Five days had passed since the end of the war with Louria, but the word "peace" remained merely a beautiful sound on the lips of diplomats. The truce hung by the thinnest of threads, and in any duchy, the first gust of wind could snap it. On the surface, it was all over: the Russian army, in alliance with Qua-Toyne and its allies, had crushed Louria's main forces, the king had signed the surrender, and Russian military columns had left the front and returned to their temporary bases. But reality proved more complicated. The authority of Haark Lourian XXXIV, though he had survived, was held together by fear and the remnants of old loyalty. Those who just yesterday had kissed the monarch's hand were now waiting for the moment to tear each other's throats out. The counts and barons, accustomed to limitless power over their lands and people, were unwilling to accept the new order. They saw the king's weakness as a chance to reclaim their lost influence and seize even more for themselves.

  The people, exhausted by the war, longed for relief. But in Louria, there was none, nor could there be. In the cities, there was a shortage of bread; in the villages, ravaged fields; in the ports, empty warehouses. Those who had survived on the front lines returned home as cripples, with empty hands and a burning hatred in their hearts. And in this environment, any word of "freedom" or "justice" fell on soil fertilized by pain and disappointment. Ambitious nobles skillfully exploited this, promising the peasants mountains of gold if they would rise up with pitchforks and torches against the king and against the "outsiders from the east."

  The Russian leadership could not allow Louria to slide back into chaos. Moscow understood perfectly well: if the country were to collapse completely, its debris would bury the entire region. Refugees would flood into Qua-Toyne, the economy of Rodenius would collapse, and trade routes would be cut off. Russia, having just begun to build diplomatic and economic bridges in this new world, could not permit such an outcome. Therefore, a decision was made: to support the legitimate authority of Louria, to stabilize the situation, and to show the local feudal lords that the era of unpunished baronial wars was over.

  The army's tank wedges that had broken through the defenses were withdrawn to their bases. Now, other forces came to the forefront. Mobile groups of the Rosgvardiya (National Guard) in "Tigr-M" and "Typhoon-K" armored vehicles. Their operators had experience in counter-terrorism operations in the Caucasus, riot control, and conducting targeted raids. Their task was not full-scale war, but a surgical police operation: to identify and eliminate the leaders of rebel groups, to suppress looting, and to ensure the security of humanitarian convoys. The task, which sounded simple in the staff rooms, was, in reality, like dancing on a minefield. To eliminate the instigators without embittering the entire population, to maintain a balance between force and politics, to prevent the country from plunging into a new meat grinder—this was an art, not a craft.

  It was just such a detachment that was moving through the Lourian province on this day. A column of three "Tigrs" and one heavy "Typhoon" slowly pushed through the broken roads. The wheels sank into the mud, sending splashes onto the roadsides, but the armor of the Russian vehicles, matte gray and covered with the fresh marks of recent battles, moved forward inexorably. Behind the thick armored glass, the faces of the soldiers flashed by, focused and a little tired. For them, this was no longer a campaign in a foreign land, but the daily routine of a new service—without fanfare, but with constant danger around every corner.

  The villages along the road looked as if they were stuck in the last millennium. Low, wattle-and-daub huts with cracked walls, thatched roofs, and crooked wooden fences. Wretched settlements where people lived hand-to-mouth, and livestock was considered a greater treasure than gold. The peasants, bent over their fields, barely raised their heads as the heavy machines rumbled past. There was neither curiosity nor hatred in their eyes—only a weary indifference. For them, power was always somewhere above: today, the king; tomorrow, a rebel count; the day after, outsiders from the East. As long as they left their meager fields and families alone.

  And yet, behind this seeming apathy, fear was hidden. The men gripped their sickles and hoes tighter, the women hastily led their children into their homes, and the old men squinted at the column as if seeing in it not protection, but a new calamity. The people of this world knew all too well the price of "liberators" who come promising order and leave, leaving only ash behind.

  Inside the "Typhoon," a heavy silence reigned. The metal hull hummed as the vehicle took the bumps, the armor plates vibrating from the impact of stones. The soldiers sat in the cramped space on hard seats, tightly gripping their assault rifles. Each was lost in his own thoughts, but the general atmosphere was like a taut string: one wrong move, and it would snap.

  "Comrade Commander, request permission to speak," one of the soldiers broke the silence, adjusting the strap of his rifle.

