Joint High Command Headquarters, Prussi

  The main conference room remained thick with cigarette smoke and tension that never truly settled. General Antonio Pérez had been seated for four hours, listening, taking notes, and restraining himself from rubbing his aching lower back.

  Marshal Friedrich von Helheim was demonstrating his superiority.

  "Here is our current front line." His pointer tapped the massive wall-mounted map. Red and blue lines coiled like intertwined serpents. "Eastern Coalition forces have reinforced positions here, here, and here." Three points in the east. "They believe that by holding the high ground, they can halt our advance."

  A large-built Prussi general—General Klaus von Stahl—chuckled briefly. "Let them hide in the hills. Our artillery will level those hills."

  "Our artillery," Marshal Friedrich interjected in an icy tone, "is running low on ammunition for large-scale operations. Domestic factories are running triple shifts, but front-line consumption exceeds all projections."

  Antonio scribbled in his small notebook: Prussi logistics showing strain. Maximum production but higher consumption. Signs of prolonged warfare.

  "Therefore," Marshal Friedrich continued, his gaze shifting to Antonio, "we need to reconsider allied troop deployment. The Venezia forces, with all due respect, lack experience in warfare of this magnitude. Deploying them on the front lines would be... inefficient."

  Antonio raised an eyebrow. "The Marshal's meaning?"

  "I propose your forces be stationed in rear sectors. Logistics, supply route escorts, infrastructure maintenance." Marshal Friedrich smiled, though his eyes remained detached. "Safe work. Honorable. But far from danger."

  Antonio remained silent for five seconds. Long enough to make several Prussi generals shift uncomfortably. Then he set down his pen, folding his hands on the table.

  "Marshal Friedrich," he said, his voice calm yet sharp as a bayonet's tip, "I did not come here seeking safety. The Venezia Republic dispatched 150,000 of its finest soldiers to this continent to learn. To observe modern warfare up close. Not from behind logistics trucks."

  "Learn?" General Klaus von Stahl chuckled. "This isn't a school, General. This is war."

  "I'm aware of that, General. I was fighting before you graduated military academy." Antonio stared at him without blinking. "I led troops during Venezia's War of Independence thirty-five years ago. I watched my comrades die before my eyes. I felt a bullet in my right shoulder—the scar remains. So do not lecture me about war."

  The room fell silent. Klaus von Stahl swallowed hard.

  Antonio turned back to Marshal Friedrich. "My forces will be deployed on the front lines. Even in the sectors you consider most brutal. But with one condition."

  Marshal Friedrich raised an eyebrow. "A condition?"

  "Every unit will be accompanied by experienced Prussi liaison officers. Not to supervise, but to instruct. I want my men to return home with knowledge, not merely traumatic experience." Antonio paused. "And all equipment they use—rifles, helmets, uniforms, medical supplies—will become Venezia's property upon mission completion. As initially agreed."

  Several Prussi generals exchanged glances. Marshal Friedrich remained silent for a long moment, his fingers drumming softly against the table.

  "You know," he finally said, "most of our allies arrive here with requests like protect us, give us weapons, send us home safely. But you..." He smiled, this time more genuinely. "You arrive with demands."

  "Not demands, Marshal. Agreements. We offer our nation's young blood to aid your war. What we request in return is knowledge and equipment to protect our nation's youth in the future. A fair transaction."

  Marshal Friedrich laughed—a deep, resonant laugh that startled everyone in the room. "General Pérez, I admire your thinking. Very Prussi." He rose, extending his hand. "Agreed. Your forces will be deployed in the Southern Sector. That's our most difficult area currently. But you'll be accompanied by our Fourth Mountain Division—the best. Learn as much as you can."

  Antonio shook his hand. A firm grip, mutual respect. "Thank you, Marshal."

  "Don't thank me yet." Marshal Friedrich released the handshake, returning to the map. "The Southern Sector is a hellhole. Even our finest troops struggle there. Not all your men may return home."

  "But those who do return," Antonio said, "will become true soldiers."

  The meeting continued for another three hours. Tactical details, supply routes, artillery coordination, communication frequencies. Antonio recorded everything meticulously, though his mind occasionally wandered elsewhere.

  To Caraccass. To the Sun Palace. To a young man with eyes too old for his age, sitting in his office, reading reports, shaping the future from numbers and statistics.

  You were right, Mateo, he thought. This is more than just war. This is investment. And I must ensure this investment isn't wasted.

  As the meeting concluded and generals began filing out, Klaus von Stahl approached him. His face remained flushed, but a new respect gleamed in his eyes.

  "General Pérez. I apologize for my earlier remarks. I underestimated you."

  Antonio smiled thinly. "No harm done, General. I too was once young and overconfident."

  Klaus chuckled softly. "Perhaps we could share a beer sometime? I'd like to hear about Venezia's War of Independence. It sounds... epic."

