Chapter Text
~ Solana ~
There it is. The symbol of an empire, set like a spray of golden bullets in broken glass, frozen in time, piercing a sky stained with winter blue. The wind explodes in my ears and I lean out of the carriage window, with my hands tangled in the rail above my head. The wheels turn like thunder; the road threatens to smash me if I fall—but I can't look away, not here, not now.
I've waited so long, after all.
A gloved hand yanks at my leg, a voice blurs with the endless stream of Gherman words and passersby. 'Solana! Be careful!'
I ignore it and keep my eyes fixed on the horizon. My hand tightens on the railing. The carriage wheels devour the stone and we crest the bridge—Weisburg Palace explodes into colour on the horizon, overwriting every engraving and sepia photograph in my memory with a massive, sweeping stroke of a paintbrush. The skyline. The radial roads and grids like canvas. The hot sunlight glitters on a sea of rooftops, shining like a box of chocolate bars or like a crate of bars of gold. The marble and the gold and the hints of blue crystallise.
Glanzreich.
Everything I've ever done in my life was to get me here. To this bridge, this carriage, this assignment. Every country, every path, every path I razed across the Western Continent, all of it led to this moment.
I'm here.
And I slip back through the window of the carriage again. The chatter pops in my ears like an uncorked bottle of champagne: quick comments, laughter, smiles and glances, like jewels threaded and snapped into place on a necklace, bullets in the chamber of a revolver.
'And she's back!'
'Watch the holsters, please.'
'That reminds me, you double-checked that we've unloaded all the pistols?'
'The ammunition has been placed in separate boxes.'
'The guards are going to have a h_ of a time screening our luggage…'
I judge the timing and drop, landing with a solid thump in my seat and tucking my elbows so I don't hit anyone on the way down.
Elle swipes me across the head and ruffles my hair. 'Whew! When I said "break a leg," earlier, hon, I wasn't being literal, y'know!'
I look at her through half-lidded eyes, unimpressed. 'I'm well aware.'
Chiara flicks her hands out to the side and nearly hits Rin in the head. 'Oh please, who wouldn't be excited?' Beneath the charming smile, she's doing that nervous quivering thing she does, as though if touched, she'll smash into a pane of glass like a hummingbird. 'It's only the palace of the royal family of the most powerful kingdom on the Western C-Continent—'
Rin closes her eyes, and exhales. 'Chiara. I understand that you've been subsisting on coffee and studying for this assignment through the night. But you need to calm yourself before we arrive, or I will have to stab you with a comb laced with sedative poisons.'
'You mean that hairpin is poisoned?! I nearly stabbed myself with it just now—tell me these things!'
Verene laughs. 'All right, let's calm it down a bit. Save the hysterics for when we have cause to be hysterical, everyone'
Yulenka glances down at her. After a silence, she speaks her piece. '…Hysterics are an occupational hazard in this line of work.'
Daphne pulls up her long legs onto the carriage seat and wrenches the heel of her knee-high boot into place. She blows her ragged white hair out of her eyes with a pwoof. 'And so are high heels, but… ugh, we still wear them.'
I cross my arms behind my head. 'All the better for stepping on people's feet with.' But then the window pulls me in like a magnet, and I seize the window frame with both hands as we turn into the latticework of the city streets.
It hits me, flooding my bloodstream like it was lanced into my veins—the sensation of seeing a world come to life like a black-and-white photograph painted in by an artist. The never-ending rotation of carriages and streams of people, the green-and-white striped awnings, the statuesque fountains that hold court over the city, history carved out in stone. Quicksilver floods the marrow of my bones, and I shiver with eyes wide open. It's so real that I can taste it on the air—the reality of coffee, white wine, and cinnamon.
And with a sharp, scraping drift, we veer into a wide street packed with the finest of society, with boutiques and young women sampling the latest fashions, with fine restaurants filled with customers. We pass a cafe with sparkling new windows and two men with black and brown hair hanging up signs outside, and a grand cathedral—and that's when it clicks: that this is Kohl Street, one of the most upmarket streets in Wienner and a thoroughfare of the Kingdom of Glanzreich. Kohl Street is the road to the royal palace itself, a golden band set with the jewel of an empire.