  The commander—a sturdy man in his forties with a short haircut and a face burned by the winds of the Caucasus—looked up from his tablet displaying maps. His gaze was tired but firm. "Go ahead."

  "Why can't they just settle down?" the soldier nodded towards the murky window, past which the wretched villages flashed. "These little kings… It's not like they couldn't have worked things out. But they're like rabid dogs—all they want is blood."

  The commander grunted and took a pack of cigarettes from his breast pocket. A lighter clicked, and the cramped cabin filled with the smell of tobacco. He took a drag, exhaling smoke, and only then did he answer. "Rebellion is a contagious thing, soldier. There will always be someone who thinks they don't have enough power or land. While one man plows the earth, another dreams of ruling people. And when there are too many of these dreamers, blood flows like a river."

  The soldier frowned. "But it's still their country. Maybe they should sort it out themselves?"

  The commander gave him a long, heavy look. "By themselves? They can't. There are too many people here who are willing to burn down the barn just to warm themselves by someone else's fire. You get it?" He stubbed out the cigarette butt on the steel floor beneath his feet. "That's why we're here. To keep that fire from spreading."

  The soldier nodded, though doubt still lingered in his eyes. "So, this isn't all for nothing?"

  The commander let out a short, humorless laugh, leaned back against the hard seat, and crossed his arms over his chest. "Not for nothing. If anyone can stop this chaos, it's us. Otherwise, there will only be slaughter here. And do we need that?"

  "No, Comrade Commander!" the soldier barked, more firmly now, as if he had accepted a simple but brutal truth.

  The vehicle bounced on a bump, and the column, leaving clouds of dust behind, continued on its way towards a duchy where the coming fire was only just beginning to smolder.

  The column of Russian armored vehicles moved slowly, trying to maintain formation. The "Typhoon" brought up the rear, the "Tigrs" stretched out along the road, each maintaining a distance so as not to become an easy target for a possible ambush. There were no tracks here—only wheels, but even they struggled with the muddy earth and the potholes left from recent battles. Once, this had been an ordinary road between villages and towns, but now it had become a gray wound on the body of the earth.

  Lush fields gave way to scorched ones. Where people continued to plow, one could see the bent figures of peasants, stubbornly holding their hoes and plows, as if trying to prove to themselves and the world that life went on. But one had only to glance slightly to the side to see scenes of destruction.

  "Damn…" someone in the "Typhoon" muttered, looking through the vision slit. His voice was weary and bitter. "They're destroying their own breadbasket."

  The commander only nodded silently. He had seen this dozens of times. Ruined settlements, mutilated bodies, peasants used as bargaining chips in the games of ambitious counts. For him, this was not a revelation—it was a pattern.

  A tense silence hung over the column. The hum of the engines, the clatter of wheels on stones and steel, the occasional crackle on the radio—all of it merged into a single background noise. The soldiers inside the armored vehicles were silent. Everyone understood: the quiet here was deceptive; death could be lurking behind any bush.

  And it did not keep them waiting long.

  "Oh, shit!" the driver of the lead vehicle cursed, yanking the steering wheel sharply and slamming on the brakes. The armored car bounced on a bump, the crew instinctively ducking their heads into their armored backrests. At the same instant, an arrow struck the windshield. It bounced off the armor with a dull clang, leaving a barely noticeable scratch.

  "Ambush!" the driver yelled, grabbing the radio. His voice echoed through all the vehicles.

  The column froze. The wheels churned up clouds of dust, and now the vehicles themselves were enveloped in a gray-brown cocoon.

  "Where's the fire coming from?" the commander asked, his voice hoarse but calm, as he grabbed a tablet with a thermal imaging map.

  "North-west! Three-one-zero degrees!" the thermal imager operator reported instantly.

  And almost immediately, people poured out from behind the tree line. If these creatures could still be called people. Filthy, half-naked, their faces contorted with a fanatical rage. Some held rusty swords and spears, some had clubs, and some even had sticks wrapped with iron bands. Their armor was a ridiculous mix of old plate and crude, hastily assembled plates. They looked like a horde of madmen, not an army.

  "All crews to the turrets! No one leaves the vehicles!" the commander commanded sharply. His voice, amplified by the radio, hit their ears and instantly awakened a hidden anxiety in the crews.

  BZZZ-BRRRT-BRRRT!

