Chapter 3: The Witch and the Devil

The ancient strategist Sun Tzu once wrote that the highest form of generalship is to thwart the enemy's plans. The second best is to prevent the junction of the enemy's forces. The third best is to attack the enemy's army in the field. The worst policy is to besiege walled cities.

I found myself in the unenviable position of trying to thwart plans I couldn't see, prevent the junction of forces I couldn't identify, and protect against an attack whose nature remains obscure.

If there was one thing more dangerous than ignorance, it was incomplete intelligence.

"Absolutely not," Clovis declared, spattering paint across his formerly pristine smock. "I have no further interest in your schemes, Tanya."

The afternoon light streamed through the tall windows of his studio, illuminating floating dust particles and the half-finished portrait of Emperor Charles. Clovis had captured our father's imposing physique with irritating accuracy, but the eyes remained unfinished—vacant spaces on the canvas where cold imperial judgment would eventually reside.

"You haven't even heard my proposal," I pointed out, perching on a paint-stained stool. The smell of turpentine and oils hung heavy in the air.

"I don't need to." Clovis stabbed at his palette, mixing a particular shade of crimson with excessive force. "Every time you visit my studio, it ends with me doing something I don't want to do."

"That's categorically false. Last month it was a simple matter of borrowing your—"

"You 'borrowed' my access card to the Imperial Archives and returned it with inexplicable coffee stains." He turned back to his canvas, adding highlights to the Emperor's already imposing military uniform. "I had to explain to three different security officers why my credentials were used to access classified military logistics documents at 3 AM."

"I already apologized for that," I waved dismissively. "This is different."

Clovis sighed dramatically, setting down his brush. "Out with it then, dear sister. Some of us have actual work to complete."

I surveyed the cluttered studio—canvases in various states of completion, sketches pinned haphazardly to boards, paint-splattered rags strewn across every surface. My brother's artistic temperament manifested in chaos that I found deeply unsettling. How anyone could function in such disorder remained beyond my comprehension.

But function he did.

"Schneizel has invited me to observe his diplomatic session on Sakuradite negotiations," I said, cutting to the heart of the matter. "Simultaneously, Cornelia has offered Knightmare training."

"And…?" Clovis returned to his painting, affecting disinterest that didn't quite mask the spark of curiosity in his eyes.

"…And I want both."

He barked out a laugh. "Of course you do. Always grasping for more, little sister."

Coming from a prince who commissioned an entire marble fountain for his personal courtyard last month, the criticism lacked a certain self-awareness.

"I'm not asking for your psychological assessment," I said, irritation creeping into my voice. "I'm proposing an arrangement."

"Let me guess." He gestured grandly with his paintbrush, narrowly missing splattering his canvas. "You want me to attend Schneizel's boring diplomatic session while you play with Cornelia's war machines."

"In essence, yes."

"Absolutely not."

"Brother—"

"Do you have any idea how tedious those sessions are?" He turned to face me fully, exasperation evident. "Hours of bureaucrats reciting statistics while Schneizel pretends to care about their opinions before doing exactly what he planned all along."

"I'm aware of the format."

"Then why would you subject me to such torture? What have I done to deserve this punishment?" He clutched his heart dramatically. "Besides being your brother, of course."

I suppressed a sigh. Clovis's nature made even simple negotiations exhausting.

"Because," I said carefully, "you have something I lack."

He paused, suspicion replacing drama. "And what might that be?"

"Social grace."

Clovis blinked, clearly not expecting the compliment. "Well… yes. Obviously."

"The diplomatic session isn't Sakuradite statistics alone. It's building connections, reading social cues, understanding the unspoken dynamics between delegations." I leaned forward slightly. "You excel at those skills. I don't."

It wasn't entirely true—I'd navigated corporate politics in my first life and military hierarchies in my second. But Clovis didn't need to know that. He needed to believe I valued his particular talents.

His expression shifted from suspicion to consideration. "Go on."

"I'll brief you on what you need to know about Sakuradite economics and Japan's strategic importance. With your social intelligence and my technical knowledge, you'll be able to position yourself in a way Schneizel won't anticipate."

"And how exactly does this benefit me?" His eyes narrowed. "Beyond the dubious pleasure of doing your bidding."

"Three benefits," I replied, holding up fingers to enumerate them. "First, you'll gain access to Schneizel's inner diplomatic circle—a sphere where he rarely includes other siblings. Second, you'll demonstrate versatility beyond the arts, potentially opening future doors. Third…" I paused for effect. "I'll pose for that portrait you've been wanting to paint for months."

The last offering caught his attention. Clovis had been lobbying to paint my portrait ever since I left the nursery. I'd consistently refused, having no interest in sitting motionless for hours while he scrutinized my features. There was no doubt my portraits would once again be used for unsavory propaganda.

"The full portrait series? Four sittings, minimum?"

"Two sittings," I countered. "Two hours maximum."

"Three sittings, three hours each, and you wear the ceremonial dress I select."

"Three sittings, two hours each, and I have veto power over the outfit."

He considered this. "Acceptable. But I want something else as well."

Of course he did. Negotiations with royalty always included last-minute additions.

"What?"

"I want you to explain these economic concepts properly." He gestured toward his cluttered desk. "Not just feed me talking points. I want to understand the material, not parrot your analysis."

The request surprised me. Clovis rarely showed interest in subjects beyond his artistic pursuits.

"May I ask why?"

Something flashed across his face—a brief glimpse of the person beneath the theatrical mask. "Because I'm tired of being dismissed as merely decorative. Because Schneizel looks through me like I'm transparent. Because even you—a six-year-old—assume I can't comprehend complex material without being spoon-fed simplifications."

I studied him with fresh interest. Perhaps I'd underestimated Clovis's ambitions. He wasn't third prince of the empire for nothing.