  "Perhaps another time." Antonio patted his shoulder. "Now I must meet with my men. Inform them they're being sent to a hellhole."

  "The bearer of good news." Klaus nodded respectfully. "May the god of war accompany you."

  "And you as well."

  ***

  One Week Later. Sun Palace Rose Garden.

  The afternoon sun no longer blazed, but its golden warmth remained sufficient to make the grass pleasant beneath bare feet. Eleanor chased butterflies, her laughter piercing the garden's silence like tiny bells.

  Mateo sat on a stone bench near the fountain, a thin folder resting on his lap. Reports from Prussi—delivered by special courier, decrypted by his cryptography team, now awaiting analysis. But for the moment, he simply enjoyed the sunlight.

  Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

  Isabella sat beside him, a thick textbook on hospital management in her lap. Yet her eyes weren't reading—they followed Eleanor's darting movements, a gentle smile gracing her features.

  "She'll catch a cold," Isabella murmured, without any real intention of intervening.

  "Let her. She's still a child. Children are allowed to catch colds." Mateo sipped his warm tea. "It's us adults who must suffer in silence."

  Isabella turned, laughing softly. "Since when did you become a philosopher?"

  "Since I grew weary of reports." He lifted the folder on his lap. "This is the fifth this week. All about war. Sometimes I miss when my only concern was whether Eleanor had eaten lunch."

  "You were never solely concerned about Eleanor's lunch." Isabella patted his arm. "Even when she was an infant, you were calculating calories and feeding schedules."

  "That's called responsibility."

  "That's called obsession."

  They laughed together—light, rare laughter that emerged only when no one else was around. Eleanor, hearing their laughter, came running over.

  "What's funny? Tell me!" She leaped onto Mateo's lap, causing the folder to tumble onto the grass. "Brother, I want a story!"

  Mateo lifted her, tickling her waist. Eleanor shrieked with glee, squirming, yet her arms remained wrapped tightly around Mateo's neck.

  "What kind of story?"

  "A story about a prince and a dragon!"

  Mateo and Isabella exchanged glances. Isabella shrugged, smiling.

  "Very well," said Mateo, settling Eleanor beside him. "Once upon a time, there was a very busy prince. He was busy managing the kingdom, busy reading reports, busy thinking about war. Until one day, his beautiful little sister said, 'Brother, you're too busy. Forget the kingdom for a moment. Let's play horses.' And then—"

  Eleanor squealed with excitement. "And then? And then?"

  "The prince thought. He had a thousand reports to read. A thousand problems to solve. But he saw his sister's sparkling eyes, and he forgot all those reports. He stood up, and they played horses all afternoon."

  "And where was the dragon?"

  "The dragon came, of course. A great dragon with black wings and fiery breath." Mateo gazed at Eleanor seriously. "But when the dragon saw the prince and his sister playing, he said, 'I cannot attack them. They're too happy.' And the dragon departed, seeking another kingdom busier and less joyful."

  Eleanor pondered for a moment, then nodded with satisfaction. "Good story. But that dragon was foolish. He should have played horses too."

  Mateo laughed. "You're right. That dragon was foolish."

  Isabella observed their interaction with a profound smile. Something flickered in her eyes—not envy, not sadness. Perhaps relief. That amidst all the chaos, Mateo could still be a brother to Eleanor.

  "Bella," Mateo said suddenly, without shifting his gaze from Eleanor who was now absorbed in her imagination. "Since when did Diego's letters become more sensitive?"

  The garden's atmosphere seemed to shift. Isabella remained motionless, silent. Eleanor, oblivious to the changing mood, continued chattering about dragons who should have played horses.

  "Isabella." Mateo turned, meeting her eyes. This time, seriously.

  Isabella exhaled. Long, deep, as if releasing something long suppressed.

  "I knew you'd find out, Mateo. You notice everything." Her fingers smoothed her skirt—a nervous gesture rarely seen. "The first letter confused me. The second worried me. The third..." She paused, searching for words. "Made me think."

  Mateo waited. Eleanor began tugging his sleeve, demanding he continue the story.

  "Diego is our cousin," Isabella continued, her voice low. "His father was our mother's beloved uncle. They suffered since the first post-independence regime. They nearly died because of that regime and also Mendez's regime. And when they finally returned, what did we offer? Third-level administrative work. Modest rented rooms. Basic health insurance."

  "You know why I did that."

  "I know. Politics. Image. Nepotism." Isabella shook her head slowly. "But Diego doesn't know that. What he knows is that he and his father were treated like strangers in their own family's house. And amidst all that, I was... perhaps the only one who showed any warmth."

  "He misinterpreted it."

  "Perhaps." Isabella gazed at the fountain. "Or perhaps he didn't. Perhaps I did show more warmth than I should have. Not because I love him—I don't. But because I felt guilty. For what we did to his family."