I lean out the window, the wind committing crimes against my hair and laying flashes of silver over the heart of Glanzreich, Weisburg Palace. A towering edifice of ivory and gold that is home to the ruling family of Glanzreich, the fortress of a dynasty that has laid claim to being the strongest military force in this era and a force powerful enough to lead the kingdoms of the Western Continent.
And we are now in their employ. We cannot stuff this one up.
The carriage takes us towards the palace gates and the scenery passes by. I slip an envelope from the bodice of my dress. Paper as rich and smooth as cream and fastened with a seal that could be made of melted gold, for all I know. I take the letter out, yet the words roll across my memory with only a glance.
To the Chatons de Fleur Agency,
As the king of Glanzreich, I invite you to Weisburg Palace…
Every time, I wonder if the words were written in his own hand. And if whether learning to forge the handwriting of one of the Western Continent's most powerful kings could ever serve a purpose, admittedly. My lowered lashes shadow my vision. People always think that we sell the secrets we come across in our work, but they can assume what they wish. We merely learn everything we can because our very lives may depend on it.
It is Glanzreich's great fortune to celebrate another one-hundred years of history, and to celebrate them in a diplomatic event to which the nations with which we have close ties will be invited. However, as much as the kingdom is also blessed with peace and with its next generation of royals—five princes and one princess—I cannot discount the fact that these celebrations will bring with them their own risk.
Thus, after careful consideration, I would have your agency provide security for the royal family of Glanzreich, doubling both as my children's protectors and token representatives of your home countries for the month leading up to the centennial celebrations. I have reason to expect great things from you, as no doubt you yourselves expect a satisfactory outcome from this venture, for all our sakes. We look forward to working with you.
'Viktor… von Glanzreich.' I wonder if he practiced that signature five-thousand times, or if he uses a stamp.
The carriage wheels cross an invisible divide with a jolt. We've cleared Kohl Street and are sweeping into the driveway of the palace itself, a cluster of jewels at the tip of Kohl Street's sceptre.
Elle holds back the curtains, and murmurs. 'I guess this is real, isn't it?'
The palace's shadow floods the road like a tidal wave.
'More real than a bullet to the heart.'
Because it is. Le Chatons de Fleur—we're bodyguards to nobles and royals, we're servants of kingdoms and empires. It's so real, so crystal clear that I can see every fleck of quartz in the stone of the palace driveway, that I can feel the eyes of every single member of the audience of marble statues watching us from the roof. We've worked with many kingdoms—Fonseine, Romano, Beyer—but Glanzreich is in a class all on its own. Wealth. Influence. Military power.
Their king wreaked havoc across the Western Continent at the mere age of eighteen, then reformed his country and military into a literal force to be reckoned with. The eldest prince is a skilled diplomat and a shoo-in for the throne, even despite the rival claims of his brothers. The second eldest is a military man fit to surpass his father; the third-eldest is an internationally acclaimed and widely published scholar; the fourth eldest is wildly popular with the populace, and even the fifth youngest prince is skilled in diplomacy and engaging with other young royals. And need I mention the precious little princess, or their late queen—so popular with the Western Continent that her influence did more for the king's reforms than his armies and generals?
I close my eyes and breathe through the nerves. If royalty had class-structure… then the Von Glanzreichs would be the royalty to rule them all.
No pressure.
My jaw locks into a smile, biting down hard. But pray tell, what personal protection service agency gets to say that they've worked hand-in-hand with the royals of the Kingdom of Glanzreich, after all?
My fingernails bite a row of crescent moons on my palm. Fierce.
No one. Yet. And that changes today.
We all exchange glances. Armed, dangerous, ready to go in our high heels and chosen attire.
I glance around the carriage. Then say. 'Carpe diem, dominarium.'
Everyone cracks a smile.
Seize the day, girls.
And I seize the door handle, stepping onto the pavement with a decisive crack.
The rest of the Chatons spill out of the carriage. We're the collective best of what our agency has to offer—bar two who will be arriving tomorrow. I turn and get my bearings. The scene is enough to make you dizzy, enough to make your head spin as you tip your head back to sight the palace's tallest spires. An ornate tableau of exquisitely carved statues and stonework, a froth of black iron curlicues that comprise the gates, a gleam of gold and mint-aqua that adorns the dome atop the palace like a crown.