"Very well," I agreed. "I'll explain everything properly. But it will require actual effort on your part."

"I'm not afraid of effort, Tanya. Only unseemly things." He wiped his hands on a rag. "So, where do we begin?"

For the next three hours, Clovis proved himself a more capable student than I'd anticipated. His grasp of economic principles was rudimentary but his learning curve steep. He struggled with supply chain logistics but grasped market psychology intuitively. By our second hour, he'd begun asking insightful questions about how sakuradite scarcity influenced diplomatic leverage.

"So the Japanese maintain artificial production limits to keep prices elevated?" he asked, examining the export charts I'd borrowed from the Imperial Library.

"Not exactly." I adjusted the diagram. "Their production capacity is genuinely constrained by current extraction technology. What they manipulate is allocation—who gets what percentage of the available supply."

"Leverage through selective scarcity," Clovis mused. "Like an artist releasing limited collections to different patrons."

"A simplistic but not inaccurate analogy," I conceded.

He shot me an irritated glance. "You know, your condescension isn't particularly helpful to this learning process."

"Neither is your artistic metaphor-making."

"Some concepts are better understood through comparison to familiar frameworks," he countered. "Not everyone processes information through your military-style briefings and statistical tables."

He had a point, though I was reluctant to admit it. Different minds had their own way of parsing information, even if his seemed needlessly baroque to mine.

"Fine. Think of sakuradite allocation as pigment rationing during the Renaissance, if that helps," I offered, choosing a metaphor from his domain. "The masters received priority access while lesser artists made do with inferior materials or developed alternative techniques."

His expression brightened. "Yes, exactly! The Venetian studios controlled ultramarine access, forcing inland artists to—" He caught himself. "That's not relevant. Continue."

By our third hour, Clovis had filled his sketchbook, not with drawings but with surprisingly organized notes. His handwriting was flowery but legible, his diagrams clear if somewhat more artistic than necessary.

"One final point," I said as we concluded. "When Schneizel mentions the Manila Agreement renewal, pay particular attention to who reacts among the Japanese delegation. That agreement contains secret clauses about military access that aren't publicly acknowledged."

Clovis's eyebrows rose. "How do you know about secret clauses?"

"I pay attention," I replied simply.

"To what? You're barely seven years old. You don't attend closed security briefings."

A fair question. I'd gleaned the information by correlating shipping manifests with military deployment reports. Ordinary documents that revealed extraordinary patterns when properly analyzed, but explaining my methodology would raise more questions than it answered.

"Brother Schneizel told me," I said instead, gathering my notes. "Remember, appear interested but not overly informed. Ask precise questions rather than making declarations. Let them underestimate you until the moment it benefits you to surprise them."

"I'm well versed in managing others' perceptions," he replied dryly. "It's the foundation of court survival."

As I moved toward the door, Clovis called after me. "Tanya?"

I paused. "Yes?"

"I still don't understand why you're doing this." His expression had lost its usual quality, replaced by curiosity. "Why send me at all? Why not simply choose Cornelia's training and forget Schneizel's session? I know you consider Knightmare piloting the more valuable skill."

Because a self-proclaimed deity had broken six years of silence to warn me about threats to Marianne. Because I needed to understand the political landscape while simultaneously developing survival skills. Because choosing between factions now would limit my options later. Because I needed the Britannian Empire to avoid war with two other superpowers at all costs.

But Clovis couldn't know any of that.

"It is as you said, dear brother, I'm always grasping for more," I said instead. "Why have one advantage when you can have two?"

He studied me for a moment longer, then shook his head. "You know, sometimes I forget you're Charles zi Britannia's daughter too. Then you say something like that, and the resemblance becomes unnervingly clear."

I wasn't sure if that was a compliment or criticism. With Clovis, it could easily be both.

"You're punctual, at least," Cornelia remarked as I entered the training facility. "That already puts you ahead of half my officer candidates."

She stood beside a towering Glasgow Knightmare Frame, its simple desert gray armor gleaming under the facility's harsh lighting. The machine loomed over us both—a metal giant waiting to be awakened.

"I turned down brother Schneizel's personal invitation to be here today," I replied, studying the massive machine with genuine interest. "It would be illogical of me to arrive late."

Despite her formal military attire, there was a hint of amusement in Cornelia's expression—the faintest curl at the corner of her mouth. "Evidently."

She turned toward the Glasgow. "This training unit has been modified for your physical dimensions. The control system is unchanged—I don't believe in simplifying challenges for beginners."

I appreciated the approach. In my previous lives, I'd found that authentic difficulty produced faster skill development than coddled progression. There was nothing quite like the threat of failure to sharpen one's focus.

"Have you studied the technical specifications?" Cornelia asked, watching me examine the Knightmare.

"RPI-11 Glasgow. Fourth-generation Knightmare Frame. Height: 4.24 meters. Weight: 7.35 metric tons," I recited. "Primary armaments include an assault rifle and Slash Harkens. Mobility system centered on Landspinners for high-speed ground maneuverability."

It was clear she expected a thorough response, and didn't bother asking when or where I learned of the information. "Good. Then we can skip the introductory briefing."

A technician approached, handing me what appeared to be a pilot suit modified for my size. The material was lighter than expected—flexible yet reinforced at critical points. Practical military design, not palace fashion.

"The cockpit awaits, Princess," Cornelia said with a gesture toward the machine. "Let's see if your practical knowledge matches your theoretical understanding."

The Glasgow's cockpit was smaller than it appeared from outside—a confined space dominated by control interfaces, display panels, and instrument readouts. The seat adjusted automatically as I settled in, compensating for my child-sized frame. The hatch sealed with pneumatic finality, enclosing me in the machine's heart.

Three panoramic monitors flickered to life, displaying the facility from the Knightmare's elevated perspective. The sudden shift in visual perspective was momentarily disorienting—like having my eyes relocated four meters above my actual height. Usually this sort of perspective would be accompanied by the feeling of weightlessness. Oh, how I missed the freedom of mage flight.