  The turret guns came to life. From the lead Tigr, the KPVT opened up — the 14.5mm rounds were designed for light armor, and against unprotected targets at this range the effect was immediate and comprehensive. The Typhoon's PKT added its own line of fire to the left of the column. Belts fed through smoothly. The crews worked without commentary. Each hit left behind black splashes of blood and gouges torn in the earth. But the enemies' fanaticism proved stronger than death itself. They kept coming, stumbling over the bodies of their comrades, screaming something unintelligible, and continuing to charge forward, as if driving themselves into a meat grinder.

  "Don't let them get close!" the commander shouted, monitoring the thermal imager screen. "Three-zero-one! Look, at three-four-zero, two are breaking through!"

  The machine guns roared again. But then one of the barrels went silent—the belt was empty. And then the AGS grenade launchers joined the fight.

  Thump… thump… thump… the grenade launchers began to spit out their deadly charges. Each explosion turned a group of enemies into a bloody mess. Shrapnel shrieked through the air, tearing armor, breaking bones. The earth trembled, and with each explosion, the battlefield turned into a torn hellscape.

  A few fanatics broke through closer. Their faces were contorted with madness, their eyes burning red with hatred. One, with a scream, threw a spear—it struck the steel of the "Typhoon" powerlessly, not even leaving a dent. Another tried to set fire to the wheel of a "Tigr" with a torch—and was torn apart by a short burst.

  "There are just too damn many of them!" the commander snapped into the radio, wiping sweat from his forehead.

  Gradually, the onslaught began to weaken. Those in the front lay as dead or mutilated bodies on the ground. The rest began to fall back, but it no longer mattered. The bursts from the "Kords" finished off the last of them.

  When the field fell silent, an eerie quiet descended. Only the wind carried the smell of blood and scorch. On the thermal imager screen, warm spots were still visible—bodies twitching in their final convulsions.

  "Cease fire," the commander said firmly. "Check ammunition."

  "Enough for another war, Comrade Commander," one of the soldiers answered with a hint of irony, and for the first time that morning, a shadow of relief flickered in his voice.

  The commander frowned thoughtfully, looking out at the silent field, littered with bodies. The wind carried the smell of blood and ash, and a silence that sent a chill down the spine hung all around. He silently walked over to his "Typhoon," took off his helmet, and switched his radio to a long-range frequency, contacting headquarters. "Base, this is 'Barrier-1.' Ambush neutralized, no losses. Enemy eliminated," he reported curtly, trying not to clutter the airwaves with unnecessary words.

  The reply did not come immediately. For a few seconds, there was only static and hiss in the speaker, as if the atmosphere itself was interfering with the connection. Finally, through the crackle, the calm voice of the duty officer broke through: "Acknowledged. According to intelligence reports, these are not deserters or mercenaries. Local gangs. Bandits who have been living off raids on the outskirts. It seems they've been drawn into the chaos. Be careful, their numbers may be greater than anticipated."

  The commander tightened his lips. So not an organized mob, but spontaneous gangs. That was even worse: such groups had no discipline, but they had desperation and fanaticism. They could charge head-on, without thinking about losses, and that made them dangerous.

  "Acknowledged," he replied curtly. "What are our orders?"

  "A reconnaissance flight of Mi-24s is en route to your location. They will conduct an additional sweep of the grid square. Await."

  The commander switched off the connection and returned to his vehicle. He sat silently on the armor, lit a cigarette, and exhaled smoke into the gray morning. The soldiers exchanged glances: if the commander was silent, it meant they just had to wait.

  After ten tense minutes of waiting, a low rumble of rotors sounded in the sky. At first, it was barely audible, but it quickly grew, turning into a roar that shook the ground. Dark silhouettes appeared on the horizon: four Mi-24s, flying in a wedge formation, slowly approached, their rotors leaving vibrating circles in the air. "Here come our guys," someone said with relief.

  The pilots of the "Crocodiles" already knew where to look. Their thermal imagers and sights picked out fresh spots of activity. Soon, the flight lead's voice came over the airwaves: "Barrier-1, this is 'Groza.' We have identified an enemy camp three kilometers to the north. Confirming presence of armed groups. Numbers, approximately fifty."

  The commander clenched his teeth. Another gang. And if they were given time, they would gather in the hundreds. "Groza, you are cleared to engage," he replied.

  "Roger that. Opening fire."

  The Mi-24s dropped sharply. The shadows of their hulls swept over the ground, and a second later, the first salvo of rockets struck the camp. The explosions tore up the earth, tents and flimsy wooden fortifications scattered like cardboard. A moment later, the helicopters opened fire with their 30mm cannons.

