'This is it.' Klein thought.

The sun had risen jut a while ago, and every direction he looked, the sky was filled with white. He could see a few of the other ships of the task force, frigates, transports, and four mean looking ships of the line, but most of the fleet was lost in the clouds, hopefully still invisible to the blockade forces.

To his left, Kindjal was checking everyone's gear one last time and to his right, Enya was furiously flipping through the pages of a small, handwritten notebook of spells that she had started to keep just after Klein had joined the squad.

The deck of the Tristanian Third Rater Vrijheid was jam packed with people doing the same thing. Tightening knots, rechecking the fasteners and seams of their armor, examining weapons. Even Klein had felt the urge, and indulged in it, inspecting the blade of his Katana carefully for any nicks or scratches.

"Feeling nervous Enya-chan?" Calcifer asked as he took a few practice swings with his broadsword.

"Cal, if you make one more rib, so help me . . ." Kindjal warned. Enya had grown gradually more sober since setting out, and the shift in her normally spiteful demeanor had the whole squad a little on edge. Everyone except Klein.

Klein still got the shakes before a fight too. The trick was not letting anyone else see it. You had to keep your cool on the outside even while you were freaking out on the inside. If you could do that, the calm would be contagious and spread to everyone else. But it was harder today then it ever had been before. Even during the extermination of the Murderers's Guild Laughing Coffin.

Enya didn't seem to have heard the comment. She was too busy mouthing the invocations of her spells. She'd turned out to be good with her magic, really good, to the point that she'd even gotten offers to transfer to one of the mage support units during the mob extermination missions.

Klein guessed it was because she was bilingual. Enya had once explained to him that the Words of Power used to invoke spells were deliberately made difficult for native Japanese speakers to pronounce properly.

A loud whistle split across the deck and everyone stopped in their preparations, turning heads to the helm at the front of the ship. The Vrijheid's First Officer conferred with the Captain before turning to the gathered Fae and airmen. "Attention all hands." The First mate's voice thundered out loud and clear, amplified by his wand. "We have just been given the order to commence the operation along with the following flag message from the lead ship Rosenkrans. 'Tristain confides that every man will do his duty.'"

The heads of the sailors, Noble Officers, and armsmen bowed solemnly. Even the Faeries gave in to a moment of silence. They weren't doing this for Tristain, far from it. But they did have their own reasons to fight to reflect on.

'You better still be alive when I get there Kirito.' Klein thought as he hefted the still wrapped package that he had received from Liz. Dual Deciders were a reassuring weight on his back as he re-sheathed his Katana and gave Enya a small pat on the shoulder.

Having given the crew a moment to themselves, the Captain of the Vrijheid called out clearly. "Rigging Officer, are preparations complete?"

Standing below the elevated helm, overseeing the masts and their attendant riggers, another Noble Officer saluted. "Aye, preparations are complete Captain!"

Nodding, the Captain turned and took firm hold of the railing. "Very well then. All hands, prepare for Cloudburst!"

"All hands, prepare for Cloudburst!" The First Officer repeated and an explosion of activity swept across the deck.

"Prepare for Cloudburst!"

"Aye! Tie down those lines and get yourselves tethered lads!"

"Cannons?"

"Secure!"

"Sails?"

"Secure!"

"Crew?

"Secure!"

Klein took a handhold beside Enya and held on tightly. Unlike the Tristanian crew, the Faeries didn't need safety lines. But from the sound of it, a Cloudburst could be a pretty rough maneuver if you weren't tied down.

Having approached under the clouds and the cover of darkness. The first the Albionian ships would know of the rather large Tristanian fleet was when their picket ships received their first soundings. The second they would know of the rather large Tristanian fleet was when those same pickets were blown from the skies.

"Finally." Enya whispered reluctantly. "Here we go."

"Ready for Cloudburst!"

Turning to a brass voice tube that was connected to the lower decks. The Captain shouted. "Chief Engineer, set the Ballasting Engine for maximum elevation. Commence Cloudburst!"

* * *

"Are you ready?" Prince Wales Tudor asked Kirito.