"Can you hear me, Princess Tanya?" Cornelia's voice came through the communication system with perfect clarity.

"Yes, clearly."

"Good. Now, normally I'd start new pilots with basic movement exercises—walking, turning, perhaps some simple obstacle navigation." There was a pause. "But something tells me you'd find that tedious."

"I appreciate efficiency in training methods," I admitted. Especially when they involved combat scenarios rather than mundane drills.

I could almost hear the smile in her voice. "Then let's be efficient. I'm activating the combat simulator. A straightforward scenario—urban pacification operation against conventional forces."

My pulse quickened slightly. Finally, something that might actually test my capabilities.

The monitors shifted from the training facility to a simulated urban environment—partially collapsed buildings, debris-strewn streets, evidence of recent conflict. A mission timer appeared in the corner display: 10:00, counting down.

"Your objective is simple," Cornelia continued. "Neutralize all hostile forces within the designated area. You have ten minutes. Your Glasgow is equipped with the standard loadout."

"No instructions on the control interface?" I asked, scanning the bewildering array of buttons, switches, and dual joysticks before me.

"Consider it a practical examination of your adaptability," she replied with unmistakable amusement. "Combat rarely includes tutorial sessions."

The first enemy unit appeared on my display—a conventional tank advancing from behind a collapsed building. Its turret rotated toward my position, the intention unmistakable. Six years since I'd found myself in crosshairs, and yet the familiar rush of combat assessment flooded back immediately. Almost… exciting.

I pushed the left control stick forward experimentally. The Glasgow lurched violently, nearly toppling before stabilizing. The panoramic displays blurred with disorienting motion as a tank shell whistled past, impacting a building behind me. The explosion sent debris cascading across my visual displays.

"First lesson of Knightmare combat," Cornelia commented dryly. "Stationary targets don't survive long."

I gripped both control sticks, quickly assessing their resistance patterns. Left for movement, right likely for weapons. The tank prepared to fire again—no time for methodical learning.

I pushed the left stick forward while tilting it slightly right, simultaneously pressing what I hoped was an acceleration control. The Glasgow shot forward with surprising speed, Landspinners shrieking as they propelled the massive frame across rubble-strewn pavement.

The tank's shell missed again, but only barely. The concussive force rattled my cockpit, and I felt a familiar rush of adrenaline—that knife-edge between danger and survival that I'd known so well in another life.

I needed to close distance—tank main guns had minimum effective ranges. Their designs sacrificed close-quarter capability for long-range power.

I maneuvered the Glasgow behind a partially collapsed building, using it as temporary cover while examining the weapon controls more deliberately. The right stick featured a trigger mechanism and what appeared to be weapon selector switches. One position was highlighted, labeled simply "RIFLE."

Another enemy appeared on my tactical display—a second tank approaching from the eastern perimeter. The mission timer showed 8:47 remaining.

I needed to leverage the Knightmare's advantages over conventional armor. The height. Tanks excelled at horizontal engagement but had limited vertical targeting capability. Their top armor was typically thinner than frontal plating. Basic tactical knowledge that applied across worlds.

I manipulated the controls, directing the Glasgow toward a still-standing high-rise building. The movement was jerky and imprecise, but the machine responded to my increasingly confident inputs. As the first tank rounded the corner, I located what I hoped was the Slash Harken control—a specialized trigger on the left stick.

The rocket-propelled anchor shot upward, embedding into the building's concrete facade with a satisfying impact. Before I fully understood the mechanism, the cable retracted sharply, yanking the Glasgow upward with alarming speed.

"Woah—!" I couldn't suppress the exclamation as my stomach lurched with the sudden elevation change.

The Glasgow slammed against the building's side, temporarily disorienting me as warning indicators flashed across the instrument panel.

Both tanks now struggled to elevate their main guns sufficiently to target my position. Their design limitations became their vulnerability.

I activated the rifle and aimed downward at the first tank's thinner top armor, squeezing the trigger. The Glasgow's rifle discharged with a mechanical shudder, armor-piercing rounds punching through the tank's upper plating. Secondary explosions followed as ammunition within the vehicle detonated.

"One hostile neutralized," the computer confirmed.

I couldn't help but smile. There was something deeply satisfying about precision targeting—identifying a weakness and exploiting it with surgical accuracy. Some things remained constant across lives.

The second tank attempted to retreat, seeking a better firing angle. I detached the Slash Harken and allowed the Glasgow to drop toward the ground. The impact sent shock waves through the cockpit, but the Knightmare's legs absorbed most of the force.

I was beginning to understand the machine's movement patterns now—the relationship between control inputs and mechanical response had a barely perceptible lag. It forced me to anticipate rather than react. The Landspinners engaged as I pursued the retreating tank, closing distance rapidly.

"Seven minutes remaining," Cornelia announced.

Her tone suggested nothing—were my initial efforts not enough? Perhaps I was underperforming. The realization spurred me to demonstrate further competence. I would not be found wanting, especially not in combat.

I positioned the Glasgow directly in the tank's retreat path, rifle raised. My first burst struck the tank's treads, immobilizing it. Three more targeted bursts silenced its weapons systems permanently. Efficient. Clean. The way warfare should be conducted.

"Two hostiles neutralized," the computer updated. "Final target approaching."

The tactical display showed a single target moving toward my position—another Glasgow-class Knightmare. This presented an entirely different challenge. Unlike the tanks, this opponent would match my mobility and weapon systems.

My heart rate increased slightly. The tanks had been mere warm-up exercises. This would be the true test.

The opposing Glasgow appeared at the end of a debris-filled street. Its movements lacked the jerky uncertainty of my own—each motion purposeful, each position tactically sound.

