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May 1981 — Aegean Sea, Aboard Corvette Escorting HMS Merlinda
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The corvette creaked as it moved through the broken waters.
The fires of Athens still reflected in the waves —
a twisted, dying sun that would never rise again.
The world smelled of salt, gunpowder, and oil fires.
The empire gasped and bled across the sea.
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At the stern —
Selene von Aetherwald stood among the sailors.
Barely standing herself —
shoulders squared despite the cuts on her arms,
despite the tattered remains of her uniform now tied around a wounded sailor's ribs.
Blood stained her sleeves.
Her hair clung to her temples.
But her eyes —
unbroken.
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She looked back at the battered, shaking group of survivors —
men and women without a ship,
without command,
without a home.
Her voice — when it came — was not loud.
It didn't need to be.
It cut through the cold air like the last sword left in the empire.
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"I order you..."
She paused —
making sure every eye met hers.
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"...to live."
"Until we go home."
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A silence thick enough to drown in —
then—
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"YES, YOUR HIGHNESS!"
The answer — cracked from broken throats —
ripped from lungs filled with despair —
but roared like an oath that stitched their hearts back together.
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Selene gave one final nod.
A commander acknowledging soldiers, not victims.
Then she turned —
and walked away.
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Her boots thudded against the deck, slow and heavy.
Toward the command bridge of the small corvette.
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The sailors watched her go.
Some whispered prayers.
Some just wept silently.
But all saluted her back.
Because in that moment —
on that broken sea —
she was Aetherland.
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Behind the horizon —
the battered corvette flotilla formed a pitiful escort around HMS Merlinda —
the flagship still carrying the Second Princess of Aetherland —
the political jewel the Empire dared not lose.
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Naval protocol declared it clearly:
Protect the Princess, Until very last bloods.
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Inside the decks —
fear soaked the air like poison.
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In a shadowed hallway near the ammunition storage —
Roxanne "Roxy" Beaumont crouched low,
trying to wrench an emergency pump back online.
Her orange hair matted with salt.
Fingers blackened with grease and blood.
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She heard the whispers first.
From the wounded.
From the desperate.
From the cowards who could no longer bear the weight of defeat.
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"We could trade her..."
"Sell the princess to the Federation..."
"Better prisoners than corpses..."
"She's a Romanov. They'll pay anything for her."
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The words slammed into Roxy's skull harder than any explosion.
She froze.
For one breath.
Two.
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And then —
her heart raced.
Her hands shook.
Her vision blurred with rage and betrayal.
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No.
Not her.
Not her.
Not the daughter of Tatiana Romanov.
The woman whose name had once meant hope.
Whose death had broken the world.
And now —
her legacy floated here, barely alive, barely breathing —
and they dared whisper of selling her?
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Without thinking, without hesitation —
Roxy shoved herself upright.
Kicked the broken pump aside.
She ran —
Boots hammering the iron decks.
Ignoring the pain in her ribs.
Ignoring the curses thrown after her.
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She had to find Selene.
Had to.
Before despair turned betrayal into action.
Before the last good thing in this cursed sea was ripped away.
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Down the narrow hallways.
Past the wounded.
Past the broken.
Every second —
the fear grew stronger.
Every second —
the whispers grew louder in her mind.
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She ran toward the bridge.
Where Selene —
still standing despite everything —
still carrying the blood of queens and rebels —
waited.
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The ship rolled under the broken stars.
The waves hissed against blood-slick decks.
The fires of the fallen fleet still smoldered over the horizon.
The last breath of the Empire clawed at the air.
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Roxanne "Roxy" Beaumont ran.
Boots slamming the cold metal.
Lungs burning.
She pushed through the bodies of wounded sailors.
She didn't hear their curses.
She didn't see their terrified faces.
She needed to find Selene.
Needed to find her before it was too late.
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But before she reached the bridge—
She heard it.
Gunfire.
Sharp.
Close.
Inside the ship.
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Then —
Screams.
Steel groaning.
The ship shuddering as the hull split —
a massive, tearing sound echoing up from below the waterline.
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The ship was splitting in two.
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Mutiny.
Treason.
Desperation.
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The crew had fractured.
One group —
cowards, traitors —
those who whispered of selling the princess to the Federation to save themselves.
The other —
loyalists.
The wounded.
The proud few who still bled for Aetherland even with no empire left.
