A few hours later, Carrick received word that Russell had escaped. He leaned back in his chair, closed his eyes, and his thoughts drifted back to that night more than a month ago—the night that changed so many lives.

  Late night, 3 October 2510

  The office was quiet. The tablet's screen threw out a faint blue light, illuminating two dossiers:

  File One: Nya Griffin

  Sex: Female

  Born: 11 November 2485

  Birthplace: Garipan City, Epsilon Prime

  Family: Mother — schoolteacher. Father — Mikhail Griffin (deceased), former pilot of the 14th Void Falcons, killed in a border skirmish.

  Education: 2501, Garipan Military Academy. Note: close friend of Nova Carter.

  Current assignment: 13th Independent Night Operations Wing. Record: 420 confirmed kills.

  Service highlights: June 2509, Epsilon campaign — served as a pilot leading an interception squad; captured. June 2509, escaped and was later rescued by Jack.

  File Two: Meadow Hayashi

  Sex: Female

  Born: 16 July 2483

  Birthplace: Kioshi City, Epsilon Prime

  Family: Mother — Akemi Hayashi, nurse at Kioshi Central Hospital.

  Education: Kioshi Prefectural Medical University; studied clinical medicine with a focus on battlefield trauma and psychological intervention.

  Current assignment: Frontline medic, 16th Special Reconnaissance Battalion. Rank: roughly Second Lieutenant.

  Service highlights: June 2509, Epsilon campaign — captured while on medical evacuation duty; escaped during the retreat and was rescued by Jack.

  Hobbies: classical ballroom dancing; specialty: waltz.

  Carrick stood by the window, looking out at the city lights, and sighed. "Yuna, notify medical — summon Meadow Hayashi to my office," he said.

  "Yes, sir," Yuna replied. Carrick glanced at Nova's name on the screen. "I hope Nova won't blame me," he murmured.

  That night, Meadow's barracks received the notice with little warning: [Medical Corps Notice: 2nd Lt. Meadow Hayashi, report to Headquarters by 09：00 tomorrow. General Carrick requests your presence.] She stared at the screen, brow tightening. General Carrick? Nova's father? Why does he want to see me? Is it about Jack? Her heart sped up. If he wanted me to leave Jack… she clenched her fists. Even if he's a general, I won't comply. That night, she tossed and turned.

  Morning, 4 October 2510

  Meadow reported to the general's office. After Yuna verified her DNA, she knocked. "Enter," came a somewhat tired voice. Meadow stepped in and gave a crisp salute. "General Carrick, front medic, 16th Special Recon — 2nd Lt. Meadow Hayashi reporting." Then, her upper body inclined slightly forward before she straightened to a perfectly erect posture.

  "Sit," Carrick said, squinting at the young medic. She was not Nova's icy type — smaller, delicate-featured, with a defined jaw, slightly upturned almond eyes, a straight nose, and a neat bow to her lips. Her long black hair was pulled back into a neat bun.Her beauty felt quieter, more reserved. Her skin was almost translucent. No wonder that Jack was so taken.

  "May I call you Meadow?" Carrick asked.

  "Yes, sir," she replied. "You're Nova's father."

  Carrick nodded. "I've reviewed your file. Your upbringing was ordinary, but your mother is a woman of quiet dignity. She's spent a lifetime doing small, remarkable things. You're well-educated. And you like to dance—waltz, correct?"

  Meadow nodded faintly. "Yes, sir. I know a few dances." Carrick pushed his tablet toward her. The screen showed a photo of a young woman—tired, dressed finely, with hollow eyes.

  Name: Isolde von Reiss

  Sex: Female

  Born: 10October2490

  Identity: Daughter of the Draconian Imperium's emperor.

  Interests: Mechs and dancing (waltz).

  Notes: Estranged from her father; her mother died early after being spurned by the emperor.

  "I want you to get close to her," Carrick said.

  Meadow blinked in surprise. A few seconds' silence passed. She stood and bowed deeply. "Sir, I'm sorry. I'm just a medic. While I'm a soldier, I have no experience in intelligence work. There must be someone better suited."

  Carrick walked to the window and said gravely, "Meadow, do you know how long the Imperium and the Commonwealth have been at war?"

  "Almost a century," she answered. He turned back, "The Commonwealth's economy has long been under strain. What keeps this nation together is a single belief: never give up."

