Janet let out a low, steadying breath. “But, Your Highness, weren't you planning to leave for the Northern front tomorrow?”
Eric’s hand tightened into a fist at his side. “I am. The rumors of barbarian movements have been confirmed. My presence is required at the border.”
But even as he spoke the words of a duty-bound Duke, his mind was elsewhere. He couldn't shake the image of Cornelia—the way she looked when she’d finally surrendered to her indifference. And then there were the dreams. The golden-haired boy who looked like a miniature version of the man he was pretending to be.
Janet watched him, her eyes sharp. “My lady seems... disturbed, sir. Perhaps it’s the recent drama with the Dowager, or the change in her personal guard.”
“I’m aware,” Eric said, his voice cold. “Which is why I’m giving you a direct order, Janet. While I am gone, you are to be her shield. You are to monitor every person who enters her wing and every gift that passes through the gate. Do you understand?”
Janet bowed low. “I understand, Your Highness. I will protect her with my life.”
“Good. Because if you fail—if so much as a hair on her head is harmed—you will answer to me. And you know that my mercy has its limits.”
Janet didn't flinch. She’d been a soldier long enough to know that Eric meant every word. “I will not fail, sir.”
As Janet left the office, Eric sank into his chair and covered his eyes with his palm.
*“Daddy!”*
The voice from his dream echoed in the silence of the room. Eric squeezed his eyes shut, trying to banish the image of the laughing boy. *“Stop it,”* he whispered to the empty air. *“Don't show up anymore. I can't be your father. I’m just a fake.”*
His face was hard, but his eyes were filled with a sadness that bordered on the terminal.
***
In the quiet of my own room, I fell into a light, feverish sleep.
*“Damian!”*
I was in a garden I didn't recognize, a place of soft light and endless flowers. And there he was. My son. He looked exactly as he had on the day he’d died—five years old, with eyes full of a wisdom that no child should possess.
*“I missed you, my child,”* I whispered, reaching out for him.
I felt a crushing weight of remorse. I was an "evil woman," a sinner who had traded her soul for a second chance at vengeance. I was certain that when I died, I would go to a place where Damian couldn't follow. I was terrified that this womb was the only time we would ever truly be together again.
*“Mom, don't cry,”* Damian said.
He reached up with his small, soft hand and caressed my cheek. I could see the movement, but I couldn't feel the warmth. There was no sensation of skin against skin. It was the cruelest part of the dream—the reminder that he was still just a ghost, a memory of a future that had been stolen.
*“We’ll see each other soon, Mama,”* he said, his voice like the tinkling of silver bells. *“I’ll always be with you.”*
I smiled through my tears. *“Yes. Very soon.”*
Damian’s expression shifted, becoming solemn, almost tragic. *“Mama... do you hate Daddy?”*
I went still. The question was a knife in my heart.
*“Don't hate him too much,”* Damian whispered.
And then he was gone. He evaporated like mist in the morning sun, leaving me grasping at empty air.
I woke up with a gasp, my cheeks wet with tears that refused to stop. I curled into a ball on the bed, my hand resting protectively over my stomach.
“I’m sorry, kid,” I whispered into the darkness. “I can’t do that. I can never forgive him for what he did to us.”
***
A few days passed in a tense, waiting silence. Eric was scheduled to leave for the border the following morning, and the entire estate was a hive of military activity.
“Is this the calm before the storm?” I mused, staring out at the courtyard where knights were sharpening their blades.
“My lady,” a maid announced, “the representative from the Flower Workshop is here. He’s brought the 'disguised cosmetics' you ordered.”
I smiled. “Send him in.”
Barakiel entered the room, looking significantly less eccentric in his modest traveling clothes. He offered a quick, nervous bow and set a beautifully wrapped box on the table.
“The reagents you requested, Your Highness,” he said, his voice low.
I opened the box. Beneath a layer of expensive-looking face creams and perfumes were small glass vials of highly reactive alchemical reagents. But that wasn't what I was looking for.
I reached for the bottom of the box and pulled out a leather-wrapped object.
“The swivel gun,” I whispered.
It was a masterpiece. Smaller and lighter than a standard flintlock, it was designed for a woman’s grip. It was sleek, deadly, and perfectly balanced.
“I completed it in two weeks,” Barakiel said, his eyes shining with a mix of pride and exhaustion. “I took the liberty of engraving a Silent Spell on the barrel, as you hinted.”
I ran my thumb over the barrel. In my past life, Silent Spells on firearms had been banned after a high-profile assassination of a duke. To own such a weapon was a capital crime.
“It’s perfect, Barakiel,” I said. “The grip is exactly as I requested.”
“I’m glad you’re satisfied. I’ve never worked so hard on a single commission in my life.”
“I have one more request,” I said, looking up at him.
Barakiel adjusted his monocle, his expression shifting from pride to apprehension. “Another one? I’ve already pushed my limits, Your Highness.”
“I need to know what can stop a bullet,” I said. “If a man were to wear a vest of hardened leather, or perhaps a plate of treated steel... what would the penetration be? I want you to develop a form of light armor that can stop this specific caliber.”
Barakiel blinked. “You want... bulletproof armor?”
“I want the countermeasure to the weapon I’ve just bought,” I said. “Because if the enemies of the Empire eventually get their hands on this technology, I want our own people to be the only ones who can survive it.”
Barakiel sighed, a look of renewed, manic excitement flickering in his eyes. “You’re a demanding patron, Your Highness. But... it’s a fascinating problem.”
***
Back at the Flower Workshop, Nancy was slumped over the counter, her chin in her hand.
“Where is he?” she grumbled. “He promised I could leave early today.”
The bell above the door chimed, and Barakiel stumbled in. He looked like a man who had just run a marathon—disheveled, wild-eyed, and absolutely vibrating with energy.
“Sir! You’re back! Did the Princess like the gun?”
“She loved it,” Barakiel said, collapsing into his chair. “She handed me the final payment without a single complaint.”
“Then why do you look like you’ve seen a ghost?”
“Because she’s asked for more, Nancy! She wants more development! She wants a shield that can stop a bullet! She’s asking for a level of defensive alchemy that shouldn't even exist!”
Nancy let out a dry, weary laugh. She saw the light in his eyes—the same light he had when he was on the verge of a breakthrough. “So I take it I’m not leaving early today?”
“We have work to do, Nancy! I’ll double your overtime pay, just... get me the steel samples!”
***
I sat in my room, the silenced revolver tucked away in a hidden compartment of my vanity.
The preparations for the rebellion were officially underway. I had seven years to build an arsenal, to secure the loyalty of the border knights, and to ensure that the Empire didn't fall to the internal rot that had destroyed it in my first life.
But there was one final piece of the foundation that needed to be laid.
“The next Emperor,” I whispered, staring at the family tree I’d sketched in the margins of a book. “He is the foundation of the nation. And I have to make sure he’s the right man for the job.”