"This simulation opponent seems remarkably sophisticated, sister," I commented, maneuvering my Glasgow into a defensive position behind a concrete barrier.

"Focus on your target," Cornelia replied neutrally. "Authenticity improves learning outcomes."

The enemy Knightmare advanced cautiously, its rifle scanning for targets. I noticed it favored right-side approaches—maintaining its left side slightly withdrawn, as if protecting that flank.

I fired an experimental burst, testing both my aim and the opponent's reaction. The enemy Glasgow responded with impressive speed, darting behind cover while returning fire with precision that sent warning indicators flashing across my displays.

"Minor damage to right shoulder assembly," the computer reported.

It had targeted my firing arm. A deliberate choice, not random fire.

This was clearly no basic training algorithm. The unit moved with aggression tempered by disciplined restraint—hallmarks of professional military training rather than programmed patterns.

Rather than frustrating me, the challenge ignited something I'd suppressed for six years—that part of me that thrived in combat, that found clarity in the chaos of battle. The part I'd had to restrain in this life as a princess. I couldn't stop the smile that spread across my face.

I needed to adapt my approach. My clumsy control inputs couldn't match the opponent's smooth precision. But perhaps introducing some predictability could be spun to my benefit.

I established a movement pattern—emerging from cover, firing, retreating to the same position—repeating it three times to establish expectation. On the fourth iteration, instead of retreating as expected, I launched the Slash Harkens directly at the position where the enemy would logically advance.

The anchors caught the opposing Glasgow mid-movement, temporarily immobilizing it as the cables wrapped around its legs. I immediately capitalized on the advantage, firing precisely at the Knightmare's rifle arm.

"Target weapon system damaged," the computer confirmed.

A surge of satisfaction ran through me. Predict, deceive, strike.

The enemy unit adapted instantly, severing the cables with a quick slash before retreating to reestablish a tactical position. Its movement patterns changed—becoming more aggressive, as if responding to the setback with increased determination.

I had confirmed it. There was definitely a human on the other end of this simulation.

The timer showed 4:15 remaining. This was becoming genuinely enjoyable—a proper challenge rather than the performative exercises I'd endured in royal education.

As we exchanged fire across the ruined urban landscape, I needed to force an asymmetric engagement. The simulation parameters assumed conventional combat between similarly equipped units. But warfare rarely remained conventional when survival was at stake.

I directed my Glasgow toward a damaged high-rise—one with visible structural weakness at its base. The enemy unit pursued cautiously, clearly recognizing a potential trap but unwilling to allow me unchallenged movement.

I positioned my Knightmare behind the building, then fired several precise shots at the weakened support columns. The structure began to groan ominously, concrete dust showering down as stress fractures spread through the remaining supports.

The enemy Glasgow paused its advance, assessing the obvious trap. I used this hesitation to circle around, approaching from its left flank—the side it had consistently protected throughout our engagement.

As the building began its collapse, the enemy unit was forced to make a choice—retreat from the falling structure or advance through it to engage me. It chose advancement, demonstrating willingness to accept environmental hazards to maintain offensive pressure.

This was my chance.

As the Glasgow emerged through the dust cloud, I fired directly at its left side. The shots connected with satisfying precision, targeting what appeared to be a landspinner connection point.

"Critical damage to enemy mobility system," the computer reported.

Success!

With its movement severely impaired, the enemy Knightmare attempted to compensate with increased firepower, its rifle discharging in controlled bursts that required increasingly desperate evasive maneuvers from my still-clumsy piloting.

The timer showed 2:30 remaining. I needed to finish this before the opponent adapted further to its limitations.

I circled the damaged Knightmare, maintaining distance while looking for the final opening. Its mobility was compromised but its targeting remained dangerous with each burst coming closer to critical systems on my Glasgow.

The enemy unit suddenly changed tactics. Instead of continuing to fire its rifle, it dropped the weapon entirely. I watched in confusion as the Knightmare reached toward a fallen streetlight, tearing the metal pole from its concrete base.

What kind of tactic was this? Abandoning a ranged weapon for an improvised melee implement made no tactical sense.

The enemy Glasgow gripped the streetlight like a sword, adjusting its stance to a formal guard position. Something about the posture triggered recognition—the precise angle of the arm, the slightly forward weight distribution, the controlled stillness before action.

I'd seen those exact movements before, during Cornelia's sword training.

My moment of realization cost me dearly. The enemy Knightmare lunged forward with astonishing speed, using the streetlight not as a piercing weapon but as a lever. With a precise sweeping motion, it hooked my Glasgow's legs and applied pressure at exactly the right angle to disrupt my balance.

I tried to compensate, but the opponent knew my weakness. My control inputs couldn't offset the finesse of the attack quickly enough. My Glasgow toppled backward, crashing hard onto the simulated pavement. Before I could recover, the enemy unit had pinned my weapon arm with the streetlight and placed its foot directly on my cockpit block—the simulation's equivalent of checkmate.

"Simulation terminated. Pilot position compromised."

The virtual environment dissolved around me, leaving me staring at blank monitors. I sat motionless, the familiar acid taste of failure flooding my mouth. In my first life, such defeats meant lost market share and corporate standing. In my second, they meant dead soldiers under my command. Here, it was merely a simulation, yet the sting cut deeper than seemed rational.

My hands gripped the controls with unnecessary force. Six years of cultivating the perfect royal facade, of burying the battle-hardened commander beneath a child's smile, and still my old self emerged in moments like these—furious at imperfection, at miscalculation, at loss.

I had almost recaptured it—that crystalline clarity of battlefield command, the rush of tactical execution. For a few precious minutes, I'd been Major Tanya von Degurechaff again, not just Princess Tanya la Britannia playing at war games. Then, in an instant, defeat. The cockpit suddenly felt confining, almost suffocating.