  "You say you have no experience," Carrick returned to his desk, "but that's exactly your advantage. Professional spies make people wary. You — a field medic, the daughter of a nurse, trained in psychological intervention — you make people feel safe." He pointed to Isolde's photo. "Isolde von Reiss is a lonely girl. Her status keeps most people at a distance. She isn't interested in politics like her siblings; she prefers mechs and dancing."

  "You don't need to 'spy' on her. You need to befriend her, care for her, become her confidante."

  Carrick paused. "There's more. Intelligence indicates the Imperium and other Hegemony members are jointly developing a twelfth-generation mech that will outperform anything we currently field." He trailed off. The implication was clear: if true, Lieutenant Jack Harlan on his next mission…

  Meadow's face went cold. Images flickered through her mind: her mother teaching her to bear pain and injustice with dignity; a nurse kneeling in a hospital corridor to comfort a crying child; her mother's words while teaching her the waltz: "Dance isn't for show — it's a place where the soul can find quiet." And Jack's chubby face and broad shoulders.

  "Sir," her voice trembled, "if I become her friend… someday I'll betray her trust, right?" She looked Carrick in the eye. "I might… cause her death. My duty is to save lives, not to harm a lonely girl." She bowed deeply, chest bent to ninety degrees.

  Carrick was silent for a long time. Only the faint hum of the air exchanger filled the room. Finally, he spoke, "Meadow, I can promise you this: if one day Isolde wants to leave her father, to leave the Imperium, the Commonwealth will protect her. That is my promise as a general in the war planning bureau." Meadow looked up, voice low but clear: "Sir… you're arranging this because of Jack and me, aren't you?"

  If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. Please report it.

  Carrick did not deny it. "Meadow, any decision I make here rarely has a single cause." He stepped in front of her. "Removing you from Jack's side is, in part, a personal consideration — as a father, I cannot tolerate my daughter getting caught in a… chaotic affair." His tone grew stern. "But I chose you because you are the best candidate. Not because you are a medic, not because you can dance—"

  "—but because of your feelings for Jack." Meadow's eyes snapped open. Carrick looked straight at her. "You want the war to end. You want him to come home safe — that is not a weakness, Meadow. It is your greatest weapon."

  "Because that feeling is genuine."

  "Only you can make Isolde lower her guard."

  "Because you're not acting. You truly want the war to end. You truly want people to live."

  He paused. "Publicly and privately, you are the right choice."

  A long silence followed. Meadow's almond eyes widened; then she closed them. A single tear slipped down. She opened her eyes and rendered a formal salute. "Yes, sir. I accept the mission." Her voice was soft, but it had steel.

  Days later, Meadow arrived at a secret training facility under the capital, run by Commonwealth intelligence. She expected to be led into some cold gunnery room or interrogation chamber.

  When the heavy alloy door slid open, she found a dance studio.

  A mirrored wall, a polished wood floor that reflected like glass, and in the corner an old gramophone quietly spinning a classical record. A figure in simple practice attire stood in the center. She looked barely into her thirties, but her eyes were like a deep well — calm beyond measure. Her code name: Grey Bird.

  "2nd Lt. Hayashi, welcome," Grey Bird said.

  I'm sorry to interrupt, but... what is this place?" Meadow asked, her upper body inclining forward in confusion.

  "Your training hall," Grey Bird said with a smile. "Did you think we'd teach you how to shoot?"

  "My—"

  "Your mission isn't to kill, Meadow. It's to make her trust you."

  Grey Bird walked to the gramophone and swapped the record. A waltz began to play.

  "And what's the fastest way to build trust?"

  "I… don't know."

  "Shared vulnerability."

  Grey Bird reached out her hand. "Dance is the most honest language. When two people dance, they can't hide. Rhythm reveals tension; movement reveals trust; eyes reveal feeling."

  "So the first lesson isn't 'how to lie,' but how to use something real to form a connection."

  "Now, dance a waltz with me."

  As Grey Bird led Meadow through the steps she taught. Her voice rang through the studio like music. "Do you know what's special about the waltz?" she asked.

  "Rotations?" Meadow guessed.

  "No. The distance."

  Grey Bird suddenly closed the space so they were almost touching. "At this distance, you can feel a partner's heartbeat, breath, and the slightest muscle tension. And she can feel yours."

