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Date: 31 December, 10:04 PM
Location: Mont-Blanc, Aetherland Navy Training Ground — Commander's Office
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Commander Lucien Vaast was already reaching for the phone.
His fingers trembling.
His breath uneven.
"A princess... alone... here—"
But then —
Selene spoke.
Voice calm.
Flat.
Threatening.
"Sir, if you call someone to pick me up..."
"I swear... if I ever reach seventeen..."
"I'll randomly select an officer for deployment to Alganiztan."
"And I'll choose you."
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Silence.
Then —
Commander Vaast laughed.
Genuinely.
The kind of laugh that came from real fear turned into respect.
He placed the phone down.
"Brave words for someone half my height."
He motioned to the chair.
"Come, Your Highness. Please. Have a seat."
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Selene sat.
Soaked.
Still.
Like a ghost wearing a coat three sizes too big.
The Commander walked to his desk.
Opened a drawer.
Pulled out a thin folder — stamped with the Imperial Navy Emblem.
He slid it across the desk.
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RECRUITMENT FORM
Imperial Navy: Mountain and Aerial Division
Minimum Entry Age: 17
He smiled as if this were all a joke.
"If you came here to spend your winter holiday... just for a day..."
"You're welcome to enjoy the... ambiance."
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Selene didn't blink.
She stared at him —
Eyes red like coals left in the ash.
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"We're at war."
"The requirement is no longer relevant."
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Vaast raised a brow.
"You should challenge a general or an admiral if you're serious."
She reached into her coat.
Pulled out two objects.
Deliberate.
Silent.
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The Wooden Knife.
Hand-carved. Worn.
Eldric Granted. "The Knife of Oath"
Only thirty in history ever received it.
Symbol of rooted loyalty.
Passed from Emperor to Legends.
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The Verzetskruis 1940 Medal.
Second World War.
Given only to the ninety bravest resistance figures of old.
Symbol of defiance.
Of survival.
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The commander stared.
Silent.
His tone changed.
Lower.
"Who gave you these, Your Highness?"
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Selene's voice came like frost:
"Someone didn't give it to me."
"I earned it."
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A pause.
Then her fingers clenched around the knife.
Eyes lowering.
Voice heavy with something deeper than pride.
"Admiral Willem van der Decken."
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Commander Vaast froze.
As if struck.
"That name..."
He whispered —
"The Poseidon."
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The Hero of the Imperial Navy.
The one who commanded the Tempest Fleet.
The only man to ever break the blockade of the Black Bay.
Feared.
Respected.
Vanished.
And now...
his name spoken by a half-frozen child who walked through a blizzard alone.
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Vaast looked at her again —
Really looked.
Her hand — bruised, red, cracked from cold.
Fingernails broken.
Sleeves torn from climbing.
Her breath — shallow.
Unsteady.
Then —
She collapsed.
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He rushed forward — catching her before her head hit the floor.
His heart pounded.
His mind raced.
"This girl... she reached us."
"Twelve years old..."
"Carrying Poseidon's relics."
"Carrying his scars."
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He called the medics.
But in his mind, a single phrase echoed:
This is no princess.
This is the curse of Poseidon.
Returned.
Reborn.
And ready to command storms again.
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