The hatch opened with a hydraulic hiss, forcing me to compose my features. I buried the disappointment beneath a mask of calm assessment as I looked up to find Cornelia leaning against the open hatch. Her uniform was slightly disheveled, a faint sheen of perspiration visible at her temples. Her breathing was slightly elevated—the subtle signs of someone who had recently been physically engaged rather than passively observing.

"You recognize defeat gracefully," she remarked, studying my expression with unsettling intensity.

I climbed out of the cockpit, legs slightly unsteady after the intense simulation. "That wasn't a standard training program."

She raised an eyebrow. "What makes you say that?"

"The tanks were clearly simple programs." I met her gaze directly. "But the knightmare was being piloted by a human."

Cornelia's left hand flexed slightly—the unconscious movement of muscles recently engaged in precise control work. "All simulations contain various combat scenarios drawn from actual data."

"Including your sword form?"

A flicker of amusement crossed her features. "You have an observant eye, sister. It seems you have indeed been paying attention during our lessons." She neither confirmed nor denied my implication, instead gesturing toward a nearby console where a technician was reviewing data readouts. "Your performance exceeded expectations for a first attempt. The structural collapse tactic was particularly inventive."

"I just want to be as strong as you, sister," I replied. Despite my outward composure, I was already analyzing the defeat, identifying what I could improve next time. The balance issues, the response lag, the weapon selection delays—all fixable with practice.

Something like approval flickered across her features. She gestured for me to follow her toward the facility exit.

"Report here next week, same time. We'll focus on improving your control technique before advancing to weapons integration."

"I'll be here," I promised. I was already looking forward to it—the chance to immerse myself in combat scenarios again, even simulated ones, was more appealing than I cared to admit.

As she turned to leave, something occurred to me. Being X's warning about threats to Marianne still lingered, and here was Britannia's most capable military commander—recently appointed to oversee Aries Villa security.

"Sister, one more thing," I said, causing her to pause. "I understand you've taken charge of security at Aries Villa."

Her posture shifted almost imperceptibly—from training instructor back to alert commander. "I presume you have something to ask?"

I needed to frame this carefully. Direct questions about security vulnerabilities would raise immediate suspicion.

"I've been spending considerable time there with Nunnally and Lelouch," I explained. "During my visits, I've noticed certain… irregularities in the security patterns."

Cornelia's full attention snapped back to me. "Irregularities?"

"Perhaps it's nothing," I said with practiced casual concern. "But given recent tensions regarding Area 11 and the sakuradite negotiations, I wondered what specific threats might be on your assessment list."

Her expression hardened. "Security assessments aren't topics for casual conversation, Princess Tanya. Even between family members."

"Of course," I agreed smoothly. "I merely thought that if I'm to continue visiting, I should be aware of any particular precautions or protocols I should observe. I take the safety of my siblings seriously, and I want to make your life easier," I replied with perfect sincerity. The statement was true, if incomplete. My alliance with Lelouch and Nunnally made their mother's safety relevant to my own security.

After a moment's consideration, Cornelia seemed to make a decision. "Empress Marianne's position creates unique security concerns. The empress, despite standing as a symbol for everything that makes Britannia great, generates resentment among certain noble factions who believe in heritage over strength."

An interesting admission, though hardly surprising. Marianne's rise from commoner to Imperial Consort would naturally create enemies among the aristocracy.

"While I'm sure you're eager to help," Cornelia continued reluctantly. "You can rest assured that there are hundreds of loyal Britannians working round the clock to keep Aries Villa safe."

Her tone shifted subtly, softening in a way that immediately set my teeth on edge. I recognized that tone—the universal sound of an adult humoring a child.

"You should focus on your studies and training," she added, placing a hand briefly on my shoulder. "Enjoy these years, Tanya. Security concerns are for those of us charged with such matters."

I maintained my neutral expression despite the internal frustration building within me. How quickly she'd shifted from combat instructor impressed by my abilities to patronizing older sister. The cognitive dissonance was remarkable—she could acknowledge my tactical acumen in one breath, then dismiss my concerns as childish worries in the next. She was treating me like she treated Euphemia.

"Of course, sister," I replied, forcing the appropriate note of chastened acceptance into my voice. "I was merely curious."

Cornelia nodded, apparently satisfied that she'd appropriately redirected my childish concerns. "Curiosity is valuable when properly channeled. Your performance today shows promise—focus your energy there."

"I will," I promised, the lie coming easily.

She checked her watch again. "My briefing. We'll continue your training next week. Until then, review the Knightmare operations manual I'm sending to your quarters."

With that, she departed, leaving me with the distinct impression that my age had once again become an insurmountable barrier to being taken seriously.

The irony wasn't lost on me. In combat simulation, where results spoke for themselves, my child's body didn't matter. But the moment the conversation shifted to security matters—precisely where my previous lives' experience would be most valuable—my physical age rendered my input worthless.

This body was a prison in more ways than one.

As I left the facility, my frustration crystallized into determination. If Cornelia wouldn't share concrete information about security concerns at Aries Villa, I would conduct my own assessment. Being X's warning had been specific enough to warrant investigation, regardless of whether anyone else took it seriously.

The training session had proven to myself that I could still think tactically, still identify vulnerabilities, still adapt to new combat realities. Those same skills would serve me in evaluating Aries Villa's security measures.

Cornelia wanted me to "enjoy being a child" while the adults handled important matters. If protecting myself—and by extension, my political allies among the vi Britannias—required undertaking an unauthorized and unscheduled security audit, so be it.

Let Cornelia focus on external threats. I would investigate the aspects her conventional approach might miss—the internal vulnerabilities, the patterns of access, the unexpected anomalies that Being X's warning had hinted at.

As frustrating as today's dismissal had been, it provided perfect cover. No one would suspect a six-year-old princess visiting her half-siblings of conducting counterintelligence operations.