The Prince was still a long way from fully recovered from his brush with death. Though he was slowly regaining his strength, he now walked with the assistance of a cane to steady himself and had been urged to avoid strenuous activity by his physicians. Of course, any suggestion that he should rest or delegate some of his duties to men like Paris and Lucane was met by contempt or simply ignored outright.

"Of course not." Kirito answered as Kirito rather than 'Midori'. Thankfully, there would be no reason to keep up his disguise once the battle had begun. He was currently outfitted in a black jacket and pants with a pair of borrowed swords slung across his back. "What about you?"

Wales closed his eyes contemplatively. "I feel . . . Anxious. Like this battle has been too long in coming."

Taking a breath of the cold morning air, Kirito willed his hands to stop opening and closing. He just wanted it to be over.

For two years, Kirito had spent almost every day fighting for his life and for his freedom. Any one of those days could have been his last, a misstep, a miscalculation, or even just bad luck could have done him in despite keeping a healthy safety margin. That was simply the risk run by a solo player. He had coped by first growing numb and then accepting of the reality. Most nights he'd had no difficulty returning to his home in Aincrad, going to bed, and waking up the next morning to repeat the whole process.

The exception had been the nights before Boss raids. Those were always different, ever since the first floor. He'd never been able to stop wondering what might go wrong. On those nights, Kirito had dozed more than slept.

On the eve of battle, it had been no different. The atmosphere had been too much like the one on the 75th floor. Too much uncertainty, too many unknowns. Too many things to lose.

That night, he had lain awake with Asuna, holding her close, more than a little afraid to let go despite her assurance. He wasn't really sure whether he had fallen asleep or had only dozen into the morning hours but he had come fully alert when Lucane had roused them from bed well before dawn to prepare.

Kirito watched the Prince from the corner of his eye. They currently stood at the top of one of the citadel towers, alone save for the readying cannon crews. Asuna was making final preparations with the rest of the Knights of Blood before joining them.

"You shouldn't say it like that. You make it sound like you want to die." Kirito said.

Wales snorted. "What I want doesn't matter, only what my Kingdom needs."

Kirito sighed. He really did have a death wish. "Maybe they need their Prince."

Before Wales could answer, the tower door opened, Asuna arriving to join them, the sword Split Moon resting easily on her hip.

Maki had really done miracles. Asuna's previous coat had been damaged beyond repair, but the seamstress had managed to cannibalize most of the fabric, hemming and redesigning to make the new garment serviceable in flight.

"Sorry if I've kept you waiting. The defense squads have their orders, and Nishida and Baku have all of the civilians organized." She took a small breath. "We're as ready as we'll ever be."

"Good." Wales muttered. "It won't be long now."

Kirito reached out and took Asuna's hand gently in his own. Neither of them knew what was going to happen today. But one thing was for certain. There was going to be a battle for Newcastle. The Rebels could not tolerate the loss of face that the evacuation would cost them, and if pressed, they might attempt to storm the Fortress.

There were tens of thousands of soldiers on the siege line. Over thirty thousand commoner troops alone, and they were supported by everything from cannons and Mage Knights, to Orc shock troops bought or coerced into serving under the Rebel flag.

The defenses of Newcastle would make an assault hideously costly, which was why the Rebels had resorted to siege works, but they would not be able to withstand a committed assault. Preparations had already been made to hold the walls during the evacuation and to ensure that when the Fortress did fall, there would be nothing left for the Rebels to claim.

The trio stood in silence beneath the slowly lightening sky. The mists that spread out beneath the cliffs of Albion became tinged with a haze of gold. A few of the blockade frigates were visible, floating just above the clouds like ships at sea.

"Wales. I want to thank you again for everything." Asuna said quietly as she watched the horizon.

The Prince smiled. "It was hardly anything at all. In fact, I am the one who should be thanking you." He shook his head. "May the Founder grant us fortitude and victory today."

A sound like distant thunder peeled across the sky, once, then twice, then again and again in rapid succession. The sound of cannons. That was their signal.

Kirito and Asuna exchanged a small nod. Both Faeries spread their wings wide, Kirito summoning his own as Asuna's split into their six winged flight configuration. Without another word, they took to the skies.

Admiral Robert Blake was an old sailor. He'd fought in more than one war and had survived countless battles. He'd lead frigate squadrons and battle lines. He'd organized aerial assaults and their repulse, and conducted numerous blockades and anti-piracy missions. There were was little left in this world that could surprise him.