  The camp turned into chaos. The bandits scattered, some trying to grab weapons, but a second later they were torn apart by shrapnel or a machine gun burst. Panic swept through them faster than the rockets themselves: men stumbled over their own feet, fell over each other, trampled their own, searching for cover that did not exist. "Nice work," a soldier from the "Typhoon" said quietly, watching through binoculars as the explosions blazed on the horizon.

  This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  But the commander was not smiling. He saw not just the destruction of the enemy—he saw chaos devouring itself. And he knew that tomorrow, in the place of these bandits, there would be new ones.

  The helicopters made another pass. The last pockets of resistance disappeared in flames. As the Mi-24s gained altitude and headed back to base, a dry message came over the airwaves: "Barrier-1, target eliminated. Mission complete. Returning to base."

  "Acknowledged, Groza. Thank you."

  The commander put away the radio. The air still carried the smell of burning flesh, brought by the wind from the north. The soldiers were silent—each lost in his own thoughts.

  By evening, they continued on their way. The sun, having barely shown itself through the clouds during the day, had hidden again, giving way to night. It came quietly, but with the darkness, a new tension descended upon the land.

  Qua-Toyne Principality. Ministry of Foreign Affairs.

  The operational summary arrived through the joint coordination channel at the second hour past noon. Rinsui read it and then read it again.

  Russian Rosgvardiya units were conducting what the report called "targeted stabilization operations" in former Lourian territory. Specifically: three rebel nobleman groups had been identified and neutralized in the past forty-eight hours. One had been a bandit coalition operating from a fortified manor. One had been a political conspiracy involving communication with foreign powers — the summary did not specify which powers, but the redaction itself was informative.

  Rinsui wrote a note to Kanata.

  The note said: *Russian operations in former Louria are expanding in scope. Initial mandate was perimeter security and humanitarian corridor protection. Current activity includes targeted operations against political actors, intelligence collection from noble archives, and engagement with Parpaldian-connected networks.*

  He paused. Then he added: *This is not a complaint. Their operations are within the framework of the transitional agreement. I am noting the direction of expansion.*

  He sent the note and went back to his work.

  The framework of the transitional agreement had been written four weeks ago, in conditions of some urgency, by people who had not fully anticipated what "stabilization" would require in practice. Rinsui had been one of those people. He was now developing a clearer picture of what he had signed.

  The assault group, composed of volunteers from the Internal Troops, arrived at its destination. Before them, in the darkness, stretched meadows shrouded in fog. At a distance of two kilometers, a massive structure rose up—the estate of Duke Baritan. Its four-story walls towered over the land, and a six-foot stone wall made it look more like a fortress than a home.

  Eighteen operators slipped out of the "Tigrs," one after another, as if from the maw of a metal beast. Each step was practiced, each movement confident. Their faces expressed no emotion, but in each one could feel a focus and a readiness for any eventuality. These were men accustomed to risk, who had been through the hot spots of Russia and knew the value of seconds in a fight.

  No one spoke unnecessarily. Only short commands: "Check gear!" "Weapons check!" "Ammo count?"

  The bolts of assault rifles clicked, signal lights flickered, someone checked the fastening of their pouches. A resolve hung in the air, thick and heavy as the smoke after an artillery barrage. Everyone knew: death could be ahead. But delay would be just as fatal.

  An AGS-17 was set up. The first shot broke the silence of the night—a dry thump, and the grenade arced through the air. Soon, a series of shots turned the space before the estate into a blazing chaos: shrapnel flew in all directions, explosions threw up clouds of earth and stone, the roar rolled across the meadows. "Covering fire is up!" the commander barked.

  And then one of the operators, moving forward, raised an RPO-A "Shmel." A high-explosive round struck the western wall. The explosion shook the ground, and a gaping hole appeared in the wall. "Group, move in!"

  Eighteen operators, like shadows, darted through the breach. Once in the inner courtyard, they instantly dispersed.

  "Maksimov to the senior in the first nine-man team," their group's commander radioed to his subordinate, "your team, search the upper floors. You're looking for the Duke's daughter." Then he addressed the commander of the second group, "Your team—first floor and basement. Find the Duke himself. Move out."

  "Yes, sir!"

  "Understood!"

  The first nine-man team burst into the main hall of the estate. A flashbang, then a sweep. The first floor met them with emptiness. Dust, blown-out windows, overturned furniture. "Clear," came the short report.

