Throughout that nocturnal excursion, Seraphine’s absence from the encampment went entirely unnoticed. When Adelgarde Karsfeld and the serving maids stirred with the first light of dawn, they found the young heir calmly cleaning her carbine by the dying embers of the hearth.
The Baroness couldn't help but muse to herself:
This girl is almost too diligent for her own good... Even on a hunt, she bounds from her bed at the crack of dawn.
For Seraphine, rising early was an ingrained habit forged across both lifetimes. She was accustomed to operating on a few sparse hours of sleep without dulling her razor-sharp mind.
In her hand, she cradled a clay mug of water she had personally boiled over the coals to purge it of biological contaminants. She despised drinking raw brook water that teemed with unseen parasites.
For as long as she could recall, she had yearned for morning coffee, but in this world, the beans required to brew it had yet to find their way across the alpine trade routes.
She thought wryly that once she assumed sovereign rule, establishing a trade route to the far south would be her very first lavish indulgence - retirement in her golden years would be utterly flavorless without caffeine.
Her grand blueprint was simple: thirty years of unyielding, ironclad discipline, building Karsfeld into an economic and industrial powerhouse, followed by passing the mantle to an educated futa heir sired with her lawful wife.
She had not the slightest inclination to spend the twilight of her life in the saddle on muddy battlefields; Evelyn Weiss had seen more than her fill of that in her previous life.
Yet the future was a fickle mistress, and the continental balance of power might well force ruthless military decisions upon her.
For the moment, however, she remained merely the firstborn daughter of a modest baroness.
Over the next three days, she traversed the rugged rocky slopes at her Sire’s side, tracking stags and hauling fresh venison. By the time they finally turned back toward the domain, she was utterly exhausted and coated in a thick layer of forest dust.
Throughout the hunt, she had deliberately concealed the true, devastating potential of her carbine - though she had cleanly dropped a magnificent stag, Adelgarde had merely grimaced at the billowing smoke and the tedious chore of ramming powder and shot down the muzzle.
To the seasoned veteran, it remained nothing more than a “bizarre powder tube,” a childish whim chasing novelties.
Had she known that just nights ago Seraphine had slaughtered three heavily armed mercenaries from a hundred yards in pitch-black darkness in under three minutes, the Baroness would have suffered an apoplexy on the spot.
Unlike crude arrows, the conical lead Minié ball ripped clean through iron brigandines and forged breastplates like parchment.
Not without reason had the advent of firearms consigned full plate armor to history's dustbin in Evelyn's former world.
Even at the height of the Renaissance, plate offered protection only against a glancing blade or a spent ball from afar; at combat distance, lead tore through steel like coarse wool.
If the chivalric knights of this realm ever dared thunder into a disciplined volley line of Karsfeld musketeers, they would be reduced to bloody sieves in seconds. Even the peasant women of Seraphine's militia had no true inkling of the catastrophic power they held in their hands - after all, no one squandered precious plate armor on practice dummies.
Only Seraphine guarded that lethal secret.
As the party rode into the borders of the settlement, the young heir caught sight of a familiar figure waving frantically from the shadows of a side street.
Vivienne von Drachenberg’s eyes shimmered with tears of boundless relief.
Throughout those harrowing days, the noblewoman had nearly lost her mind with dread, terrified that her beloved futa had fallen into the lethal ambush. Seeing Seraphine completely whole and unharmed, she smiled through her tears.
Seizing upon the commotion of their arrival, Seraphine dismounted and stepped into the shadow of a stone wall. In the blink of an eye, Vivienne hurled herself into her arms, burying her flushed porcelain face against the swell of the heir’s chest.
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Seraphine held her tight, gently stroking her strawberry-blonde locks. Though their bond had been forged in cold dominance and wanton carnality, she took immense satisfaction in such absolute, unquestioning devotion.
“See? I told you there was nothing to fear,” she whispered tenderly.
Vivienne brushed away her tears, gazing up at her in rapt adoration. But noticing the grime caked upon her skin, Seraphine grazed her ear:
“Wait for me in the bathhouse.”
The girl nodded eagerly and darted toward the rear of the keep.
Moments later, Seraphine sank into the steaming stone basin of the new bathhouse, and Vivienne slipped in soundlessly beside her, shedding her silks without hesitation.
Their afternoon dalliance in the scalding water stretched all the way to dusk. Only when the hour for the venison feast drew near did they dress separately, taking care not to arouse the household's suspicions.