And so. As his officers shouted to one another, demanding explanations and calling out orders to equally at a loss airmen, Admiral Robert Blake walked down the deck of the HMS Thunderchild like a madman taking a stroll while the world ended all about him.

"Four more frigates spotted south, range six leagues!" A mage watchman shouted down from the observation mast that commanded a view over the immense forward sails of the Second Rater.

"Signal flags from the Viper she has engaged in battle with three frigates. Heavy damage reported in the initial broadsides." Another watchman reported from his station on the starboard side of the ship.

"Report from the lower watch nest!" The Senior watch officer called. "Eight more ships, cloud bursting from below, frigates and transports."

"Admiral, what are your orders?" Captain Stayner pressed as he chased after his Admiral, alternating between begging further instruction and shouting commands to the rest of the crew. "Bring the ship about on a North Eastern heading and signal the frigates to form into the battle line behind us."

Blake sighed inwardly. He didn't yet know who their attacker was, but rushing into the unknown would not help them. "Belay that order." He instructed.

"Sir?" Stayner asked.

"Our fleet is too spread out to properly form up, we'll only lose more ships in the confusion." Blake gestured vaguely to the East where the attacking ships had first been spotted, rising from the clouds.

The blockade's first warning had been the signal flares launched by one of the picket ships. The initial warning had been followed soon after by signals of 'ship lost'. The unknown fleet had emerged from the mists soon after, cloud bursting into sight one after the other.

After taking command of the Rebel ships, the Squadron of the Holy Navy of the Glorious Movement of the Reconquistadors, he rolled his eyes, Blake had arrayed his fleet in a standard blockade formation. This consisted of three concentric circles of ships designed to prevent a breakout, catch ships attempting a blockade run, and keep watch for approaching blockade runners and relief forces.

While suitable for isolating a port and preventing the running of supplies, the blockade formation was ill suited to the purpose of guarding against a concentrated attack by a force of equal or even smaller size. The spread out formation invited defeat in detail by a consolidated battle line. Indeed, part of the task of the pickets was to provide advanced warning so that the main force could array itself for battle in the event that a relief fleet was spotted. A task that they had performed admirably even as the first three picket ships were sunk by surprise.

The problem was, there shouldn't even have been a relief fleet. The Royalists were alone and isolated without an ally in this world. Who would come to their aid?

Certainly not Gallia. From as much as his contacts had been able to determine, Reconquista's main foreign financier had ties to powerful interests within that country. Romalia possessed a relatively advanced but small war fleet and would never risk their ships so far from home. That only realistically left Germania. Reconquista agents had confirmed that the far Northern Kingdom had been lavishing treasure on its army and navy in preparation for war.

"Flag Officer. Signal to all picket ship Captains!" Blake commanded. "You have permission to break formation to preserve your ships and the lives of your crews. All picketing ships are instructed to scatter and reform with the rest of the fleet while denying battle to the enemy." The pickets had already done their jobs and the attackers showed no inclination to chase them. There was no point in wasting good ships. "To all other ships. Captains are to make best speed directly North West or South West around Newcastle and gather above the siege encampment."

The instructions were met by silence from Captain Stayner.

Blake turned to his second in command. "Are you going to relay my orders, Captain?"

The Captain shook his head as if clearing his mind. "Sir, these orders, the blockade will be broken . . ."

"The blockade is already broken." Blake answered. "Just look again at their formations."

From their vantage on the top deck of the Thunderchild, they could see the bows of the enemy vessels beginning to point towards new castle as the two and half dozen ships formed into three columns, intent on forcing their way through before the blockade fleet could reform to counter attack.

"Their objective isn't primarily to engage us." Blake explained calmly. "Rather, this attack appears to be aimed solely at breaking through the blockade. We've identified transport ships, correct?"

"Aye sir, six vessels of transport draft." Captain Stayner agreed before his eyes suddenly went wide. "Six ships, that's more than enough to evacuate all of Newcastle! Admiral, our orders forbid us to allow King James or Prince Wales to slip us by. You must order an immediate attack." Stayner advised gravely.

Blake shook his head head. "No, that I will not do."