  Mateo remained silent. Eleanor, finally realizing her siblings' conversation had grown serious, stopped tugging his sleeve. She simply sat on Mateo's lap, observing Isabella with large, questioning eyes.

  "But that's irrelevant now," Isabella said, her voice suddenly firmer. "I respect Diego. I appreciate his sacrifice. I might even pray for his safety every night. But matters like that—" she gestured vaguely, "—aren't my priority."

  Mateo studied her, searching for deception. Finding none.

  "I have a hospital to build," Isabella continued. "I have a healthcare system to design. I have millions of people in this country who cannot access proper medical care. That's my priority. That's what keeps me awake at night—not love letters from a cousin who may never return home."

  She met Mateo's gaze directly. "Relieved?"

  Mateo didn't answer.

  "You're relieved," Isabella repeated, this time not a question. "Because you thought I'd become sentimental. I'd get swept away by emotion. I'd make foolish decisions because of those letters." She smiled sadly. "I'm not Eleanor, Mateo. I won't run chasing butterflies while the world burns. I'm part of this family too. I have responsibilities too."

  Mateo finally spoke. "I never doubted that."

  "Really?" Isabella raised an eyebrow. "Or did you simply never think of me at all? I've always been in the background—the older sister who sometimes criticizes, sometimes supports, but never important enough to factor into your calculations?"

  The accusation struck deep. And Mateo felt it directly in his solar plexus.

  "Bella—"

  "No need." Isabella raised a hand, stopping him. "I'm not angry. Perhaps I was angry before. But now? Now I understand. You're busy keeping this country from collapsing. You don't have time to consider your sister's feelings." She smiled, this time more genuinely. "And that's alright. Because I'm busy too. Busy building something real. Something that doesn't require blood to grow."

  The sun sank lower, painting the sky in shades of orange and purple. Eleanor, understanding nothing of this conversation yet sensing its weight, crawled from Mateo's lap and embraced Isabella.

  "Sister sad?" she asked innocently.

  Isabella returned the embrace, kissing Eleanor's hair. "No, darling. Sister isn't sad. Sister is just tired. But it's not a bad tired. It's the tiredness of working hard."

  "Then sister should rest." Eleanor tugged her hand. "Let's rest together. Later I'll read you the story about the foolish dragon."

  Isabella laughed—a genuine, warm laugh that made Mateo smile despite his mind still spinning, processing their earlier conversation.

  "You know," he said softly, gazing at his two sisters, "it seems we're all truly busy running this country."

  Isabella looked at him, then smiled—a different smile than before. Not diplomatic. Not ironic. But the smile of two people who understood each other, despite their different paths.

  "Yes," she said. "So busy we forget that in this garden, we're simply siblings. Not architects, not hospital directors, not presidential advisors."

  "But that's alright, isn't it?" Mateo asked, half-seriously.

  "It's more than alright." Isabella reached for his hand, clasping it briefly. "It's what makes all this hard work meaningful."

  Eleanor, unwilling to be left out, grabbed Mateo's other hand. Three Guerrero siblings sat on the garden bench, beneath the twilight sky, hands intertwined.

  In the distance, city sounds drifted faintly—vendors' calls, factory machinery's roar. The world continued turning, war continued raging, letters continued being written and burned. But for a moment, in this garden, nothing required protection or calculation.

  Only three people. Siblings. And one foolish dragon who should have joined their game of horses.

  ***

  That night, in his room, Mateo opened the window wide. Night air flowed in, carrying floral scents and the promise of rain. Across the sky, stars began emerging, indifferent to the war on a distant continent.

  He withdrew his silver pocket watch—Isabella's gift—and opened its cover. The second hand continued ticking, tireless.

  I never doubted that.

  Or did you simply never think of me at all?

  Isabella's question still echoed. And for the first time, Mateo admitted it to himself. She was right. Isabella had always existed in the background, regarded as a constant requiring no calculation. Yet even constants could change. Could grow. Could become something more than merely "the older sister who sometimes criticizes."

  He closed the watch, returning it to his pocket. On his desk, the folder containing Prussi reports still waited. But tonight, he let it be.

  In the garden, the fountain continued flowing. In the neighboring room, Eleanor likely hugged her doll, dreaming of foolish dragons. In another room, Isabella probably read her hospital management textbook.

  Mateo closed his eyes, feeling the night breeze against his face.

  He still had to protect them. Still had to calculate, plan, sometimes burn letters that should never have been written. But at least now he knew that those he protected weren't pawns on his chessboard.

  They were players. With their own boards. Their own objectives. And that, somehow, made all this burden slightly lighter.

  He smiled in the darkness, then turned toward his bed. Tomorrow would bring more reports, more decisions, more boundaries to enforce. But tonight, the breeze, the stars, and the realization that his family—strange, complicated, and sometimes painful—was the reason he did all this sufficed.

  Across the ocean, General Antonio Pérez gazed at the same stars from a different sky.

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