William stared at his reflection in the tall mirror, adjusting the lapels of his jacket-tunic-thing for what had to be the tenth time in as many minutes.
And he didn’t know why. He looked… fine. Sharp, even. The black fabric was well-cut, the silver buttons catching the light as turned to and fro. He liked the color too.
Of course, the tailor the twins had sourced for him had struggled a bit when William had explained his current rank - or lack thereof to the man.
Theoretically he was supposed to be dressed in the colors of the house he was ‘leaving’ when the ceremony started. Which was somewhat complicated by the fact that he’d unofficially given up the title of Count Redwater already - even if that wasn’t public knowledge yet. He couldn’t wear those of House Ashfield either, as by forming his own house he’d rather thoroughly separated from them.
In the end, the poor man had thrown up his hands and defaulted to black. The color of the unlanded.
William didn’t mind. It was what he was right now, technically. He was even somewhat looking forward to the shocked realizations of the crowds when he stepped out in full black – followed by Bonnlyn in his old colors.
…Though that amusement soured a bit at the thought that Xela wouldn’t be in attendance. The woman had naturally already been informed of the change in her territory’s ownership – and according to Bonnlyn had delivered a rather long string of curses aimed specifically at him.
Unfortunately, the wood elven mage-knight was now avoiding him. Doubly unfortunate, he couldn’t just order her to meet him. Nor was he shameless enough to ask Bonnlyn to do so in his stead or just ambush her at the Corsair training facility that had been set up.
It didn’t help that her claims of being too busy to meet with ‘an unlanded count’ may well have been true.
The next batch of Corsairs wouldn’t be ready for months yet, but the current fleet meant they had plenty of practice vehicles on which to train more pilots for when the new craft came off the production line.
…Provided they didn’t run through too much of the fuel that remained before Piper got that production line up and running.
He sighed.
Nothing I can do but wait for Xela to come around on her own time, he thought.
He didn’t regret giving up his title and foisting it off on Bonnlyn. He didn’t need it anymore now that he was going to be a ducal-consort. And with the actual territory occupied, it was basically just an empty title. One that would genuinely be useful for his teammate to have while she was organizing the Corsair production facilities they were setting up in Summerfield.
Perhaps I could have been a bit less… blasé about the whole thing though, he thought.
Marline claimed he’d been indulging his inner drama-prince. He argued he was just being efficient.
Because if he was really as big a drama-prince as she claimed, he wouldn’t be so nervous about what was about to happen!
He was getting married!
And he had absolutely no memories to draw on from his previous life to help! George had no template for how a man was supposed to feel when he was about to bind himself to two women in front of half the country’s ruling class.
George had never been married before. The man had lived his entire life focused on his work. He’d had precious few romantic relationships of any kind. Not long lasting ones anyway.
Nor friendships either towards the end, William thought. Just a few family members who stubbornly kept checking in on me from time to time.
Though even they tapered out towards the end…
George had died without ever truly loving anyone. Ever feeling a true connection.
And for the first time in either life… William found that thought… sad.
And almost immediately irritation flared up in him in response.
Hot and dark.
Because George had been a man focused on more important things. He was a man focused on more important things. As he should be here and now.
Just like before. In his other life.
This marriage, it was just a task they had to do before he got back to the real work.
…No, that felt wrong.
The twins weren’t just some… obstacle he needed to get through.
He was fond of them. He liked them. It wasn’t love. He didn’t think. That would be something that would come in time.
Probably.
But even just the affection he felt growing in him deserved to be treated as more than just a distraction!
Shouldn’t it?
He frowned as the two emotions clashed within him.
“You look like someone pissed in your oats,” Bonnlyn said from behind him. “I genuinely can’t tell if you’re terrified or pissed off.”
William turned. The dwarf was already dressed up for her own ceremony, decked out in the red, white and blue of House Redwater.
“A little of both?” he said - quietly thankful for the interruption to his introspection.
His chest hurt.
Bonnlyn huffed and adjusted the cuffs of her own jacket. “Well I don’t see why. If anyone has cause to be nervous or pissed off, it’s me. You’re just getting married to two hot elves. I’m about to become the first dwarven noble in Lindholm’s history. Do you have any idea how much pressure I’m under! Because of you!”
Olzenya and Marline, who had been quietly observing from a nearby couch, both snickered. Verity wasn’t present. She’d made herself scarce that morning, and William understood why. Sure, she’d accepted the marriage – and even seemed to get along with the twins in ways she seemingly didn’t with Griffith - but apparently watching him getting ready to marry someone else was apparently a step too far.
He respected that boundary.
“I’d argue getting married is more intimidating than getting ennobled,” he chuckled. “Void, I don’t even remember mine.”