  The operators moved on.

  The door to a room had been kicked in. The entire floor was covered in blood, the walls spattered. Inside, there was chaos, but different from the lower floors. Here, one could feel not only flight, but a struggle. Broken chairs, marks from blows on the walls, boot prints. "Something serious happened here," one of the operators said, looking around.

  The air was heavy. As if the room itself remembered the screams and the blows, as if the untold story of the final minutes still hung in it.

  Suddenly, static hissed in the earpiece, and a hoarse voice cut through the air: "Jester, this is King, do you copy?"

  "King, Jester copies," the commander of the first group replied. His voice was firm, but a tension could be felt in it, as if a steel string had been pulled taut. "What's your status?"

  "It's… a total… nightmare down here…" the words were lost in static, the connection breaking up like a frayed nerve.

  The first group's commander clenched his fist. "Report properly."

  Again, static, and then fragmented speech: "Wrap it up… basement… found the objective… do you copy? Over!"

  For a second, there was dead silence on the comms. Then "Jester" answered curtly: "Understood. Over and out."

  "To the basement," he ordered briefly.

  One by one, the operators began to descend the creaking steps. A narrow staircase led down, the walls there were damper, with black spots of mold. But what drew more attention were the traces of human life and pain: handprints, reaching for the exit, old dried spots of blood, scratches left by fingernails. Everything here spoke of the suffering and horror that people had endured within these walls.

  Flashlights snatched arches, vaults, and some old doors from the gloom. The air grew heavier with every meter down. It smelled of dampness, old stone, and something else, something disgusting that was unmistakable: rotting meat.

  "Attention," "Jester" whispered. "Maximum readiness."

  The scout was the first to enter the basement. His flashlight beam swept across the floor, and the light fell on a figure hanging from the ceiling. A human body. A man in an expensive but torn doublet, now dirty and soaked in blood. "Shit…" one of the operators breathed.

  It was Duke Baritan. A man whose name, not long ago, was spoken with respect, now hung in a noose like a discarded puppet. His head lolled to the side, dark hair covering his face, and beneath his feet were dried, brown stains. It smelled of decomposition. His fingernails were torn and broken: he had desperately tried to break free, clawing at the rope, but had failed.

  "Bastards…" one of the Spetsnaz whispered, his face contorted with disgust.

  But this was only the beginning.

  On a bed nearby lay a woman. Her dress was torn, her chest slashed with a knife, her neck bruised with deep marks from hands, as if she had been strangled for a long time. It was the Duchess. Now just a silent victim.

  One of the operators turned away, clenching his teeth. Even for veterans accustomed to death, this sight was hard to bear. War teaches you to see corpses, but not to get used to such brutality.

  "What kind of animals…" one said quietly. His voice was a choked whisper, full of anger. "Not even that…" another replied, pale as a sheet.

  A cold rage hung in the air, as if the group itself felt the outrage for those who had been tortured and killed.

  And then the commander's voice broke the oppressive pause: "And where is their daughter?" "Jester" asked, his voice hoarse. In his tone was not only professional coldness, but also a kind of personal anxiety. "They were supposed to have a daughter! To the third floor. Tungus, Korvet—with me!"

  The operators, without another word, rushed upstairs. Their steps echoed loudly in the empty corridors, as if the ghosts of the homeowners themselves were chasing them. Flashlights snatched fragments of tapestries, shards of glass, and traces of a struggle from the darkness. The air grew heavier, as if the house itself did not want to reveal its secrets.

  They froze at one of the doorways. The door was jammed, but a shoulder charge and a boot to the hinges solved the problem. The wood, with a dull crack, collapsed, opening the way into the room.

  The scene before them was like a nightmare. On the floor, among the wreckage of furniture, lay a girl of twelve or thirteen. Her body was covered in dirt, her face in blood and dust, her breathing shallow and barely perceptible. She looked neither alive nor dead—frozen somewhere on the brink.

  "Tungus, check her. Full examination. And be gentle, she's in shock," "Jester" commanded.

  The medic nodded, kneeling beside her. His movements were quick but gentle. He knew: any suddenness here could frighten the child more than the sight of blood itself. "Hey there… can you hear me?" he said quietly, carefully taking her hand.

  The child's fingers were cold, but a weak effort still lived in them. In her palm, the medic noticed a shard of glass, deeply embedded in the skin. The girl was clenching it as if it were her last shield against a cruel world. "Stubborn little thing…" Tungus muttered, carefully removing the shard and treating the wound. There was almost no blood—shock and loss of consciousness had done their work.