As he spoke, a frigate, the Swiftwing came about, caught in the path of the southernmost echelon of the attacking fleet. The frigate managed a single broadside salvo against a ship of similar size and armament before being answered by the batteries of six of her sister ships in turn. The light Albionian frigate was blasted into a wreck by the multiple salvos, two of the three foresails along her port flank splintering and falling free along with splinter nets and any airmen too slow or unlucky to cut their safety lines free in time.

"We haven't the time to form a battle line. Even if we did, we would only be able to engage one of those formations before they reach the cover of the Fortress cannons. We will withdraw for now to minimize losses and plan to catch them when they attempt to retreat." Blake informed the Captain.

Stayner was a competent hand at captaining a ship, but his selection to command the Thunderchild had more to do with his stoic loyalty to the cause rather than his tactical acumen. Blake rather suspected that the Captain had been set as his watcher. Still, the advantage of an intelligent watcher was that they could be reasoned with and made to understand necessity. Stayner was torn by Blakes frank assessment. But could offer no alternatives.

"Relay orders to that effect to all ships and ready a messenger to request reinforcements from the battle line squadron at York. We will hold the attackers here until they can arrive." Blake instructed.

"Yes, Sir."

"Admiral, Captain, you should see this Sirs!" The port side watch officer beckoned them over to where he stood before an air lens aimed at the center line of ships.

Blake tried to blink away the black dots that surrounded the leading vessels and then paused as he realized that what he was seeing was not a trick of the eyes. Leaping free from the decks of the ships before taking to the skies themselves, Blake was left to wonder who could gather so many wind mages able to use flight spells.

Placing a hand on the watch officer's shoulder, he urged for the man to further resolve the image and then was surprised once more to see the shimmering wings that had been blurred out in the morning fog.

"By the founder!" Captain Stayner declared.

"Well then." Blake decided. "I suppose we can at least say who is attacking." And he found it a strange relief.

If it had been Romalia, or even Germania, the political and military implications would have been far reaching. Now at least he could rest easy knowing that Tristain was simply choosing to start the war early. Though their new allies brought their own complications.

Still at a loss for what he was seeing, Stayner turned to the Admiral for an explanation. "Sir?"

"There's no use hiding it." The word would spread soon enough to the men and the other ships. "Send signals at once to the fleet. Faeries are afield."

Setting down his razor. Sir Terrance Dunwell examined his reflection in the Mirror. There was more gray now than black in his hair and beard, and much of the black was more of a dark gray really rather than his original hair color. Perhaps Viscount Blake was right, he was indeed getting too old for this sort of of work. Fighting from atop an airborne mount was a young man's business and he hadn't been a young man for many years. His recent injury certainly was reminding him of his age.

"Let me get that for you." Scirroco offered as he fumbled at the collar of his shirt.

His familiar had scavenged a modest but flattering dress from somewhere and currently had her hair done up in a neat and professional looking bun. After sending his 'mount' off to convalesce at his home outside Londinium, he'd arranged for his 'secretary' to be sent for to assist him with light office duties while Sir Wells took up direct command of the 4th Dragon Knight Squadron. What was left of it.

He grimaced, partly from pain and partly from recollection as he thought of his run ins with the Faerie Girl and her accursed troop. Between her, her soldiers, and that monster she had summoned, the 4th Squadron had been whittled down by almost a half. They were being sent fresh recruits to restore them to full strength, but that would hardly replace the lost experience and talent that he had spent years cultivating. The formerly elite unit's cohesion was wrecked if not destroyed completely and would take months of training to fully recover.

"That dour expression. It doesn't suit you." Scirroco muttered as she finished with his shirt.

"I don't know what you mean." Dunwell answered. "My expressions are always dour. Or so you've said."

Scirroco shrugged casually, adjusting the false spectacles that she wore as an affectation. "Mmm. concentrated dour, or content dour, sometimes even happy dour."

"I didn't know there were so many kinds." He snorted. "Don't some of those contradict?"

"Only in the inferior minds of males." Scirroco said, helping him into his jacket before stepping back to look him over. "Passable." She decided. "So . . . what were you thinking about?"