Sometimes the greatest advantage was being underestimated.

"And then the brave knight rescued the princess from the terrible dragon!" Euphemia proclaimed, gesturing dramatically with a marshmallow-laden skewer.

"Did the dragon have to be terrible?" Nunnally asked, her voice soft in the flickering light of our small "campfire" – actually a carefully contained portable heating unit designed to simulate flames without risk of setting the imperial gardens ablaze. "Maybe it was just misunderstood."

I suppressed a sigh as I adjusted the lightweight canvas of our tent. Leave it to Nunnally to sympathize with the narrative villain. Her innate compassion was simultaneously her most endearing and most vulnerable characteristic.

"Misunderstood?" Euphemia considered this with grave seriousness. "Perhaps you're right. The dragon might have been lonely."

"Or hungry," I offered dryly. "Dragons require substantial caloric intake to maintain flight capabilities and fire production."

Both girls turned to stare at me, their expressions a matching set of bewilderment.

"You're supposed to say something magical, Tanya," Euphemia chided gently. "Stories are meant to be fun!"

"Hm," I replied, maintaining my pleasant facade. "Perhaps the dragon was under a wicked spell, forced to guard the princess against its will."

This suggestion met with enthusiastic approval from my half-sisters, who immediately began elaborating on the dragon's tragic backstory. I returned to securing our tent while they spun increasingly convoluted narratives about enchanted dragons and the power of friendship.

The "imperial campout," as Euphemia had dubbed it, was progressing according to plan. What had begun as an offhand suggestion during one of Euphie's tea parties had evolved into this elaborate setup in the gardens of Aries Villa – complete with three small tents, cushions, blankets, and a carefully curated selection of "campfire foods" prepared by the royal kitchen.

To Euphemia and Nunnally, it was an adventure – a taste of the wilderness without leaving palace grounds. To me, it was an operational cover. The eastern perimeter of Aries Villa remained a security anomaly I couldn't explain, and this childish excursion provided the perfect opportunity for nocturnal reconnaissance.

"Tanya, you're not listening," Euphemia pouted, breaking my tactical reverie.

"I was considering the dragon's motivation," I lied smoothly. "Please continue."

Euphemia brightened immediately. "As I was saying, the spell could only be broken by true love's kiss…"

I nodded at appropriate intervals while mentally reviewing guard rotation schedules. The eastern service entrance would have minimal surveillance between 0200 and 0230 hours, based on my previous observations. The guards assigned to that section followed predictable patterns – a vulnerability I found concerning given Marianne's otherwise meticulous security arrangements.

"Tanya, would you like a marshmallow?" Nunnally offered, extending a skewer in my general direction.

"Thank you." I accepted the sticky confection with as much grace as possible. Maintaining cover operations sometimes required unpleasant sacrifices. In my previous life as Tanya von Degurechaff, those sacrifices involved bullets and blood. In this one, they involved sugar and socializing.

"I'm so glad Mother allowed us to camp in the gardens," Nunnally said happily. "She said it was good for us to build memories together."

"Lady Marianne is very wise," I agreed, careful to use the appropriate honorific. Whatever my private thoughts about Being X's warning regarding Marianne, maintaining proper decorum remained essential.

"She was surprised when you suggested it though," Euphemia added. "She said you were 'full of unexpected initiatives lately.'"

I kept my expression neutral despite the internal alarm bells. Marianne had noticed my increased presence at Aries Villa. Not surprising, given her intelligence network, but concerning nonetheless.

"The summer weather is perfect for outdoor activities," I replied blandly. "It seemed an appropriate suggestion."

As night deepened, our conversation gradually waned. Euphemia's enthusiasm for storytelling eventually yielded to yawns, and Nunnally's gentle questions grew fewer and farther between. By midnight, both girls had retreated to their respective tents, leaving me alone by the artificial campfire.

I waited another hour, occasionally making small noises of movement to maintain the illusion that I remained awake but inactive. When the palace clock tower faintly chimed one, I conducted a final check. Euphemia's soft snores and Nunnally's deep, even breathing confirmed both were soundly asleep.

It was time.

I changed swiftly, replacing the frivolous "camping" attire with dark clothes suitable for movement without detection. Years of military operations had taught me the importance of appropriate tactical gear, though in this life I was limited to what I could reasonably explain away if discovered – nothing so obvious as actual camouflage, just dark clothing that a child might select for "playing spy."

The gardens of Aries Villa transformed at night. What had been a charming landscape by day became a tactical environment by darkness – full of concealment opportunities, movement corridors, and observation vantage points. I navigated through carefully manicured hedgerows, using the shadows cast by ornamental trees to avoid the predictable sightlines of perimeter guards.

My first objective was confirming the guard rotation pattern I'd previously observed. I positioned myself near a decorative fountain that offered both concealment and a clear view of the eastern approach. As expected, the primary patrol passed at 0115 hours, followed by a secondary patrol at 0130. Both followed precisely the same route, creating a repeatable blind spot between their coverage areas.

Predictability was the enemy of security. In my previous life as a military commander, I'd insisted on randomized patrol patterns specifically to prevent such vulnerabilities from being exploited. Yet here was the residence of one of the Empire's most valuable consorts, with guard movements so regular you could set a watch by them.

After confirming the patrol schedule, I advanced closer to the eastern service entrance – the focal point of my investigation. The architecture itself was unremarkable – a simple utilitarian doorway designed for staff and deliveries. What made it remarkable was its security arrangement, or rather, the subtle gaps in that arrangement.

The nearest surveillance camera was angled just slightly away from the entrance itself. The exterior lighting created shadows rather than illumination. The decorative shrubbery provided cover for approach that the other service entrances lacked. Each element on its own might be dismissed as an oversight, but collectively they formed a deliberate vulnerability.

I moved closer, staying within the shadows of an ornamental cherry tree. The next guard wouldn't pass for approximately twelve minutes.