Bonnlyn stared at him, opened her mouth, then sighed and shook her head. “Right. You’re you. Listen William, for most people, being raised to the nobility is a big deal.”
“So is getting married,” he countered.
She shrugged. “Is it? I mean, you’ll be doing that, what, five times? Six? Most people only get to be ennobled once.”
William opened his mouth to argue – then felt the color drain from his face. Because she was right! He was going to likely have to do this multiple times in all likelihood.
“Marline, dear, I think you should stand near the door in case our groom tries to do a runner,” Olzenya opined dryly.
“Oz, don’t joke about that,” the dark elf shot back.
“Who’s joking?”
William ignored the two. Barely heard them, really. He was a little too caught up in a mild bout of existential terror.
Fortunately, before he could spiral further, a small knock came at the door and Griffith poked her head in. She paused, eyes roaming over him for a moment, before she seemingly remembered herself.
“William, It’s time.”
It was!? Already!?
He wasn’t ready!
He nearly said as much, before he felt a small pat on the back.
“Never thought I’d see you scared of anything after I watched you pick a fight with a team of fourth years - including your fiancee,” Marline said with a small smile, having apparently gotten up from the couch and walked over to him. “Guess everyone’s scared of something.”
William wanted to argue, before nodding mutely. He was nervous. There was no denying it. And wasn’t that a strange thought? He couldn’t… actually remember the last time he was nervous. Not in this life at least.
“Come on, let’s not keep them waiting,” his teammate continued. “You’ll feel better when you’re out there.”
William didn’t know about that.
“Plus, if you try to run, I’ll tackle you,” Bonnlyn informed him as she followed them out the door. “I might be nervous about becoming a countess – but there’s no world in which I’m letting you having cold feet rob me of it.”
Well, he supposed that ruled out that option. There really was nothing to do but keep marching forward.
-----------------------
Tyana Lindholm stood on the bridge of the Royal Crest, her hands clasped neatly behind her back as she watched the battle outside unfold.
Plumes of smoke and aether filled the skies as the airships of her fleet clashed with those of the besieging Northerners whom they had come to dislodge from one of Southshore’s outlying counties.
Outnumbered nearly two to one, the Northern taskforce were nonetheless putting up a good fight. Lightning, fire and sometimes even ice blossomed across the hulls of both fleets as their many aether-cannons fired enchanted munitions at each other.
In the past few minutes the two sides had likely expended stockpiles of magical-explosives that had taken years to create.
Stockpiles that should have been used to safeguard Lindholm’s independence.
The admiral’s frown only grew as she watched shards of both fleets darting between the two fleets in their own breakneck aerial duels. Every now and then, one of the small craft would let out a burst of aether as their opposing number managed to stitch them with a line of aether-bolts, and the shard would begin its long plummet to the fields below.
Fields that were already littered with fallen shards, craters, fires and great edifices of melting ice where shards had crashed and cannon-fire fell short.
Fortunately, the village that had grown around the county’s underground castle was quite empty of innocents. No, the only people suffering from the clash overhead were the Northern groundforces who’d taken up residence in those structures – some of which were now quite merrily ablaze.
Small mercies, Tyana thought as she watched it all with practiced calm – the bridge behind her a relatively quiet cacophony of controlled chaos as her crew received reports and relayed orders.
There were two reasons she was out here. The first, and least important in her eyes, was that the Queen had been adamant that nothing interfere with the new Summerfield duchess’s wedding.
To that end, this operation was intended to keep not just the North occupied, but those traditionalist nobles who might have caused acrimony during the happy event. Apparently the Redwater boy had done something outrageous – though when did he not? – and it was in everyone’s best interests for any potential naysayers to be absent.
Hence the seven ships accompanying her otherwise Royal Naval taskforce.
The second reason Tyana was here, and the only one that mattered in her opinion, was to apply pressure to the North’s ongoing advance.
Not halt it.
Apply pressure.
Expend munitions. Destroy shards. Maybe capture an airship. Show the marine-knight occupants of the castles under siege that while their liege ladies might have been gathered in the ducal capitals, they had not been forgotten.
Anything to delay the Northern advance – because for all that the Shriekers had shaken them, it was all of two days after that initial strike before the Northern fleets had resumed operations. Admittedly, they were moving more cautiously now, concentrating their forces on a few select locations rather than spreading the entire front - but they were still continuing their slow grinding advance.
Thus her plan to strike here, do some damage, and get out before the enemy’s reserve fleet could respond. Maybe if they hit hard enough they could force the enemy to bunch up further? Further slowing their advance.
Now though, watching the clusterfuck taking place in front of her, she couldn’t help but wonder if all this had achieved would be to embolden them?