"That . . . I may be getting to old for this." He admitted, watching Scirroco closely for any hint of response. She was either as apathetic to the human condition as she claimed or a marvelous actor. He wasn't sure if she hesitated or if he simply imagined it.

His father had kept a watchdog, a loyal mutt that he'd raised from a pup. The dog had lived a full and happy life and died at the grand old age of ten. His father had been sad to see it die, even a little tearful. But that was the expected order of things and before long he was back to his old self. Dunwell recalled this as he wondered if Scirroco viewed him the same way as his father had seen that dog.

"You're certainly qualified to train cavalry, and the war is going to create a demand to expand the army. It's an opportunity to mentor more people who share your ideals. Or," she observed, "I suppose you could take a less strenuous post. Garrison duty . . ."

Dunwell rolled his eyes in mortification. "Where children are sat, incompetence are stored, and real soldiers go to die. I am not that old yet." He frowned. "Actually, I'm strongly taking Viscount Blake's suggestion under advisement."

Green eyes blinked once. "The post in Londinium."

"It may be the best of leads." Dunwell confessed. "I would be working directly under Lord Cromwell and Lady Sheffield."

In all honesty he had exhausted his other options, and he wasn't the only one. Blake was at his whits end as well, as were their other contacts. The money and resources lead back to Gallia, and then nothing. There was no logic or reason by which Reconquista's benefactor could be singled out. But they had to either be an alliance of nobles or else an incredibly powerful individual to provide the resources and expertise that they did. Perhaps an Archduke or one of the Royal Family. It only made sense and was yet more proof that the Mad King's control was slipping over his own Kingdom.

"Beside, I may be able to do some more good their. I can be a another voice of reason beside Blake and Sir Bowood."

"In that Viper's nest?" Scirocco asked. "Do you perhaps have a death wish?"

He chuckled softly, starting his ribs to aching. "It is a vipers nest as you say. So fortunate that I'll have a dragon at my side."

Sciroccor opened her mouth to answer.

"Dun-well-sa-ma!" A painfully off key and sing song voice split through the camp.

Dunwell felt his mood plummet further. It was far too early in the morning to have to deal with this. To have to deal with it. To have to deal with her.

"Dun-well-sa-ma!" Aki cried as she skidded to a halt at the entrance to Dunwell's tent.

"Yes, what is . . . it." The Dragon Knight paused as he looked the zombie over from head to foot. "Aki, why are you soaking wet?"

The undead Faerie paused and looked down at herself. Her uniform, which had been replaced sometime in the past week, was indeed soaked down to the skin and still dripping as she stood before him.

"Oh." Aki tilted her head as she examined her arms and the way that her coat hung soppily. "Wells-sama told me that the condition of my uniform was 'disgraceful' and to go wash it right away. I didn't have any other clothes so I had to wash it myself in the river."

"I see . . . " Dunwell trailed off, staring hard at Aki.

Scirroco clicked her tongue in distaste. Remaining in her human form had given her ample time to examine Aki and the other Zombies more closely and come to a final conclusion. Something more than a mindless spell inhabited these undead. But it certainly was not the power of the Void.

Spirit magic, and very powerful at that. It was the only thing that she could think of.

Not a spell, but a lesser water spirit, a shapeless, purposeless figment of nature magic, less than a living creature, less even than a thing. Such a thing had been instilled into Aki and the other undead. Seeping into the bodies and their tissues, saturating them completely and instilling a sort of pseudo life to their flesh.

The corpses gave these lesser spirits faculty. Minds with which to think, eyes and ears to sense the world, and hands and feet in with which to touch it. All that they lacked was will. In its place they possessed unflinching Loyalty to the holder of their shared focal point.

When pressed on what this meant for combating them if the need arose, Scirroco had admitted to being at the limits of her knowledge.

Like normal zombies, fire would destroy them well enough. As an element, the intent of fire was fundamentally inimical to a water spirit and the lesser spirits inhabiting the zombies lacked the power of their elder brethren to resist. But the immolation would have to be complete lest the spirit take refuge within any remaining fluids.

A more permanent solution would be the destruction of their focus, in other words, destroying the ring worn by Lord Cromwell. Without the ring, the spirits would lose their purpose and dissipate back into shapeless nature magic.

