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May 1981 — Athens Forward Base
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The Mediterranean evening bled across the cracked rooftops.
The city slept uneasily under the Aetherland flag.
A broken victory.
A shallow silence.
Everyone knew it wouldn't last.
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Selene von Aetherwald walked briskly along the outer courtyard.
Uniform perfect.
Footsteps precise.
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From the side —
Captain Pieter van Deen —
Commander of the battered 28th Fleet —
fell into step beside her.
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Selene noticed immediately.
She halted.
Turned.
Saluted.
A movement sharp enough to slice the tension from the air.
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Pieter returned the salute — informal but solid.
He smiled slightly, falling into step beside her.
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"Good success with the submarine operation, Your Highness."
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Selene exhaled — a dry sigh escaping her lips.
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"Thank you, sir."
She shook her head.
Voice cold but laced with something almost like humor:
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"Sometimes I curse my crew."
"Sometimes I think about letting them sink into the ocean."
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Pieter laughed.
A real, hearty laugh — rare in these haunted ruins.
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"Hahaha. I know you wouldn't do it, Your Highness."
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Selene's lips barely twitched.
The ghost of a smile.
She answered plainly:
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"Of course not, sir."
"They are brave soldiers."
"They leave their families."*
"They dive into the black without knowing if the sea will turn their ship into a coffin at any moment."
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Pieter nodded, his amusement fading into a heavier respect.
They both knew the truth:
Submarine duty wasn't heroism.
It was volunteering to die slowly, invisibly.
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"Your submarine is ready, Your Highness."
"We will depart soon."
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His tone shifted.
More serious now.
He leaned closer.
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"Don't make loud orders."
"Spetsnaz are already embedded around the port."
"Tell your officers to embark quietly."
"Within the hour."
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Selene snapped a crisper salute.
No questions.
No delay.
She turned —
Heading toward her assembled crew who waited near the loading piers —
among the shadows and broken towers of Athens.
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But before she was out of reach —
Pieter called again.
His voice almost casual —
but edged with something sharper underneath.
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"Are you carrying any weapons, Your Highness?"
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Selene stopped.
Half-turned.
From the inner pocket of her uniform —
she pulled out a worn object wrapped in a soft cloth.
She unwrapped it slowly.
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The blade gleamed dully under the twilight.
Old.
Simple.
Weighted with history.
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The Knife of the Oath.
Forged under blood.
Carried by the man they once called Poseidon —
Admiral Willem van der Decken.
Passed now into her hands.
Not a weapon.
Not a relic.
An inheritance.
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Selene spoke calmly.
Not for pride.
Not for fear.
Just the truth.
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"Always in my pocket, sir."
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Pieter chuckled again —
lower this time.
Almost mournful.
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"That Poseidon's artifact, eh?"
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Selene wrapped the knife carefully back in cloth.
Secured it close to her heart.
Then she looked at him.
Eyes unblinking.
Voice even softer — but carrying the weight of iron.
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"No, sir."
"It's not his artifact anymore."
"It's my oath now."
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Pieter held her gaze for a moment longer.
Then smiled.
A real smile.
The kind given between soldiers —
between survivors.
He said nothing more.
He didn't need to.
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And Selene walked toward her ship.
Toward the black sea waiting to test her vows.
Toward the wars yet to be written in blood and silence.
The Knife of the Oath pressed against her heart.
Not as a memory.
Not as a burden.
But as a promise.
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