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And in the center of the chaos —
Selene von Aetherwald.
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No gun.
No armor.
No orders shouted.
Only a small wooden knife in her hand.
The Knife of the Oath.
To outsiders —
it looked like a toy.
Harmless.
Stupid.
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Until they saw her move.
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Selene fought without hesitation.
No wasted motion. No second chances.
The wooden blade slashed across a traitor's wrist —
splitting tendons.
Making guns fall from bleeding fingers.
The knife stabbed —
into hands, shoulders, thighs —
disarming, disabling, not to mean to kill the soldiers
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Roxy saw her.
Saw the desperation.
Saw the blind grief burning in Selene's eyes.
But it wasn't rage she saw in Selene's eyes.
It was something worse.
Blindness.
Sadness.
Despair.
The weight of too many dead, too many betrayals.
The grief of a commander who had already lost a fleet—
now losing even more.
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Roxy sprinted to help —
But a sailor — taller, stronger —
grabbed her arm.
Yanked her back.
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"Stay quiet, little rabbit."
Other man sneered.
Raised his gun.
Fired — grazing her side —
Pain flared —
but she didn't scream.
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Another hand seized her.
Ripped her from the deck.
And then —
they threw her into the sea.
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The cold punched the air from her lungs.
Salt and blood filled her mouth.
Darkness swallowed her vision.
She sank.
Slowly.
Helplessly.
Hope slipping from her fingers like sand.
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On the deck —
Selene saw it.
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She saw Roxy thrown into the sea like garbage.
She saw the traitors laughing.
Saw them reloading.
Saw them preparing to kill the last loyalists.
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And something inside Selene snapped.
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No more.
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Her voice cut across the ship like a whip:
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"ORDER !!"
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Her crew heard it —
the real ones —
the ones who mentored by POSEIDON itself,
who fought with her in silence and fear.
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Selene moved.
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Fast.
Precise.
The knife punched into a man's throat —
clean and silent.
from merely injuring,now charge into killing
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"SOLDIER KILL THE TRAITOR !!"
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She grabbed his body —
using it as a human shield —
charged toward the gunners.
Grabbed his sidearm from his twitching hand.
Turned.
Fired once.
A bullet through the head of the man aiming at her bridge crew.
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Another traitor charged.
Selene threw the pistol like a hammer.
It cracked against his skull.
He stumbled.
She was already there —
the knife driving upward into his ribs.
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The loyalists rallied.
Pushed forward.
Bayonets flashing.
Fists swinging.
The traitors faltered.
Fell.
Broke.
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The ship was slick with blood.
The deck tilted under dying screams.
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She stab the soldier who Shoot Roxy
another hand shoot the traitor who throw her
One
Two
Three
Without barely look at the target
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The loyalist already have their firearms
They shoot, and hit the traitors
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When the last shot faded—
Selene stood panting.
Clothes torn.
Soaked in enemy blood.
Her knife —
no longer clean —
dripped into the sea.
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She turned.
Without a word—
She ran.
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Toward the railing.
Toward the black waves.
Toward Roxy.
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She dived.
Without hesitation.
Without fear.
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The sea swallowed her whole.
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Below —
Roxy floated.
Vision blurred.
Body heavy.
The cold too deep.
The fear too strong.
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She saw something.
A hand.
Reaching through the void.
A glow.
A warmth she thought she would never feel again.
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Was it...?
A vision?
A dream?
Queen Tatiana?
Smiling gently.
Reaching to her daughter's new heir.
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But no —
It was real.
It was Selene.
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Selene's hand seized Roxy's wrist.
Grip strong.
Unyielding.
Alive.
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She pulled.
Fought the current.
Kicked upward —
burst through the surface —
dragging Roxy gasping into the burning air.
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Hands from the loyalists pulled them both back aboard.
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Roxy collapsed onto the deck — coughing, half-conscious.
Vision flickering between stars and blackness.
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And through the blur —
she saw her.
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Selene.
Soaked.
Wounded.
Breathing hard.
But standing.
Looking down at her with those red, burning eyes.
Eyes that acknowledged her.
"Don't Die yet"
"Before you make my Ship Fly"
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Roxy smiled weakly —
before falling into unconsciousness.
Safe.
Because she had chosen the right side.
Because she had chosen the right queen.
With the Blood in the crown
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