'…Uff, I can't believe people live here!' Chiara stammers. '…People do live here, right?'
'Maybe,' Daphne says. 'Well.' She points in multiple directions, and I follow her line of sight. 'The royal family certainly lives here, yes, but the palace has about eight different wings. One for each family member, come to think of it.' Born and bred in Glanzreich, Daphne may as well walk around with a sign around her neck, and be our tour guide and purveyor of random trivia for the month. Sarcasm aside, her knowledge is an advantage that I'm not going to waste.
'…Superb. Just as long as they don't expect us to sleep in the kennels.'
Elle flaps a hand dismissively. 'What kennels? The palace dog probably has its own wing.'
I do a quick headcount. The carriage that followed us with our luggage and belongings has safely made it and is pulling up behind our own ride as we speak. 'So?' I tip my head in the direction of the palace, and hold out a hand. I'd even almost smile, if I was the type. If I wasn't wired enough to burn out every fuse. 'Let's go make history.'
And we cross the cobblestones of Weisburg's driveway. The wind bites my face. I taste coffee and water on the air, and I have to tell myself that we're no longer planning this—we've flipped the switch and we're actually doing it.
Right. No pressure.
I square my shoulders and keep walking. It's simple: gates, and guards who have been told to expect us and should let us through with minimal fuss and complications. One would hope.
I'm already weighing the guards up as we draw near: two men dressed in the formal military uniform of red and black and gold braid, and armed with ornamental halberds.
Elle lifts an eyebrow and remarks, 'Wow. Eye candy before we even get in the gates. Colour me happy.'
I blink. Then drive a hand into her corset stays and hiss, 'You have neither taste nor discretion.'
'I object to both claims and vote wholeheartedly in favour of taking night watch shifts. You'll know where to find me.' As unsubtle as a Columbian can be, but she's not an idiot. She's not so much eyeing the guards as she is weighing them up.
I hold up a hand, and don't slow my pace. 'All right, everyone shut up now, thanks.'
'I am already shut up,' Rin mutters.
'I-It—' I shoot a glare over my shoulder. 'It was a catch-all. Ladies, please. We are not starting out like this.'
'All right, girls, be good,' Elle says cheerfully.
'Be good yourself.'
This the problem when you're working with young and talented people. They're young, and behind the scenes, they've got too much baggage and they're too many hairpins short of a hairdo. I rub my forehead and sigh. At least we're not the only ones. Our royal charges are often a few jewels short of a crown… but it's not as though these princes could be worse than us behind the facades, right?
I turn back around and take stock of the upcoming situation. Like their uniforms, the guards' weapons aren't a subtle choice either. Good for shooing away stray civilians, I suppose, if any unsuspecting trespassers managed to miss that garish shade of red—
'Ugh, this post is so dull! I'm dying here!'
'This is a sacred post and if you don't like it then I'll throw you in front of the next carriage—so get a hold of yourself, Maximilian!'
'…Eh.' It seems that they're impossible to miss on both the audio and visual fronts.
The guard named Maximilian leans on his halberd and nearly topples it, then sighs once he's got his balance. 'Cold, Ludwig! But seriously—doesn't it seem as though whenever we start wishing that something would happen around here, someone appears to spice things up a bit?'
'When you start wishing—and I told you just five minutes ago that we're expecting important guests to the palace to arrive within the hour!'
'Really? Well, jinx in advance! … Who were they again?'
We're close enough that I can wave my hand in an ambiguous gesture and say, 'Jinx indeed. Good day.'
They snap to attention, setting us on equal ground. 'Good day to you too.' Between piercing blue eyes and the kind of haircut you end up with after years at military academy, the guard leading the conversation—the one named Ludwig— is definitely the one I should be paying attention to. 'Do you have business with the palace?' he asks.
'Indeed. The Chatons of Fleur, at the king's service.'
Ludwig nods. 'Oh, very good.' Then he does a double take, and the other guard blurts out—
'Wait — you're girls!?'
