. "No, C.C., I do not fear their deaths any more than they do. I haven't the right… But they have invested their faith in me, and it has stirred an old wound. An insecurity, if you will—that I will not prove the equal of the belief they have placed in me.

"But I can do it, C.C.," she continued, seeming to grow more resolute with each word. "I know it. I can reach out to grasp victory, if only I put my mind to it. If circumstances were different, perhaps I might even have done exactly that—risking my life to give lie to that niggling nugget of doubt, that seed that was planted during my girlhood days—but I can't. My friends' lives are not mine to risk. I will not put them in jeopardy just to prove a point to myself. I refuse, C.C.; this is bigger than my pride, and a thousand times more important. My ego isn't worth even one of their corpses…"

"So, what do you mean to do, then?" she asked, taking a step back and perching upon the arm of an armchair nearby, upholstered in comfortable, lavishly-cushioned leather. "You can't refuse to fight this war, Justine. Your father will never allow it."

"I don't intend to refuse to fight," Justine spat, leaning forth and gripping at the windowsill. Under her gloves, C.C. imagined her knuckles had gone white. "This is a request."

"A request for what?" C.C. asked in return, her patience for this cryptic game beginning to wane.

"For what, you ask?" the princess replied rhetorically, standing straight-backed once again; and though she reclaimed in that moment a measure of the poise she had shed, it was different upon its return, in a way the verdette knew she couldn't easily describe. "And was it not you who selected me to carry your next contract, C.C.? The next to bear the brand of Geass?"

"It was," she allowed, her brow growing increasingly furrowed. Conflict roiled in her gut; she had learned so much in her time with Izanami and Taliesin, after all, had grown more in the past four years than she had in the previous four hundred. She didn't know how she ought to feel, having done so much only to come right back around to what her initial goal had been.

"Taliesin said he told you that I wasn't ready then," Justine said, turning with a sharp pivot upon her heel to face the immortal witch, her violet eyes difficult to look at with the strength of their intensity. "But now? Now, I am prepared."

"It will isolate you. You know this," C.C. warned, with the aftertaste of a plea upon her lips. "It is a different time, a different life, a different providence. Justine, those who bear the Power of the King are condemned ever after to a life of solitude…"

"Even after all this time, you still believe that, don't you?" said the raven-haired princess. "But for all that I do not dare to dismiss your warning out of hand, C.C., there is one thing I must say. It is a lesson that I had to learn myself, that was taught to me by the very friends whose lives I do not wish to risk. And it is a point upon which you, as I once was, are very sorely mistaken."

"And what is that?"

"The king lives apart. That much is certainly true," said Justine, as she took a single step closer to C.C., and then another, and another—closing the distance that lay between them, footfall by light, graceful footfall. "But that does not mean that the king is alone…"

C.C.'s eyes widened for a moment in shock, but then they slid closed, her chin lowering. She shook her head, chuckling mirthlessly. "You are just full of surprises, aren't you, Justine vi Britannia? Fine, then. I suppose you might even be right…

"Shall we put it to the test, then?" she challenged, opening her eyes and weathering the brunt of the piercing, gem-like focus of Justine's gaze. She lifted both her hands, and took Justine's cheeks in her grasp, establishing the necessary contact. "In fact, why don't we strike a bargain, you and I? The power you seek, I shall grant you; and in exchange, you shall fulfil my dearest wish."

"By my name as Justine vi Britannia," Justine intoned as their minds and souls brushed against one another, "this bargain I do hereby accept…!"

The brand upon her forehead burned; the writhing and screaming of the World of C filled her mind and her spirit, a maddening cauldron of pain and fear, of rage and lust—a cry for salvation that might never come. But there was something different about it, this time, as though it struggled against her grasp; and for a frightening moment, she thought she might lose her grip upon it…

And then Justine's hands grabbed hold of her wrist, the link ensnared in adamantine chains.

The Ragnarök Connection sprang to life. The Gates of Heaven were wrenched open.

And the myth began again.

Author's Note: Alright, then! With this chapter, the posting of this story is current with the AO3 version. As with that version, this one will be on a posting hiatus while I build up my backlog and deal with some personal stuff. Moving forward, as announced, both versions will be released on the same day (so, every other week), beginning with Chapter 26, immediately following National Novel Writing Month. I hope to see you all again then!