A faint sensation prickled the back of my neck—the feeling of being watched. I paused, scanning the garden's darkened corners but saw nothing unusual. Dismissing it as hypervigilance, I continued forward.

As I approached, I noted fresh scuff marks on the cobblestone path—evidence of recent, frequent use. More concerning were the subtle patterns of disturbed foliage nearby, suggesting someone had stood watching this entrance recently.

Crouching beside the door, I examined the locking mechanism. Unlike the standard imperial security system used elsewhere, this one had been modified with a simpler design. Still secure by most standards, but notably less sophisticated.

I traced the edge of the mechanism, confirming my suspicions. This vulnerability was deliberate—engineered to appear secure while remaining accessible to someone with specific knowledge.

The sensation of being observed intensified. A subtle shift in the air behind me—barely perceptible, but unmistakable to someone with battlefield experience.

"Are you done playing with that door yet?"

The voice materialized behind me—a tactical impossibility given my carefully maintained perimeter awareness. I controlled my startle reflex, turning with deliberate slowness while sliding one hand toward the palette knife concealed in my sleeve.

A young woman stood examining me with dispassionate golden eyes. Her green hair fell past her shoulders in an unusual style that matched nothing in current imperial fashion. She wore simple, practical clothing—neither palace staff uniform nor noble attire—and carried herself with a peculiar stillness that registered immediately as anomalous. Not the disciplined stillness of military training, but something older and stranger, as if she were merely visiting the concept of human movement rather than embodying it naturally.

"This area is restricted," I stated, voice projecting authority despite my child's body.

She tilted her head slightly, studying me with the detached curiosity one might give to an unusual insect. "You're that la Britannia girl. The tiny one who keeps sneaking around."

The casual observation derailed my planned security challenge. She'd seen me before—been tracking my movements without my awareness. A critical intelligence failure on my part.

"Identify yourself," I demanded, shifting to maintain optimal striking distance if needed.

"Oh, the la Britannia girl," she replied, ignoring my question entirely. "Where's Marianne?"

The familiar way she referenced the Empress violated every protocol of imperial etiquette. No honorific, no title—speaking as if Marianne were an equal rather than sovereign consort to the most powerful man in the known world.

"The Empress conducts meetings through formal channels, not service entrances at two in the morning," I replied, probing for information.

"Does she?" The woman's lips curved in the slightest hint of amusement. "How little you know about what happens in your own back yard."

The dismissal stung more than it should have. This strange woman had casually disregarded the carefully constructed facade of royal authority I maintained, treating me as precisely what my physical form suggested—a child out of her depth.

"If you're here for Empress Marianne, you should state your business," I pressed, determined to regain control of the encounter.

She studied me for a moment, golden eyes revealing nothing. "My business concerns matters beyond you," she said flatly. Then, unexpectedly, her expression shifted. "Also, I was promised pizza."

"Pizza?" I repeated, momentarily knocked off-balance by the mundane request after such ominous buildup. "You came to an imperial residence at two in the morning… for pizza?"

"Marianne has excellent taste in toppings." She shrugged. "Our discussions require appropriate sustenance."

"What matters?" I asked, trying to recalibrate my threat assessment. Assassins typically didn't announce their presence while demanding Italian cuisine.

She ignored my question as if it hadn't been voiced. "Since I can't seem to make our appointment, I'll be leaving."

This wasn't proceeding according to any security protocol I'd ever studied. The woman spoke of the Emperor's favorite consort with casual familiarity while displaying more concern about missed food than the imperial guards who could arrest her at any moment.

"You haven't identified yourself," I reminded her, still trying to extract basic intelligence.

"Why would I?" She asked, genuine puzzlement crossing her features. "You're a child with a stolen knife hiding in bushes after midnight. Your opinion is irrelevant to me."

The blunt assessment left me momentarily speechless. After literal decades across multiple lives of commanding respect through rank, ability, or noble birth, being so thoroughly dismissed as inconsequential was both novel and infuriating.

"I am Princess Tanya la Britannia, daughter of Emperor Charles zi Britannia," I declared, abandoning subtlety in favor of direct authority. "And you will explain your presence here immediately."

She stared at me for a long moment, then did something I wasn't prepared for—she laughed. Not politely or nervously, but with genuine amusement, as if I'd told a particularly good joke.

"I don't explain myself to royals playing at espionage." She took a casual step closer. "Though I admit, you're more interesting than most of Charles's offspring."

I retreated one precise step, maintaining optimal striking distance. Her reference to the Emperor by his first name without honorifics suggested either unimaginable presumption or a familiarity that defied normal court relationships.

My hand tightened around the concealed knife. In my previous life, such disrespect toward a commanding officer would have warranted severe discipline. In this one, insulting imperial blood could mean execution. Yet this woman showed no concern whatsoever about consequences.

"I could summon the guards," I warned, calculating whether the information I might still extract outweighed the risk of losing this strange informant to imperial custody.

"You could," she agreed with complete indifference. "But then you'd have to explain why you're sneaking around examining security systems in the middle of the night. I imagine that would lead to some rather awkward questions."

She had me there, and she knew it. The strategic equilibrium shifted uncomfortably away from my control.

"What's your name?" I tried a more direct approach.

She considered this for a moment. "C.C."

"That's not a name," I countered. "Those are initials."

"How observant." Her tone suggested I'd stated something so obvious it barely warranted acknowledgment. "Are we finished? I'm going to find food elsewhere since you won't let me get by."

None of this aligned with standard operational threats. This wasn't an assassin or spy in any conventional sense. Her casual disregard for both imperial authority and basic security protocols suggested either suicidal overconfidence or some form of protection I couldn't identify.

"You're giving up rather easily," I stated, shifting tactics.

"I can always come back another day," she replied with a slight shrug. "It's not like I'm in a rush."