In the dining hall, Cordelia Karsfeld was already seated with a predatory, triumphant smirk, thoroughly convinced she would feast tonight without her elder sister.
But when the tall, statuesque Seraphine stepped over the threshold - clad in a freshly cleaned, tailored tunic that accentuated her cleavage, her golden hair slicked back with commanding perfection - Cordelia went as pale as a corpse.
She locked a gaze of unmitigated horror upon her, as if staring at a wraith dragged from the underworld.
Seraphine took the seat directly across from her, meeting that panicked stare with a cold, vindictive smirk. That single expression told Cordelia everything she needed to know about the assassins' fate.
Yet the younger futa lacked the courage to breathe so much as a squeak - confessing to hiring cutthroats would mean an immediate death sentence for high treason.
As Adelgarde spun colorful yarns of the hunt across the table, not a single word was breathed of supposed outlaws.
Stunned, Cordelia reasoned to herself that the Arnsbruck mercenaries had simply turned craven and fled with their advance pay, resolving to dispatch a missive to Vivienne’s mother detailing the scheme's failure.
Following the lavish supper of roast venison, Seraphine sequestered herself in her bedchamber to catch up on this world’s chronicles and maps. She had to master the theater of the impending war in intimate detail.
She smoothed the parchment across her desk.
The year was 1417, and the Alarian Empire stood at the zenith of its martial might.
The empire stretched from the Lowenlands all the way to the frontiers of the Sacred Dominion to the south, anchored by the formidable power of the Kingdom of Aurelia.
What was more, the Order - the Order of the White Flame - stood as a titanic fief of the empire.
After all, the Battle of Tannenfeld had concluded with their crushing triumph over the Kingdom of Vistara and the Grand Duchy of Litavia, paving the way for a five-year campaign wherein the Order's knights, led by past grandmistresses, conquered the entire Baltic coastline up to the northern wastes.
Though the Order held the status of a kingdom, it remained a theocratic fief steered by the Pontifex of the Sacred Dominion, its Grandmistress denied an electoral vote in the elevation of the Empress.
The vassalage structure of the Alarian Empire was remarkably structured.
The empire comprised several crowns: the Kingdom of Alaria, the Kingdom of Aurelia, the Kingdom of Valeria, the Helvar Confederacy, and the Verenne fiefs.
Seraphine herself resided in the Barony of Karsfeld, a constituent of Tyravia County centered in Arnsbruck, which in turn answered to the sprawling Duchy of Ardenia governed from Veynhardt.
Ruled by House von Falkenrath, Ardenia was a colossus: encompassing Tyravia, Salzenmark, Trenvale, and the lands of the Greifenmark, where Rosalie’s mother, Countess Margarethe von Rosenfeld, held sway.
To the east, the Aurelian Empire under House Kallergis held the Balkans, Helladia, and Anatara in an iron grip, driving steadily toward Levantia. Europa stood as a continent of titans, yet teetered on the precipice of a fratricidal conflagration.
A predatory ambition flared within Seraphine. She recognized that fate had not cast her into this world merely to vegetate as some inconsequential baroness on the sidelines. Before the succession war erupted across the Kingdom of Alaria, she had to compel Adelgarde to name her regent of Karsfeld.
A faint scratching at the door jolted her from her musings. Assuming it was a pining Vivienne once more, Seraphine drew the heavy wood ajar - only to find little Marielle Karsfeld standing on the threshold in her silk nightgown, clutching her rag doll and sniffling softly:
“Sister... I had a nightmare. Will you tell me a story?”
Seraphine’s heart melted.
She gently stroked the girl’s fair hair, steered her back to her bedchamber, and spent the following hour passionately weaving the incredible saga of the Battle for Castle Itter - of how once-bitter adversaries joined forces beneath a storm of lead against zealots to rescue captive women.
Spellbound by the imagery of steel chariots and fire-breathing machines, Marielle drifted off with a contented smile upon her lips. Pressing a kiss to her sister’s forehead, Seraphine returned to her own quarters.
Inside, Vivienne was already waiting. The noblewoman lay upon the silk bedding completely bare, arching her full, porcelain breasts and swaying her rounded hips with wanton, insolent lips parted in invitation.
Seraphine shot the iron deadbolt home, and the sight of this sensual woman instantly swept away any lingering shreds of cold calculation, pulling them both headlong into a tempest of heated, shameless passion.