August 1955
Location: Barcelona Naval Port, Aetherland Territory
Crisis: The Second Global Plague
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The world was locked down.
1955 — The Black Plague swept through ports and capitals.
Infection spread in whispers.
Fear marched faster than armies.
Barcelona was quarantined.
Naval ships anchored, unable to dock.
Tents filled the harbor.
Medics wore full-body suits.
Gas masks.
Double gloves.
No names. Only numbers.
And still — the bodies kept coming.
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A naval cruiser groaned into port —
Already too late.
The infection had spread before they even left the last coast.
Tatiana Romanov — now 26 —
Stormed the gangway with her Red Cross team.
Red band on her sleeve.
Fire in her stride.
She stepped over corpses in the hallway.
Men collapsed mid-meal in the canteen.
Others, still strapped to bedposts.
Too late for most.
But not for everyone.
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Evacuation began.
Those still breathing were pulled to shore.
Moved to triage tents.
Screams echoed in soft Spanish.
Orders shouted in Aetherlandic.
Tubes.
Morphine.
Names scribbled on chalkboards.
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Inside Tent C7 —
He lay there.
Panting.
Pale.
Half-conscious.
The Ghost Admiral.
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Tatiana pushed through.
Still wearing her mask.
Pulled it down.
Stared.
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"You again."
Her voice — flat.
"Admiral Ghost. Still driving a ship."
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His eyes fluttered open.
Tried to smirk.
"It's not driving... it's sailing, silly girl..."
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Tatiana checked his pulse.
Eyes.
Pupils.
Tongue.
Her hands were firm.
Professional.
"I think you've become a comedian now."
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"Goddamnit—"
He coughed hard.
Grabbed the edge of the cot.
"I saved this fleet! Ordered them back to base myself!"
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Tatiana nodded.
Calm.
Clinical.
But her eyes softened.
"I know."
"You saved the Imperial Navy. One third made it because of you."
"...Sir General."
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"I AM ADMIRAL—"
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She laughed.
The kind that shook her shoulders.
Not mockery.
But affection.
"You've been sobbing too much on yourself, old man."
She placed a hand on his chest.
"Blood pressure's a mess."
"You're overworked. Again."
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He scowled.
She leaned closer.
"Don't worry. Only 10% of them fell."
"The rest — that's my job now."
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A pause.
She pulled off her gloves.
Smiled wickedly.
"By the way... General."
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He sighed — exhausted — defeated.
"I am Admiral..."
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Tatiana grinned wider.
"And I am..."
She stood tall.
Pulled off her outer coat.
Her uniform glowed beneath the lights — a symbol the world trusted.
"Leader of the International Red Cross."
"Tatiana Romanov."
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She winked.
"One day, I'll make sure you get a wooden souvenir from the Emperor himself."
"Maybe with your real rank carved on it."
She laughed again —
Soft.
Free.
Alive.
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1956 – IMPERIAL COURT HALL
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The hall was gold.
Trumpets echoed.
Medals glinted under chandelier fire.
Admiral Willem van der Decken stood before Emperor Eldric.
Uniform perfect.
Hair grey.
Back straight.
The Emperor extended a wooden box.
Inside —
The Knife of Oath.
An Eldric Standard.
Hand-carved.
Sealed with royal wax.
Only 30 had ever received one.
Now, he was among them.
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The guests applauded.
Camera bulbs flashed.
He turned — stepping down the royal staircase —
Eyes scanning the crowd.
And there she was.
Tatiana Romanov.
No crown.
No medallion.
Just her.
Laughing with a foreign diplomat.
She looked up.
Met his gaze.
Gave a wide grin.
And a single, thumbs-up.
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He blinked.
Then smiled.
Not because he needed her respect.
But because she never gave him anything except the truth.
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She saved his life twice.
She never bowed once.
And somehow, he was happy for that.
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He looked down at the wooden dagger in his hand.
Gripped it tightly.
"Too arrogant to die."
He lived because she refused to let him fall in silence.
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