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May 1981 — Athens Secured, 24 Hours Later
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The flag of Aetherland flew again over the battered city.
Smoke still rose from shattered rooftops.
Gunfire echoed faintly in the distance — isolated pockets of resistance, nothing more.
But the south was secure.
The empire had won.
At least — on paper.
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Across the forward base —
built in the ruins of the old Athenian naval yards —
soldiers moved like ants under gray Mediterranean skies.
Special Forces still patrolled the ridges.
Maritime units reinforced the shattered docks.
And within the compound —
Selene von Aetherwald walked through the main corridor.
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She passed the canteen.
Her steps sharp.
Her posture perfect.
Her navy-grey uniform cutting clean lines across the smoky light.
Around her —
Salutes snapped into place.
Not crisp.
Not loyal.
Mandatory.
Mechanical.
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Behind her back, whispers bloomed.
Low.
Cowardly.
Murmured by men and women who had bled —
but not bled enough to understand who she was.
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"Romanov blood..."
"Law and order walking on two legs..."
"Moving coffin under the sea, that's all submarines are..."
"She never even talks to anyone... just a title on boots..."
"Mother Tatiana's daughter... pfft..."
Mocking laughter crackled like weak fire.
Insults thrown like knives.
Because cowards always hated what they could not reach.
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Selene heard them.
Every word.
She didn't break stride.
Didn't flinch.
Didn't turn.
Because a Romanov didn't need to acknowledge cowards.
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Until—
Something else caught her attention.
A sharper sound.
A disruption.
Not toward her —
but toward someone else.
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Across the canteen —
A female soldier —
orange-haired, slim, wearing the torn insignia of a different fleet —
stood alone.
Soup bowl shattered at her feet.
Her hand shaking slightly.
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The man she had splashed — a taller soldier, rank insignia crooked from ego —
grabbed her wrist roughly.
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"You gonna pay for that, sweetheart?"
He leered.
Sneering.
Around him, others laughed.
Encouraging.
Circling.
Predators smelling blood.
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"Come on, have some fun with us."
The orange-haired soldier tried to pull away.
Her boots scraped the tiled floor.
Eyes darting.
Fear.
Real.
Raw.
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The man's grip tightened.
He yanked her arm.
Twisted it —
a casual cruelty, like snapping a twig.
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"My rank's higher than yours, Private."
He spat at her.
Drew back his fist —
Ready to drive it into her stomach.
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The others held her by the shoulders.
Laughing louder.
Feeding off the spectacle.
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And then—
silence.
Complete.
Crushing.
The kind of silence that falls just before judgment.
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Selene had stopped walking.
She stood five meters behind the man.
Straight.
Immovable.
Like a sword drawn without ceremony.
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The men around the scene noticed first.
Eyes widening.
Feet stepping back instinctively —
as if the air itself grew too sharp to breathe.
But the bully —
Too drunk on false power —
Too blind —
Didn't see.
Didn't care.
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He swung his fist.
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THUD.
The punch drove into the orange-haired soldier's gut.
She gasped — folding inward — falling to her knees.
Pain blossomed across her face.
Tears sprang to her eyes.
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And before he could finish his sneer—
Selene moved.
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FAST.
A blur.
In one smooth, calculated motion —
She grabbed a fork from a nearby table.
Spun it in her hand —
and stabbed it straight into the back of the man's hand,
pinning it to the table.
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He screamed — a high, broken thing.
Shock and pain replacing all arrogance.
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He turned —
about to lash out —
but froze when he saw who stood behind him.
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Selene von Aetherwald.
Her face like carved marble.
Red eyes burning cold.
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She leaned forward.
Voice low.
Every syllable a blade against his soul.
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"My rank..."
"Is higher than yours."
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The entire canteen stopped breathing.
Chairs scraped back.
Cups dropped from nerveless fingers.
No one dared move.
No one dared speak.
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Selene stared him down —
long enough for him to feel his rank, his pride, his very existence collapse inside him.
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Then —
She spoke again.
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"Dismissed."
"All of you."
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The men around the bully —
the ones who had cheered, laughed, grabbed —
fled.
Dropped their trays.
Stumbled over chairs.
Retreated without dignity, without courage.
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The man she had pinned —
weeping, bleeding —
jerked his hand free from the fork with a scream.
Fled after them, clutching his ruined palm.
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The orange-haired soldier still knelt on the floor.
Breathing hard.
Staring at Selene.
Eyes wide with disbelief.
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Selene knelt slowly.
Picked up the broken soup bowl pieces one by one.
Offered a hand to the girl —
No words.
No ceremony.
Only a simple, unbreakable act.
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The girl took her hand.
Silent.
Trembling.
Selene helped her stand.
Nodded once.
A small nod —
more powerful than any speech.
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Then she turned —
and walked out of the canteen.
No medals.
No salutes.
No fanfare.
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Only respect left in the wake of her silence.
And fear.
All eyes followed Selene as she walked toward the far exit.
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But then —
A voice.
High.
Clear.
Unshaken.
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"I AM ROXANNE BEAUMONT!"
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The words sliced through the stunned silence.
Selene paused mid-step.
The entire room turned —
soldiers, officers, technicians —
heads snapping toward the sound.
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Near the shattered table —
the orange-haired soldier —
young, small, her uniform still disheveled from the assault —
stood at full attention.
Face flushed.
Hands at her sides like iron.
Eyes burning.
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"I AM THE BEST NAVY ENGINEER — OR SOON WILL BE!"
Her voice cracked slightly — but she didn't falter.
Her boots scraped back —
heels clicking together —
and she snapped a full salute.
Right hand sharp.
Back straight as a mast.
Saluting Selene.
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"AND I WILL BUILD A SHIP FOR YOU!"
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The words echoed.
Crashing through the canteen louder than any battle anthem.
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An old veteran, stunned, tried to sip his coffee —
and poured it straight onto the table without noticing.
A spoon clattered to the floor.
Chairs screeched.
Murmurs exploded.
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But Roxanne Beaumont didn't blink.
She stared at Selene —
Not as a superior.
Not as a princess.
Not even as a commander.
But as the living legacy of a woman she had adored her whole life:
Tatiana Romanov.
The People's Queen.
The beacon lost too soon.
Now reborn, silently walking among them again.
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Selene turned.
Slowly.
She met Roxanne's burning gaze.
Her red eyes —
empty so often —
flickered, just once, with something close to recognition.
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For a heartbeat, the two worlds — past and future —
stood perfectly balanced on a whisper.
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Selene gave a small nod.
Small.
Barely visible.
But real.
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Then she turned again.
Continued walking —
out of the canteen,
out of the chaos,
out of their reach.
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But Roxanne remained saluting.
Even long after Selene disappeared beyond the steel doors.
Because some oaths aren't given to be heard.
They are given to be lived.
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And thus —
in a ruined canteen, under a tattered flag —
The Phantom Empress gained her first true architect.
The girl who would one day build her a ship strong enough to carry vengeance across oceans.
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