The casual dismissal caught me off guard. Most people would show some urgency or frustration when their plans were disrupted, particularly when those plans involved the Imperial Consort.

"What is your relationship with Empress Marianne?" I pressed.

For the first time, something genuinely sharp entered her golden eyes—a flash of calculation that disappeared as quickly as it had emerged.

"Nothing that concerns you," The title emerged with just enough inflection to render it mildly insulting. Her gaze flicked to my sleeve. "And that little knife you're clutching won't help you understand any better."

My fingers tightened reflexively around the blade she shouldn't have been able to see. I'd been careful to keep it concealed within my sleeve.

"I want answers," I insisted, frustration momentarily overriding tactical caution.

"And I want pizza," she countered. "It seems we're both going to be disappointed tonight."

She turned and walked away from the service entrance door, dismissing me as completely as if I'd ceased to exist. I circled around and stepped into her path, blocking access with my small body while maintaining sufficient distance to react if she became hostile.

"You're rather annoying," she said, the word carrying neither threat nor particular emphasis. Just a statement of fact.

I held my ground. "Whatever arrangement you have with Empress Marianne, I need to know if it threatens this household."

She sighed—the deep, weary exhale of someone who has experienced the same tedious interaction countless times before.

She crossed her arms, regarding me with empty patience. "I am a friend of Marianne's. We meet regularly. Sometimes these discussions involve pizza. Tonight, I missed our appointed time because of you, and I am both hungry and bored."

Her explanation, while technically responsive, revealed absolutely nothing of substance. The calculated emptiness of her answer suggested extensive practice in appearing to communicate while conveying no actual information.

"What matters do you discuss?" I pressed.

"Philosophy. History." Her lips curved in a private smile. "Cheese versus topping ratios."

She was clearly teasing me.

"You expect me to believe the Empress of Britannia meets secretly with you at two in the morning to discuss pizza toppings?"

"I expect nothing from you whatsoever," she replied, the statement carrying the absolute certainty of someone who had long ago abandoned expectations of others. "Your belief or disbelief is entirely immaterial to me."

The patrol would pass this position in approximately ninety seconds. Discovery would compromise future intelligence gathering. Tactical necessity demanded withdrawal despite the unsatisfying nature of this exchange.

"This conversation isn't over," I said, reluctantly stepping aside.

"Clearly." She gave me one last assessing look. "Tell Marianne I waited thirty minutes."

With that, she retreated the way she came and was gone, leaving me standing alone in the moonlight with far more questions than answers.

I remained motionless for several seconds, processing what had just occurred. None of it aligned with standard threat assessments or security protocols. This "C.C." woman had casually disregarded imperial authority, demonstrated intimate knowledge of Aries Villa's security, claimed close friendship with Marianne, and spotted my concealed weapon without apparent effort.

Then she'd left.

Everything I'd just encountered was just so… illogical.

I retreated along my predetermined escape route, mind struggling to categorize this encounter within existing threat matrices. Was she connected to whatever danger Being X had warned about? Or was she unrelated entirely—some eccentric associate of Marianne's with inexplicable access privileges?

And why pizza, of all things?

I reached our camping area just as the palace clock chimed quarter past two. After ensuring I hadn't been followed, I slipped into my tent, mind still trying to process the encounter. Euphemia and Nunnally remained peacefully asleep in their tents, untouched by midnight conspiracies and strange green-haired women.

Dawn arrived with cheerful birdsong that seemed almost mocking against my troubled thoughts. Euphemia woke first, her excited chatter about breakfast pancakes rousing Nunnally shortly thereafter. I manufactured appropriate enthusiasm while mentally reviewing contingency plans.

"Good morning, Princesses," came a formal voice outside our tent cluster. A palace guard stood at attention, his expression professionally neutral. "I apologize for the interruption, but Her Majesty Empress Marianne requests Princess Tanya's presence in her study immediately."

Euphemia pouted. "But we were going to have breakfast together."

"I'm sure Princess Tanya can join you afterward," the guard replied with the strained patience of someone unused to negotiating with children. "Her Majesty specified the meeting was urgent."

I exchanged glances with Nunnally, who offered a small smile of understanding.

The timing couldn't be coincidental. Had the strange green-haired woman somehow contacted Marianne about our encounter? If so, what exactly had she reported?

As we approached her study, I composed my features into appropriate childlike solemnity. Whatever awaited behind that door I would be prepared. Perhaps I'd even learn if that mysterious "C.C." was indeed an associate of the empress.

The guard announced my arrival and withdrew, leaving me alone before the ornate wooden door. I took a deep breath, organizing potential explanations and counterarguments in my mind.

I raised my hand to knock, but before my knuckles touched wood, Marianne's voice called from within.

"Enter, Princess Tanya."

Empress Marianne vi Britannia waited in her private study—a room that reflected her dual nature as warrior and consort. Military maps shared wall space with classical artworks. A chess set occupied one corner, pieces arranged mid-game. Books on strategy lined shelves alongside volumes of poetry and philosophy.

"Tanya," she greeted me with a warm smile that didn't quite reach her eyes. "Thank you for coming so promptly."

Up close, I found myself impressed by the calculating intelligence behind her violet eyes—the same eyes she'd passed to Lelouch. This was a woman who'd risen from commoner to Empress through strategic brilliance, not mere courtly manipulation.

"I understand you've been conducting a security assessment of my residence," she said without preamble.

The directness caught me off guard. I hadn't expected Marianne to be quite so well-informed about my activities.

"I'm not sure what you mean, Your Majesty."

"Let's not waste time with denials, Princess Tanya." She gestured toward a chair. "Please, sit. This conversation will be easier if we dispense with pretense."

For the first time in this life, perhaps, I wished my conversation partner would treat me like a clueless child. Whatever mask I wore today, I suspected hers would be more convincing.