Well, that's what I've been told all my life—and I assume I would have noticed if I'd woken up as a member of the opposite sex this morning.
Rin whispers in my ear. 'Did they not read what was on the packet?'
'You mean packaging, and probably not.' Although given that the guard querying looks like he washes his hair in pink paint, I'm inclined to believe that the chemicals must have adversely affected his mental faculties.
I clear my throat. 'Compliments to your optometrist on your powers of observation, gentlemen, but—'
The pink-haired idiot grins. 'Thank you!'
'—but I was under the impression that the palace generally knew what to expect. Also…' I grimace and say, 'Haven't we met? In Fleur?'
'You met these good looking twentysomethings when, exactly?' Elle mutters out of the side of her mouth.
'Long story. And keep it to yourself.'
Let's just say that royals—especially Viktor von Glanzreich, God of War who Conquered the Western Continent—shouldn't be allowed to wander around in public and scare the stuffing out of random girls in Fleur who were just trying to get home from work.
The other guard, Ludwig, the one I am currently inclined to like because he's less of an idiot than his companion, pulls the other guard out of the way and sighs. 'My apologies, Maximilian is always like that. And we have indeed met, and it's a pleasure to meet again. We were also certainly expecting the princes' new guards this morning, but we assumed that they would be…' His brow creases. '…Older? Or something of the sort?'
Then Maximilian snaps his fingers, saying, 'Come on, Ludwig, get a clue! These young ladies must be the princes' latest batch of hopefuls vying for an audience!'
To his credit, after having spoken with kings and consorts and people of every rank and station in between, very few people can strike me speechless and this pink-haired idiot is now one of the ranks.
Daphne rocks back and forth on her feels, opens her mouth, rests a hand on the sheathed rapier hanging from her waist, then takes her hand off again and sighs. She looks like an irritated puppy dog.
'…Sorry, gentlemen,' I say, 'but you're a tad off the mark. We've found that younger staff members are better equipped to work with younger clients.' I hold out the letter of invitation written presumably in the king's own hand and splashed with gold wax. 'We're actually—'
Maximilian smacks a hand to his forehead. 'Oh my gosh, my mistake! You've already got clearance? Then you must be the princes' latest batch of girlfriends and you've—cripes, I didn't think His Majesty signed off on stuff like this—got written permission? Fantastic!'
'This bodes ill on many levels,' Yulenka mutters.
'Omae wa atama ga warui deshita.'
'I have no idea what you just said, Rin, but I concur wholeheartedly with both of you,' I say.
Ludwig delivers a violent stab to his partner's ribs with one hand, chiding, 'Will you stop!?' and I make a mental note to ask him about his technique later. He gives us a once-over, then sighs and glances up at the palace walls. 'Perhaps I better just get Prince Licht down here to sort this out. It's like trying to herd a passel of cats…'
I exhale and count backwards from ten while saying, 'Look, you're very well-intentioned and I'm sorry if our arrival upset the proverbial apple cart of day-to-day affairs, but we are literally the Chatons de Fleur and—'
'Pardon the interruption.'
The sharp clicking of high-heeled boots echoes through the darkened stone arch of the gates. Past the guards' shoulders, I catch flickers of a coat billowing in the wind. 'I apologise for any delay…'
And a new arrival steps between the guards, dressed in academic robes and gifted with the most expressive pair of eyes I've ever seen.
'And if you'd pardon protocol for a moment…' He touches the letter in my hand with a fingertip and brings it down to his eye level, looking the thing over in an instant and reading it in its entirety upside down, before nodding and taking a step back.
He clicks his heels together and rests one hand against his chest, then offers us a formal bow, one that effuses the type of sophistication born of living your life in a role that you were made for. 'My name is Heine Wittgenstein, royal tutor to the princes of the kingdom of Glanzreich.' He looks up and holds out a hand with each finger articulate. He doesn't smile, yet his expression softens slightly. 'On behalf of the royal family, welcome to Weisburg Palace.'
He's also, to put it bluntly, pint-sized.
'A kid professor? Uff, this kingdom is on another maledetto level…' Chiara stammers.