“The Southern Flower’s captain reports she has recovered the ship’s core and will be rendezvousing with the Iron-Prince via maneuver suit,” one of her people relayed.
Tyana nodded in acknowledgement, eyes shifting towards the ship in question.
The doomed ship was one of her ‘accompaniments’, and like most of the others, was woefully outdated. Despite being relegated to a second line role while the Royal Navy did the bulk of the fighting, a Northern shard had managed to slip through and deliver an almost picture-perfect javelin strike to the port side of the wooden frigate.
And while alchemical weapons like bear-blood were likely soon to be obsolete in the face of whatever harrowed-nonsense William Redwater could create, the flammable concoction was still more than sufficient to do in the equally outdated ship it was being used against.
Even from here, Tyana could see the flames racing along the vessel's side. What few hastily added sections of armor plating the ship had were peeling away as the hull beneath it blackened and burned.
Figures were leaping from the deck, only the telltale sight of parachutes opening once they were clear of the burning behemoth showed that the former crew weren’t leaping to their deaths. Though imprisonment wouldn’t be that much better, given that it would be near impossible to collect the downed crew women from the ground before the task force needed to leave.
The window before they estimated the leading elements of the North’s reserve fleet arrived had closed a few minutes ago.
She didn’t sigh, but it was a close run thing as she watched the burning carcass start to fall as one of the ballast tanks finally burst.
Despite holding a two-to-one numerical advantage, the task force had somehow managed to lose a vessel before claiming a single enemy kill. Poor luck had played a role in that – but so had skill. Unfortunately, it was the skill of their enemies.
Going forward raids will have to be conducted entirely by the Royal Navy, she thought. Duchy ships will remain in the reserve force.
Because the alternative would likely just be her feeding the South’s airpower to the North piecemeal. Perhaps that might change once the ducal fleets finished their retrofits in full, but she doubted it.
Watching the wooden frigate finally smash into the ground, the elven princess once more lamented that she’d not been able to bring the Jellyfish with her. With forty corsairs in the air, there would have been no way for that one shard to slip through the net like it had.
Unfortunately for her dreams of decisive shard dominance in her raids, her mother had vetoed any use of the carrier for any kind of offensive operation.
A move Tyana ultimately agreed with, even if she lamented the ship’s absence.
Unfortunately, while the Greygrass family's vessel was still undergoing its extensive refit it was their only ‘flat top’ carrier capable of launching the rather extensive Corsair fleet that would hopefully win them this war.
Likewise, they needed every Corsair currently operational for use as training craft for when the first of the new batch of the craft rolled off the production lines.
…The Shriekers were unavailable for similar reasons.
Their ‘rocket’ stock were almost entirely spent, and while the super-shards could technically operate using conventional aether-javelins, they weren’t nearly as effective ship-killers. To that end, it was decided that risking such valuable assets for a relatively minor raid simply wasn't worth it.
The Shriekers would deploy with aether-javelin payloads only if absolutely necessary. Which was why they were currently sitting in reserve.
As a result, today's battle was being fought almost entirely with conventional airships and standard shards.
Part of Tyana had found that idea comfortingly familiar – until reality reminded her why they weren’t fighting this war that way.
Because they’d lose.
“Ma’am,” her XO said. “Griffon’s nest reports incoming shards.”
"Then our window is closed. It’s time to pull back." The words left her mouth calmly, without hesitation.
Around her, officers immediately began relaying orders.
"Ma'am, request from the captain of the Al-Hundra to extend the engagement window. They cite listing on the Else-Sword and the Marlin’s current mobility killed status."
Tyana considered the request. And she could understand it. The Northerners were very good, but despite the lucky hit they’d gotten in on one of her second line ships, her people had been winning. The enemy had done a decent job of spreading out damage to avoid any of their ships being brought down, but that just meant the entire task force was close to crumbling.
More than half that she could see were venting aether. Others were struggling to maintain formation with damaged propellers.
Given ten more minutes, she was reasonably certain they’d be able to finish the entire fleet for good.
And it was tempting.
"Denied,” she said sharply. "If we stay, we risk becoming embroiled in a larger engagement with the enemy reserve fleet. That cannot be allowed to happen.”
"Al’Hundra confirms, Admiral," the orb operator relayed.
Tyana nodded as she felt the Royal Crest begin a gradual turn. Across the battlespace, she watched as her ships started disengaging. The enemy didn’t try to stop them, no doubt relieved to escape destruction.
And as their shards formed up to provide a rear-guard against the forward shard elements of the reserve fleet, she reaffirmed what she already knew.