In any case it was useful to know in the event that Lord Cromwell needed to be . . . marginalized. He found it ghoulishly amusing that having conspired to commit regicide once already, he found it all too easy to contemplate doing so again. His younger self would have been appalled.

More worrying was how Cromwell had come to possess such an artifact and what that meant about the people supporting his regime.

Dunwell was distracted from this train of thought as he heard shouts beginning to spread outside. "What's going on . . . ?" Alarm bells began to ring steadily in the distance, chiming out a pattern that started his adrenaline flowing. An attack.

"That's what I came to tell you!" Aki said brightly. "Tristain has launched a massive attack to breach the blockade of Newcastle."

Dunwell was an experienced man. There were few things that could shake him. This was one of them. "What?!"

For the first time in decades, his familiar and partner was treated to the sight of seeing him splutter in shock. "When did this start . . . how?!" No, foolish question. News must have just arrived, which meant the blockade fleet must already be engaged. He could only wish Amdiral Blake luck.

"Miss Lutece, Aki, follow." He instructed, sweeping from his tent and into the shouting and running crowds of a camp still on edge after the incursion by the demon less than a week ago.

"Aki, did you hear anything of their strength or numbers?" Dunwell asked as he walked as swiftly as his still aching body would allow. Yes, certainly getting too old for this.

Shaking her head cheerfully, her doll like smile never leaving her face, Aki replied. "I'm sorry Dunwell-sama. Wells-sama had just learned and was coming to find everyone as quickly as he could. He told me to come get you ASAP so I used my wings to fly all the way from the river!"

Dragons were already taking flight from the stables, rising and grouping into wing mate pairs before racing off in the direction of the edge of the Isle.

They found Wells and other members of the 4th Knight squadron already preparing themselves at the stables, a new arrival along with them.

"Captain!" Wells saluted smartly before relaxing as Dunwell nodded to a second man standing calmly beside a wind dragon.

"Captain Wardes." Dunwell adressed.

"Sir Dunwell." The traitorous former Viscount of Wardes replied. The man had been placed under his temporary Command after returning to the siege line. An attempt to make up for the deficiencies being felt by the 4th Squadron.

Dunwell wrinkled his nose. Though he detested himself for the hypocrisy, he found himself immediately distrustful of this man. He suspected Wardes' reasons for betraying his Sovereign were a good deal more vulgar than that of he and men like Admiral Blake. However, for the time being, their interests continued to overlap. So long as they were useful to one another, it would not be allowed to become a problem.

"Sir Wells, I've heard only of an attack. From Tristain? What have you to report?" Dunwell asked his second in command.

"Not much more." Sir Wells agreed. "But . . . The latest reports give mention of Faeries traveling with the Tristanian fleet, over a hundred of them so far."

Dunwell breathed a soft curse. Though, if Tristain of all Kingdoms was choosing to launch an attack, than the idea that the would do so with the aid of Faeries seemed hardly any more surprising.

But hundreds! He felt his mouth go dry at the thought. A single, admittedly exceptional Fae was a serious threat without wings or magic. But if these Fae were from the continent, and anything like how they were mentioned in the reports that had been trickling in, they would possess both.

"Admiral Blake is withdrawing his forces to the Siege encampment as we speak and the Dragon Knights are being ordered to sally in defense of the ships." Sir Wells finished. "I . . . took the liberty of assembling the men."

"You did well." Dunwell examined the faces of his soldiers. They were calm, serious, accepting that they might soon die in battle.

Each of them was a professional, a career soldier who he had selected to serve in the 4th squad due to their talent shared ideals. He could trust any one of them with his life. It was telling that when he had turned against Prince Edward, every man under his command had followed willingly. Today marked the end of that 4th Squadron. If the squadron even survived this fight and was not simply parted off due to losses, it would be changed beyond recognition by the new members hastily assembled to fill the gaps in their formation.

Dunwell was at a loss for what to say. For the first time he wouldn't be able to lead them in battle.

"Gentlemen."He began. "You know as much as I about the situation in the skies. More importantly, we know these skies better than any enemy of the White Isle. Sir Wells will take direct command in air and I will remain behind to coordinate our forces with Admiral Blake and the Generals. Follow your training, and you will know victory this day. 4th Squadron dismissed."

