act30side

Afterwards, as she fled the assassins with you, she amended that habit.

Any lack of care by her at that point, and you'd die sooner than she did.

Quite.

Still no word from your end?

None.

My investigators already returned. They're sure your guest boarded the train in question to Lake Silberneherze. If anything, it should have arrived just as the ceremony wound down.

As it is, it'll still take some time until that train arrives.

I see...

Gnosis, never have I feared any wager.

Every step that I take, that I've ever taken, I've staked it all.

This time is no different.

I know.

I believe myself to be sufficiently prepared.

And yet, I find my patience is made of poorer stuff.

Thank you for telling me what's on your mind, and I know what you want to hear me say. I'll say it for you.

If you want to ensure The Black Knight's life, or you don't believe she can last until the end, then give the order now. I can tell you, there are still odds of success.

The archers and Casters at our call are best of the best. Blow up the lake's surface, create confusion, and draw the civilians and soldiers both into midwinter's icy pocket.

Enciodes, the decision lies with you—

Whatever you do, I will support it. But whatever you do, you carry the consequences in kind.

Those consequences are no simple political game. You might fail to even bear them. That, I can determine for you.

One quick question. If it were you?

Then the great winter swim would already be in full swing.

Hah.

Let's trust in Degenbrecher.

Trust she won't fall.

At some unknown point, the first wound appears on her body.

It lies about her shoulder, a slash over her suit, an imperceptible trace of blood drawn.

Compared to the kinds of wounds she's used to, this one's worth no mention.

Degenbrecher fells the few soldiers about her. Ironically, the subtle sting only sharpens the heady mix of fear her eyes strike into you, makes her movements that much more steely cold.

The second wound is brought on by Originium Arts.

An average caster means nothing to Degenbrecher, but the numbers advantage mutates the nature of the Originium Arts' efficacy.

The casters among the troops cast behind their human wall. Fire, ice and thunder burst forth in unison, with staggering momentum.

Degenbrecher flings her weapons, running one of the casters' shoulders clean through, while she stubbornly approaches through the full length of their Arts' range, and plows straight into the soldiers' midst. That puts an end to that display.

The third wound comes as the artillerymen aim a third ballista volley at her.

An opponent armed to the teeth is no fear of Degenbrecher's, but with limbs less than free, and ballistae pestering her in spades, it does get a little annoying to cope.

A shell slips through, and lands a scorch mark on her abdomen.

Her skin is seared in an instant, but hardly any blood comes. That's good, all things considered.

Degenbrecher is under no impression she'll lose.

She's just not too sure she has enough blood to last much longer.

The fourth wound, the fifth...

She loses track.

Counting them is a pain.

It's not enough...

Again!

Urgh!

Lisburn!

Charles! Withdraw Lisburn to the rear!

You staunch his bleeding, I'll be right there with first aid—!

*cough*...

She's giving out!

Now's our chance! Charge!

Hah.

As long as I can still move a finger...

Khakkhhh!

I can handle any of you.

Madam Degenbrecher!

Surely you're reaching your limits too?!

If you really meant to fight us out-and-out, you wouldn't have drawn out this situation in the first place!

Fight like this any longer, and I fear death <i>will</i> come for somebody...

Isn't that exactly the kind of war you Victorians make an art of starting?

The only difference here is, your opponent is me alone.

Harold, you're a soldier.

And I—am your enemy.

...Ha-hah, and keenly put, Madam Degenbrecher.

But I don't believe for a second that you're blind to it.

Karlan Trade's private operations were ferreted out by the Trilby Ashers, and I don't think the Duke will rest on her laurels about it!

That—*cough*—is Enciodes's problem.

This is the <i>very last chance</i> they're leaving Master Enciodes!

He need only bend an ear to the Duke, he need only part with a sliver of the cake...

Be it just 30% of what we proposed! I could still take that back to the Duke and <i>try,</i> for heaven's sakes!

This was never even a war you needed to win...

How stupid.

Who do you say that as?

You're window dressing. You're a tourist. You're a burdenbeast vet.

Have you been at leisure for so long, you've begun to believe your own lies?

—No.

You've never forgotten who you are.

You hate war, absolutely.

You abandoned what real power was in your hands. You took what men of yours sympathized. You left the maelstrom far behind, and fled to Kjerag.

To a land where you thought war could never <i>really</i> happen.

But you were still a Victorian inside.

No.

It wasn't even something you had to remind yourself.

You might say that.

I am a Victorian soldier, Madam.

That much is ordained, and I might loathe it, and I might flee it.

But I could never sully Victoria's interests.

Good.

I'm the same.

Is she the same as this Victorian?

They don't seem very identical.

She's Leithanien-born, Kazimierz-raised, and only then came to Kjerag.

They don't need to know her name. All they know is she's born to fight solo, a victor of the knight competitions, the only one to ever win three years running.

Turn the clock further back, and she's a freak cut off from Originium Arts, a pariah in Leithanien.

Gaining and losing any of these things is dead simple.

They bore her to death.

But now, what she has isn't so easily lost, and she has no plans to lose them.

Now, they <i>are</i> the same.

This dull chat—*cough*—ends here.

I feel all too sorry for you, Madam Degenbrecher.