  "How is she?" "Jester" asked quietly.

  "She'll live," the medic nodded, gently lifting the girl into his arms. She was light, almost weightless. Her head lolled onto his shoulder, and on her face, spattered with dirt and blood, traces of tears still glistened. This was not just fright—it was despair and a broken faith in the goodness of the world.

  "Get her out. Immediately," "Jester" commanded.

  On command, he got on the radio: "King, this is Jester. Objective located. Baritan and his wife are dead. They were silenced before we arrived."

  A heavy pause hung in the air, then the reply: "Understood. Any other family members survive?"

  "The daughter…" "Jester" said hollowly. The bitterness in his voice could not be hidden even by the habit of cold reports. "Alright. Everyone, exfil," came the order. "When she comes to, debrief her."

  When Limia awoke, the first thing she saw was a gray, indifferent sky, visible through a ragged hole in the ceiling. The sharp smell of dust, scorch, and something else, unfamiliar and unsettling, hit her nose. She was lying on something soft. It was a sleeping bag, spread out right on the floor of a ruined room. All around was quiet. An eerie, unnatural quiet.

  "It was a dream… just a terrible dream," she thought.

  But when she turned her head, her gaze fell on a figure standing by the window. A man in strange, mottled green armor, without a helmet. He just stood there, looking out at the ruins below.

  "You're awake?" he asked, without turning around. His voice was calm, but a weariness could be heard in it.

  "Who are you?" her own voice was hoarse and alien. "Where… where are my papa and mama?"

  The man slowly turned. It was the same soldier who had carried her out of the room. "Tungus." His face was young, but his eyes were old and sad. In them was pity, and that pity was more terrible than any sentence. He was silent.

  And in that silence, Limia understood everything. Her world, which she had tried to hold together in the fragments of a nightmarish dream, had finally collapsed.

  "MAMA! PAPA!" A scream, full of horror and pain, tore from her chest. She thrashed in the sleeping bag, her body wracked with sobs. It was the cry of a child who had lost everything in an instant.

  The soldier did not move. He did not try to comfort her. He just stood nearby, letting her grieve, his presence a silent but firm promise that she was no longer alone.

  A few hours later, when the sobs had subsided into quiet, convulsive gasps, Captain Zakharov approached her. He knelt on one knee to be at her level. "Limia," his voice was quiet, but it held a sense of authority. "We need to know what happened here. Tell us everything you remember. Every detail is important."

  The girl raised her dead, tear-swollen eyes to him. Her shoulders slumped. In a weak, barely audible voice, she began her story. About how her father had changed after the news of the defeat. About his drinking, his shouting at night. About the arrival of the standard-bearer Bernard and his men. About how her mother had hidden her. About the screams and the sounds of a struggle. About the long, terrible silence, broken only by the drunken voices of her own father's soldiers, feasting below.

  The captain listened without interrupting, his face inscrutable. When she had finished, he was silent for a few moments. "Understood."

  The squad commander asked Limia more questions about the events, clarifying the information he had received, asking various questions. After which he reported to headquarters. Having received his orders, they searched the estate, found many treasures hidden in the wine cellar, various treaties, and finally buried Limia's parents, with whom their daughter said her goodbyes, and set off for the base in Birz. The girl wished to flee Rodenius far away, and never again remember that terrible nightmare. But everything was even more complicated than it seemed at first glance. Limia was the daughter of an aristocratic family, living in a medieval world where power, honor, and debts defined her every step. She was surrounded by castles, high walls, and crusades. Her entire life was tied to this strict, violent time, where personal freedom was a luxury, and customs and traditions dictated her fate.

  Captain Zakharov spent forty minutes in the wine cellar after the girl had been moved upstairs.

  The documents were more extensive than he had expected. Duke Baritan had been, among other things, a careful recordkeeper. There were three categories of material: financial records going back twelve years, correspondence with seven other noble houses including two who had officially declared loyalty to the Russian transitional administration, and a sealed set of documents in a separate box that bore the seal of an organization whose name the captain did not recognize.

  He photographed everything systematically, packaged the originals in evidence bags, and transmitted the photographs to the SVR liaison attached to his operational group.