It wasn't much as speeches went, but each man gave a small nod as they passed atop their dragons. The mounts spread theirs wings, breaking into a fast lope, building speed before taking to the skies.

Captain Wardes was the last to depart, a strange look of peace spread across his face. He was no friend to Albion or Reconquista, but in this he could be relied on. And if not, the former Viscount might be powerful, but he and Scirroco had come out of more than one fight with mages more powerful than themselves.

Mounts vanishing into the sky. That left one other matter to see to. There was only one reason for Tristain to try and break the blockade around Newcastle. It had to be an effort to rescue the surviving Royalists, including King James and Prince Wales. This could not be allowed and would cost a fortune in men and ships to prevent.

They had a powerful hammer, what they needed was a scalpel. Fortunately, at Lord Cromwell's instruction, Dunwell had been crafting just such a tool since word of the Prince's survival had been received.

Dunwell took a breath and turned back to Aki. "Now then, where are the rest of your kin?"

Aki's smile widened. "Oh? Are you going to ask us to do that, Dunwell-sama?"

He nodded soberly and the girl's smile widened.

"Then I'm just like an Angel of God!" The girl chirped with pseudo pleasure and Dunwell shuddered softly.

'No Aki . . . You are nothing like an Angel.'

Guiche de Gramont, fourth son of the celebrated General Belgen de Gramont, and a loyal agent in service to the crown of his much beloved Tristain, stood solemn and resolute guard at his post. Father himself had directed that he not yield this position until relieved, that he hold the line to the last breath!

"If you're just going to stand around, you could at least help."

Guiche tried to ignore the voice.

"Millia-chan was an earth mage too. She used to use her golems to help me with heavy lifting."

He wasn't listening. The voice wasn't there and it most certainly didn't belong to a giant . . . slug monster.

"I guess you;re just useless." The slug muttered before returning to its tinkering with one of the Eagles deck guns

Guiche deflated helplessly as the casually offered insult hit bitterly home. Useless, it was what his classmates thought of him, it was what his brothers thought of him, it was what father thought of him. That was why he'd been sent here. So that he wouldn't get in the way of the proper soldiers.

Looking around the hidden docks, other than himself and the slug monster named Kimura, there were only a handful of airmen standing about and inspecting the Eagle for departure.

Theoretically, standing guard over the Eagle was an incredible honor. When the time came to abandon the fortress, the last defenders would barricade themselves within the citadel and then retreat down to the hidden docks to flee aboard the frigate. The Eagle was to be their escape ship, hundreds of lives depended on it.

But in fact, it was a duty that was doomed to succeed no matter what happened. There were only two ways to enter the docks, through the massive, hundred mail wide hole that bored from the surface down to the docks themselves and connected to the courtyard of the citadel. Or else via the dock entrance itself.

The top was defended by Newcastle Fortress, and as for the bottom entrance, it was all but unassailable thanks to the tremendous winds that rushed across Albion's underside. Only the most powerful and nimble of flying creatures or the most skilled of Royal Navigators could hope to approach without being battered to pieces.

The docks would be completely safe until Newcastle itself fell. And that was most likely why father had instructed him to stand guard here. Even he couldn't mess it up.

What was worse. He was almost pathetically . . . grateful for that.

Guiche was honest enough with himself most of the time, or so he thought.

He'd convinced himself that he could prove himself a man and earn honor the way that his brothers and father had, as a soldier on the battlefield, laying down his life in service to Tristain.

Now, he wasn't so sure.

He'd watched Captain Wardes nearly kill the Crown Prince of Albion before his very eyes. The CrownPrince, a man who had been informed was a competent triangle wind mage. And while he had done so using a wind construct, the nearly fatal blow had been delivered with a single stroke of a sword.

There had been no grand battle of clashing steel or sparking magic. It had been cold, clean, and efficient, just as his father had said it would be. And Guiche had no doubt that if the Wind Construct had not been destroyed then and their, it would have spun about and continued to kill with that same soulless efficiency until it was finally put down.

To hear it was one thing. To see it was another. Two seconds was all the time it took to be killed. Less than that even. His whole life, all seventeen years of it, could be leading up to an anonymous two second death at the point of a sword. Worse than the fear of death, was the fear of being so crushingly insignificant.