He stiffens so quickly that I swear I hear his spine crack. 'I am not a—' He stops, as though someone just cast ice water on him. He exhales and adjusts his glasses. 'Despite all appearances to the contrary, I am a full. Grown. Adult.' He clears his throat and regains his composure. 'Despite all appearances to the contrary.'
I raise my hands. 'Duly noted. A pleasure to meet you.'
'Oh?' Elle leans down, entranced. 'But the wittle darling's so cuuute—' but I ram an elbow into her solar plexus before she can truly get going.
'My apologies also,' I add, ignoring Chiara's flustered fidgeting at my shoulder.
'Not at all,' Professor Heine replies. 'It seems to literally have become a standard part of the usual introductions.' He rests one hand on his hip and gestures between the two of us, a quiet flick with no movement wasted. 'It seems, however, that we are in the same boat…' He pauses to cast an irritated glance at the two guards at his back. '…In that we've both been subjected to an unfortunate case of being judged by appearances, no? Maximilian, Ludwig, they are indeed the literal Chatons de Fleur. Kindly bid us godspeed and let us be on our way?'
The guards blink. Then throw themselves face-first on the cobblestones with a horrific noise that likely wasn't good for their kneecaps, yelling, 'A thousand apologies, madams!'
We stare at them. I can see Verene itching to poke one of them with the toe of her boot, as though to ascertain whether they're still alive.
'…Not at all,' I finally say. Considering that once I got in a fight with some self-entitled palace guards before I could even get in a palace's gates once, this debacle is a mere hiccup. 'Apologies for the… confusion. Good day. And can I just enquire as to what is to become of our luggage?'
And they're back on their feet in an instant, flanking the gate on either side and offering us passage. 'It will be screened by the Royal Guard and delivered to your rooms within the day, madams. Also, we'll check your papers and your weapons-bearing status, if you would permit it.'
And we hand over our papers for a cursory check against the palace's records—to ensure that we really are who we say we are and all of that, given our… age. We also state and declare what weapons we have on our person, and get permits to bear arms on the premises.
It's laughably stupid. I mask a smirk with a grimace. The only member of the royal family who doesn't permit people outside the Royal Guard to bear arms in his presence is His Majesty the King. The king is so skilled with weapons and warfare that he could very well disarm someone with a touch. Whereas those who do permit arms in their presence are either young, or women, and both parties are typically untrained and in need of protection when it comes to protecting themselves.
But I'm not complaining, because there's money in it—even if the "it" is a staggering amount of royal naivety. I narrow my eyes. And that's what's curious, too.
Why is Viktor von Glanzreich, the god of war and commander-in-chief of the Western Continent's strongest army, bothering with a third-party personal protection agency staffed by women?
I shake my head. It's only day one. Some things are going to have to wait.
On seeing that we've wrapped up organising our affairs, Professor Heine draws his coat about himself and says, 'And I've been sent to escort you to your meeting with the princes, as well as to welcome you to the palace.' His eyes look like amber in the dark. 'So? Shall we begin?'
'We'd be delighted.'
And we follow the little professor through the gates, into one of the most infamous palaces of the Western Continent.
I keep my eyes on our guide's shoulders. But between walking through the dark and listening to the whispers of my girls, I can't help but feel a sudden, brief firework of excitement.
This is it. Everything has led to this. I press a hand to my bodice, to the copper wire ring that I know lies beneath my dress, strung on a chain.
I'm doing this for the Chatons. I'm doing this for a lot of reasons. But one of those reasons is myself. I wouldn't call it anything as noble as a promise, or as generic as a personal goal—it's more like a vendetta. More like pins and a string across a map, across the Western Continent.
More like someone I've sworn to find.
I look back to see the gates slowly swinging shot under the hands of the guards. Maximilian catches my eye, and slings his halberd across his shoulder with a grin, a wink, and a wave. 'Welcome to the madhouse, girls!'
'All right, that's enough—a thousand push ups for that attitude of yours, now!' Ludwig barks.
I lift a hand, in farewell and casual salute. I've learned a lot over the years, but one of those things is that you can never tell whether you'll enjoy your stay somewhere before you go. But I know that I'll always exploit every loophole and facet of a place until the day I pack my things and depart.
And the gates slam shut.