  The music went on.

  "When you dance with Isolde, don't try to script conversations. Just feel her. If she's tense, slow the tempo; if she relaxes, follow her pace. You're not controlling her — you're accompanying her."

  Meadow understood.

  "So espionage isn't just 'deception'?"

  "Not entirely," Grey Bird said. "The best spycraft trades eighty percent sincerity for twenty percent intelligence. Your concern for Isolde must be real. You mustn't tell her why you care."

  The song ended, and Grey Bird paused. "Do you have any secret weapons?"

  "Secret weapons?"

  "Some little thing only you can give her. Not skills, not intel, but a private memory between just the two of you."

  Meadow thought, shy. "I… can sing a song."

  "What song?"

  Meadow flushed. "A little song I made up when I was in med school — about chasing sunlight."

  "Sing it."

  Meadow breathed and, with a healing, gentle voice, sang:

  Sweetheart, wake up, and embrace the sunrise.

  Take my hand, let's hit the road.

  The wheels hum the tune we love,

  heading toward rivers and blooming flowers.

  Riding down the highway to sunshine,

  you wear your shades, and I turn up the radio.

  Leave the shadows in the rhythm of the rearview,

  chasing time, hearts racing fast...

  Grey Bird closed her eyes and listened, then opened them with a complex look. "Who did you write this for?" she asked.

  "For… an imagined world of freedom, sunlight and flowers," Meadow answered, cheeks pink.

  "Perfect." Grey Bird smiled. "This song is your key."

  "Key?"

  "Isolde is trapped in a royal cage. She's never chased sunlight or held hands in freedom. When she hears this song…"

  Grey Bird looked at Meadow. "She'll think: 'This is the life I want.' And you will be the one who can lead her there."

  Suddenly, Grey Bird's expression hardened. "But Meadow, I must tell you something cruel."

  "When you sing this to her, when you teach her to dance, you give her hope."

  "And one day you may be the one to take that hope away."

  Meadow's smile vanished.

  "Because your mission is not to rescue her, but to use her. You will become her closest friend — and then you will betray that trust."

  Grey Bird moved to the window and stared at the false holographic blue sky beyond. "That is the cruelty of spying. It's not about killing, not just about lying — it is using real tenderness to extract cold facts."

  Meadow clenched her fists. "If… if I truly care for her?"

  "You will hurt," Grey Bird said calmly. "But the pain won't change the mission."

  Meadow put the record back on and the waltz swelled again.

  "Instructor Grey Bird."

  "Yes?"

  "I want to dance it again."

  "Why?"

  "Because… I want to confirm one thing."

  Meadow reached for Grey Bird's hand. "I want to confirm — even knowing it's a mission, can I still dance honestly?"

  Grey Bird looked at her, then took her hand. The music started anew.

  This time, Meadow's eyes brimmed with tears. "Why are you crying?" Grey Bird asked. "I'm crying for the innocence I'm about to lose," she whispered, voice quavering, "and for the trust Isolde is about to lose."

  Grey Bird said nothing. They danced.

  When the music stopped, Meadow released Grey Bird's hand and rendered a formal salute. "I'm ready, Instructor," she said.

  "I will dance the most beautiful waltz and sing the gentlest song."

  "I will become Isolde's closest friend." There was a heartbreaking resolve in her well-like eyes. "Then… I will do what I must."

  Over a month later, after rigorous training, Meadow boarded the Valkyrie and set course for the Imperium.

  -----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

  Easter Egg One

  Corridor of the Valkyrie — 26 November 2510

  The corridor was long; the lights were bright enough to sting.

  Nya had just finished her debrief. She was exhausted; her flight suit still carried that mix of sweat and ozone from the Nightshade cockpit. All she wanted was to get back to her cabin, shower, and sleep for three days.

  At the junction leading to the living quarters, she saw a familiar silhouette.

  “Meadow?” she called.

  Meadow was standing quietly at a porthole. Outside, the Imperial homeworld hung in the black velvet of space like a huge amethyst. On one side, two stars were rising — one a burning blue-white like a jewel aflame, the other a dull, dark red like coagulated blood. Their light mixed across the planet into a deep, almost melancholy violet.

  When Meadow heard the voice, she turned. The always-slightly-sad almond eyes that met Nya’s held a complicated look — surprise, joy, and a hint of sorrow. In the next instant, she stepped forward and hugged Nya tightly.