  The liaison's reply came back in twenty minutes: *Seal on the third box matches known Parpaldia intelligence correspondence format. Full analysis requested. Preserve originals.*

  Zakharov looked at the sealed box for a moment. Duke Baritan had been a Parpaldian intelligence contact. Which meant Parpaldia had had a network in Louria that included minor nobility below the level they had previously mapped. Which meant their network assessment needed to be revised.

  He sealed the evidence bag, added the classification marker, and wrote the chain of custody notation.

  Outside, he could hear Tungus talking quietly to the girl. The girl was not responding yet, but she would. He had seen this before — the transition from shock to language, the moment when people started needing to understand what had happened rather than simply endure it.

  He would need her account when she was ready. Not just for the report. For the map of what Baritan had known, and who he had known it with.

  Suddenly, the silence was shattered by a growing, deafening roar. The air trembled, and from the sky, like a giant predatory dragonfly, a huge green "steel dragon" began to descend. It did not flap its wings, but above its back, a giant whirlwind of metal blades spun at an incredible speed, kicking up clouds of dust and leaves from the ground.

  Limia, previously apathetic and detached, pressed herself in terror against the leg of the soldier with the call sign "Tungus." Her eyes widened with primal fear. Such monsters were not even in the scariest fairy tales her nanny had told her.

  The Mi-8 helicopter hovered a few yards above the ground, and a rope ladder flew out of its open side door. "It's time," Captain Zakharov said.

  "Tungus" carefully but firmly took Limia in his arms. "Don't be afraid," his voice, distorted by the helmet's vocoder, sounded muffled. "It won't harm you. It will take us away from here."

  For the first time in a long while, Limia looked at him with understanding. She looked at her parents' graves, at the ruined estate, at the soldiers in black armor. And then—at this roaring steel monster in the sky. And in her child's soul, the fear of the monster mixed with a desperate, irrational hope. "I want to leave this place," she whispered. "Far away. To a place where I will never again remember this nightmare."

  She did not know that her desire to escape and the Russian command's decision to take her—the last legitimate remnant of a fallen regime—had coincided for a moment. But a path far more complex than she could ever imagine lay ahead of her. A path from a world of castles and swords to a world of steel and science, where she would have to learn to live all over again.

  Limia's evacuation to Russia was not an act of mercy, but a cold, strategic necessity. She was not just a refugee. She was the last representative of the noble house of Baritan, a valuable political asset. For her, it was not just a move to another country. It was a leap across a chasm of hundreds of years.

  The first months in Moscow were a hell of glass, concrete, and roars. The noise of the city—the rumble of the metro, the sirens, the roar of engines—drove her mad. The bright electric light at night kept her from sleeping. Simple things, like an elevator or an escalator, caused her to panic. She had gone from a world of castles and swords to a world of skyscrapers and information flows.

  She was granted Russian citizenship in an expedited manner and was housed not in an ordinary family, but in a closed rehabilitation center under the patronage of the Foreign Intelligence Service. The best psychologists, linguists, and teachers worked with her. They taught her not only the Russian language and mathematics. They taught her to think in a new way. They explained to her that the world was not governed by the will of gods and kings, but by the laws of physics and economics.

  Starting with simple technologies, Limia, thanks to her sharp mind, quickly absorbed knowledge. The smartphone she was given at first seemed to her like a magical artifact, a "talking mirror." But she soon realized that it was a key. A key to information, to knowledge, to power. She learned not just to read the news, but to analyze it, to see through the lines of propaganda and hidden interests. She learned not just to use a bank card, but to understand how financial flows worked.

  With each passing day, she became more and more detached from her past. But it would not let her go. At night, she dreamed of her castle, the smell of blood, and the empty eyes of her dead mother.

  A foster family was found for her. These were not ordinary people. A retired Major General of the SVR and his wife, a professor of history at MSU. They became her support. They were kind and caring, but Limia knew that to them, she was not just a daughter. She was a project. A valuable asset being prepared for the future. She thanked them for everything, but an emptiness remained in her heart.

  Having adapted quickly, she began to build her new life. She made friends, she was admitted to the economics faculty of MSU. She became the best in her class; her analytical skills, honed in a world of courtly intrigues and multiplied by a modern education, made her unique.

  Her life became brighter. But the pain did not go away. It simply transformed. From the grief of a child who had lost her family, it turned into a cold, calculating rage. A rage against the world that had taken everything from her. And against the world that had given her everything, except oblivion. She knew that one day she would have to return to Rodenius. But no longer as a frightened girl. But as a player. A player who would play by her own, new rules.