The South couldn’t win this war conventionally. The Royal Navy could, if it were twice the size, but it couldn’t take on two Marcher Fleets alone. The Southern Ducal fleets were effectively a non-factor outside of their ability to ferry shards. Even as a second-line force, they’d be of little use in a full scale engagement.
…So, I need to buy us time. Time to build more Corsairs. More Jellyfish. More Shriekers. More non-enchanted explosive ‘shells’. And more rockets, she thought.
This fleet would return. Re-arm. Debrief. Adapt.
And then they’d launch again.
As many times as needed.
-------------------
William stood in the antechamber just outside the grand hall – and he definitely wasn’t pacing. Mostly because the Queen had his elbow locked in hers with an iron grip.
And as to why his sovereign was holding him like that? Well, walking the aisle had roughly the same significance here as it did back on Earth. He would be handed over. Now, normally that role would fall to his mother or one of his law-mothers, but as an unlanded noble without a house of ‘origin’ - at least until the ceremony was complete - the duty could theoretically be fulfilled by anyone.
And Queen Yelena had claimed it with visible enthusiasm.
He wasn’t complaining, because her doing so was also a tacit endorsement of him giving away his title to Bonnlyn.
Which was apparently less scandalous than he’d thought. At least according to Griffith.
Mostly because it was a move softened by two things. First, he was a man. And many of the same people who’d complain about what he was doing were the same people who quietly believed men weren’t truly suited to rule anyway.
So, by that logic, him handing the title off to a more capable subordinate while he ‘retired to become a husband’ was therefore seen by some as remarkable wisdom rather than weakness.
Second, the territory in question was currently occupied by the North. Handing Redwater over to Bonnlyn could easily be spun as him foisting a messy problem onto someone else.
…Which was a little closer to the truth than William cared to admit.
As to why he’d just recently learned all that? Well, it was because he’d spent the last hour effectively shoved into a wardrobe while his teammate’s ennobling took place – where Griffith had done her level best to keep him distracted.
Or at least, her level best in a way that wouldn’t leave his clothes ruffled.
And why hadn’t he been able to witness it? Because much like on Earth, tradition demanded he be kept away from his betrothed until the moment of the ceremony. Because even if he was the one who had granted his teammate the title, it was still considered less important that he attend her ascension than that the duchess-to-be did.
He wasn’t bitter about that fact at all.
He’d really been looking forward to seeing the looks on everyone’s faces when they found out what he’d done!
His mother especially would have been hilarious! Alas, it wasn’t to be. And now it was his turn to enter the main hall.
Yelena stepped up beside him, resplendent in black. Her arm around his gave him a gentle, reassuring squeeze.
“Relax,” she murmured, voice warm with amusement. “You look like you’re about to face a Lunite invasion fleet rather than two lovely young women who happen to like you.”
William exhaled slowly and tried to do as she said. “Easy for you to say.”
Yelena chuckled softly. “It’s almost soothing to know you can still be made nervous. I was beginning to think nothing could rattle you.”
He very pointedly didn’t flip her off. He did, however, glare. She only laughed again, the sound light and surprisingly fond.
It was strange to see her like this, he realized. Unguarded. Stranger still as he realized she was genuinely happy for him.
Of course, he didn’t have long to dwell on that, as the music in the hall swelled, signaling their cue. Slowly, the double doors were pushed open by Summerfield guards in gleaming, polished armor. Warm light spilled out, along with the low murmur of hundreds of nobles and dignitaries.
“Ready?” Yelena asked.
“No,” William hissed.
“That’s the spirit,” Yelena laughed as they stepped through together.
…And William barely made it a few steps before he nearly tripped over his own feet. In that moment he should have been thankful that Yelena was there as she subtly caught him before he made a fool of himself.
But he didn’t notice at all – for much the same reason he nearly tripped in the first place.
Because there, at the end of the aisle, stood Marcille and Clarice.
And they looked beautiful.
Like… twin Valkyries descended from Álfheimr.
The armor they wore should have looked silly. It wasn’t practical battle armor. It was instead ceremonial - elegant, form-fitting, and clearly designed more for tradition and show than actual combat.
As evidenced by the decorative gaps that further served to accentuate the figures of the ones wearing it.
And it was beautiful. Functional or not. White and silver with accents of white and gold to represent their house. It hugged their figures perfectly, accentuating every curve while still looking regal and strong. Both women were smiling at him - soft, genuine smiles that made something that had been tightening in his chest for hours finally… loosen.
Why did I ever want to avoid this? he thought. Why did I ever think this was a distraction?
Something twitched.
Because there’s more important things to do, it seemed to say.
No, there isn’t, William thought without thinking as he stepped forward, arm still linked with Yelena’s.
And in that moment it was true.
There wasn’t.
The war could wait.
The world could wait.
He was getting married.