Being honest within himself. Guiche realized that he was an utter coward.

Even against mere bandits he had hidden behind the back of a girl. Certainly, Miss Midori was not a frail waif, far from it, but he hadn't known that at the time and yet had been all too willing to let her fight in his stead. What chance did he have of proving himself on a real battlefield?

He was scared out of his mind. The very idea of dying consuming him even as he sat here in the closest thing to safety in all of Newcastle.

He'd even gone so far as to swallow his pride and confide in Miss Midori the night before. She had listened as he stumbled through his explanation and his plea for help. Really, he hadn't expected anything from her. Maybe she would ignore him entirely, or maybe she would shout at him and strike him across the face as girls were want to do when faced with unreasonable demands.

Instead, he had opened his eyes as he felt a palm atop his head.

"M-Miss Midori?" Guiche stuttered.

"Don't worry about dying." She said softly, gently. Her voice was soothing and mellow and had a quality not unlike his own mother's. "You won't die tomorrow, Guiche. Asuna and I will protect everyone that we can, and they'll protect everyone they can. You'll get back to Tristain safely."

He had chuckled weakly. "I must seem pathetic to you. Begging for your help like this."

And then Midori had done something very strange. She had . . . smiled . . . not at him, but certainly for him. At any other time he would have taken it as a flirtatious invitation, but by now he was starting to recognize some of her peculiarities.

"Needing help from other people doesn't make you weaker." She shook her head. "So no, I don't think you're pathetic at all. Besides, you've helped everyone too. You warned Wales just in time, and you payed attention at York. Both of those have helped out a great deal."

Strangely he had believed her, and her words had put him at ease. "Then, thank you, Miss Midori, for . . . for your help." He stumbled out. "That is to say . . ."

Smiling again. "Good night, Guiche."

"Erm. Yes, that is . . . Goodnight . . ."

Guiche had left Midori's company as mystified then as ever before. Just what was it that allowed her to be so strong? Not just physically, he long ago decided that was an absurdity best explained by magic. What was it that made her brave? What was it that made Prince Wales brave? What made father brave? What quality was he missing that would let him face such a casual and meaningless death?

"Hey, you there!"

Guiche looked about.

"Yes you! You're not supposed to be down here. The evacuees are up on the top level."

Guiche finally realized that the shout wasn't aimed at him but at a slight figure standing at very edge of the docks where they stretched out over the tempest winds of Newcastle's underside. One of the sailors had noticed the figure, a girl, a young woman draped in a cloak who was looking about curiously as if lost.

"I'll take care of this!" Guiche shouted to the sailor.

Well, he might not have been much for bravery. But he could at least offer directions to a beautiful young woman . . . Alright, a cute young woman . . . Actually . . . that smile was very disconcerting. And now that he thought about it, how had she gotten all the way down here without him noticing. He had been paying attention, mostly.

"Miss, are you alright?" Guiche asked, noting her peculiarly pointed ears. Ah, one of the Faeries. Well, they were naturally strange, each in their own way, so who was he to say this wasn't normal behavior?

The Fae girl smiled, tilting her head to the side in a way that he thought was supposed to be charming but came off as very subtly wrong. He shook it off and reached out to grab her left wrist. "This is the military dock, you shouldn't be down here right now. Come along, I'll take you to the evacuation transports Miss . . . May I ask your name?"

"My name?" The girl asked, her smile growing wider. Guiche felt a cool, iron grip take hold of his wrist. "I'm Aki!"

"Well then Miss Aki I should . . . " Guiche trailed off as he saw a hand emerge over the edge of the deck, and then another. A pair of Faeries were hauling themselves up from below, and then another, and another. "Erm, excuse me . . . A-are you with the reinforcements?"

No, the couldn't be right. Why would reinforcing troops be arriving by the hidden dock? It was much too dangerous without Royal Navigators. This was . . . this was!

"Attack! The docks are under atta-" That was all that Guiche had a chance to shout before a bone shattering blow layed into his chest with a firm -crunch- and an explosion of pain he had never imagined possible. The noise was repeated a moment later as he bounced, almost ricocheted off the hull of the Eagle before collapsing into a pool of expanding blackness.