  “Nya… what are you doing here? Weren’t you in Garipan?”

  “Jack’s down on that planet on a mission,” Nya said. “I was worried he might be in danger, so I came.” She released Meadow and let out a whistle. “Lucky I made it in time — or he’d be missing a few parts.”

  “Jack… he was in danger?” Meadow’s voice tightened.

  “He’s fine,” Nya smiled. “Not a single part missing.”

  Meadow’s cheeks flushed. “Thank you, Nya.” She hugged Nya again. Nya patted her on the back. “He’s our big baby — I’m not letting anything happen to him.”

  Nya paused. “What are you doing here? Are you assigned to the med team with the deployment?”

  She glanced at Meadow’s clothing — not the standard uniform of the 16th Special Recon—no unit insignia on the shoulder.

  The smile slid off Nya’s face. As commander of a special wing, she knew what an unmarked uniform meant: a mission she had no right to ask about; highly classified; possibly one from which someone might not return.

  A long silence followed. Only the low hum of the ventilation system filled the corridor.

  “Do you want me to… deliver a message?” Nya finally asked, voice low.

  Meadow looked at her and gave a gentle, sad smile. “I wrote a song.” She drew a small round device from her pocket and placed it in Nya’s hand. “I recorded it myself. Please… give it to him.”

  Nya closed her fingers around the little sphere. “I will,” she said, voice rough. Meadow nodded. “I have to go.”

  “Okay.” Meadow turned and walked down the corridor. Nya watched her go — small, slight, yet standing perfectly straight. At the corner, Meadow paused. She didn’t turn back. She simply raised a hand and gave a small wave, then disappeared.

  Nya stood in the empty corridor and looked down at the device in her palm. She clenched her fist. “…damn,” she muttered.

  Outside, the Imperium’s twin suns bathed the sky in violet. Beautiful. Sad.

  Easter Egg Two

  The shuttle descended along the C-7 corridor — a regularly cleared “safety lane” through Imperial airspace. At the edge of the lane, Meadow spotted debris floating in higher orbit: fragments from recent battles — pieces of Federation warships from skirmishes months ago — and others so old their metal was pitted with centuries of space weathering.

  The pilot followed her gaze. “That area’s off-limits,” he said. “War junk is left to drift, but that ship over there…”

  He pointed. At the center of the debris field floated a huge cylindrical module. Extending from it was a translucent net roughly fifteen kilometers across — a mag-sail.

  Under the mixed light of the binary stars—the blue-white radiance of the main star interwoven with the dim red afterglow of its companion—the magnetic sail pulsed with a faint, shimmering blue light, its edges faintly tinged with a halo of soft purple.

  “A mag-sail?” Meadow said, incredulous.

  The pilot nodded. “Possibly from one of the first ships that left Earth centuries ago. It’s been out here for centuries — and somehow it still works.”

  “Why?” she asked.

  "Because of the binary system," he said, "a single star can power a magnetic sail for a period of time. But here we have the 'Emperor's Flame' and the 'Blood-Tear Eye'—one blazing main star, one dying companion... their combined radiation can sustain the magnetic sail's core for millennia."

  Meadow’s thoughts drifted back centuries — to colonists who’d voyaged for decades to reach this alien binary system. Those pioneers were long gone, reduced to bones, but the sail stayed: drifting, using the twin stars’ breath to eke out a last thread of life. Like a lonely sentinel, it had watched the rise of the Imperium.

  She rested her hand on the cold porthole. “Is it still… waiting for something?” she whispered.

  The pilot shrugged. “Who knows. Maybe it’s waiting for us to stop fighting. Maybe it’s just not ready to die yet.” He hesitated; his voice softened. “Sometimes I like to think there might still be something alive on that ship.”

  “What do you mean?” Meadow asked.

  He shook his head. “Nothing. Just that sometimes the sail’s output fluctuates as if it’s signaling — but the Imperials call it solar wind interference.” He laughed to cover the shiver in his words. “Probably just me being sentimental. What could a centuries-old derelict have left alive?”

  The shuttle continued its descent. The flickering mag-sail slipped out of sight.

  But Medo knew—it was still there, beneath those two suns: one as fiery as the Empire's ambition, one as dim as faded glory. Eternally watching. Or, waiting.