Lukas’s eyes fluttered open, adjusting to the dim, early light filtering through a thick haze. A cool breeze brushed across his face, carrying the faint, salty tang of the sea. Beneath him, he felt the subtle sway of waves, rhythmic yet unsettling, rocking him awake. He blinked, fully taking in his surroundings.

He was on a small, weather-beaten boat, its sides battered and peeling from the harshness of the sea. Around him, three soldiers sat huddled, clutching their rifles tightly. Their faces were etched with deep lines of worry and exhaustion, eyes wide and unfocused, each caught in a silent battle against fear. In their expressions, Lukas saw reflections of his own—frayed nerves and raw dread masked by the thin veneer of soldierly resolve.

“You’re awake, mate?” a familiar voice broke through the silence. Lukas turned toward the engine room, his gaze settling on the figure emerging from the shadows—a girl with fiery red hair, tousled from the wind. She was the same one he’d encountered in Dunkirk.

“Had to knock ya out cold t’ get ye here,” she chuckled, crossing her arms with a smirk. “Yer a right sleepyhead, y’know that, aye?” Her thick Scottish accent softened the edges of her words, but her tone stayed playful, eyes glinting with mischief.

Lukas’s eyes drifted down, noticing dark streaks of blood smeared across her uniform, staining the fabric near her shoulder and sleeve. The memory flickered in his mind—a rush of adrenaline, the sharp pull as he’d shoved her out of the grenade’s deadly reach just before darkness claimed him. She must’ve taken him to the landing craft afterward, dragging him from the chaos despite her own injuries.

“I’m in the dark here—mind lighting things up for me?” Lukas asked, watching her flick the boat’s light on and off with a mischievous grin.

“Oh, aye, right!” she replied with a thick Scottish lilt, finally leaving the light on as she turned to him, a playful glint in her eyes. “Name’s Scarlett, 10th knight of His Majesty’s King’s Guard,” she said with a dramatic flourish, hand to her chest as if making a royal pledge. “Here t’ rescue ye, my lost prince—yer da’ was a wee bit worried about ye, see?” She smirked, giving him a look that made it clear she wasn’t quite done teasing him.

Lukas’s mind raced, heart pounding with the weight of a truth he'd buried. No one knew his secret—that he was the second prince of England's king. When war had first broken out, he'd joined the ranks as an ordinary private, driven by youthful bravado and the hunger for adventure. The idea of sitting behind a desk as an officer had felt unbearable. He had assumed the Allies would swiftly overpower the Germans. Now, faced with the reality of a war gone horribly wrong, he finally understood the extent of his father’s worry.

“Scarlett, is it?” Lukas asked, a hint of curiosity in his voice as he regarded the Scottish girl. She appeared so carefree and harmless, a stark contrast to the fierce warrior he had witnessed take down a handful of Germans in mere seconds. “It’s good to know my father has warriors like you looking out for him. But duel daggers? Don’t you think that’s a bit outdated for this day and age?”

A playful smirk danced on her lips as she tilted her head, the glint of mischief in her eyes. “Nae, mate. I’m no warrior like auld Mlynar or Victor. Just a humble assassin, ye see? I’m no shield—I’m the sword of the king. These daggers are more than enough for my job.” Her accent rolled off her tongue, giving her words an endearing, rhythmic quality that seemed to weave seamlessly with her confident demeanor.

Lukas knew well of Mlynar, the First Knight of the King’s Guard. Despite his advanced age, the man was rumored to have single-handedly mowed down a hundred Germans during the Great War, earning him a legendary status among the ranks. Yet, as he looked at the playful girl before him, he couldn’t quite reconcile how someone like her fit into the esteemed circle of the Round Table. He was aware that there were twelve knights sworn to serve the King of England, but he could only name two: Mlynar and Victor.

Could it be that there were secrets reserved for kings and their heirs? He wondered if this seemingly carefree assassin held knowledge that remained hidden from him, knowledge that would only reveal itself when he assumed his rightful place in the realm.

Lukas fell silent, his gaze drifting over the vast expanse of the sea. The gentle rocking of the boat calmed his racing thoughts as he spotted the faint outline of the British Isles on the horizon. He had escaped the hellish landscape of Europe, a place that felt like a distant nightmare, yet questions loomed in his mind. What awaited him back home?

He clung to the hope he had shared with Leon: that the war would come to an end, especially after France’s surrender. The thought of returning to Oxford filled him with longing. He yearned to reunite with Leon and, perhaps, even cross paths with Arturia once more.

Just then, a voice crackled through the radio on the boat, slicing through the stillness like a beacon of hope. It was Winston Churchill, the man Lukas admired above all else. His familiar, resolute tone resonated, filling the cramped space with a sense of purpose and urgency.

“...We shall fight on the beaches, we shall fight on the landing grounds, we shall fight in the fields and in the streets; we shall fight in the hills; we shall never surrender,” he declared, his words imbued with an unwavering conviction that sent shivers down Lukas's spine. Each phrase seemed to echo in the hearts of those who heard it, uniting them in a shared resolve to stand firm against tyranny.

He continued, his voice a powerful rallying cry, “And even if, which I do not for a moment believe, this island or a large part of it were subjugated and starving, then our Empire beyond the seas, armed and guarded by the British Fleet, would carry on the struggle.”

Lukas leaned closer, captivated by the electrifying cadence of Churchill's rhetoric. It painted vivid images of resilience, conjuring visions of brave men and women rallying together in defiance, their spirits unbroken even in the face of overwhelming odds.

“If the British Empire and its Commonwealth lasts for a thousand years,” Churchill proclaimed, “men will still say, ‘This was their finest hour.”

The weight of those words resonated deep within Lukas, igniting a flame of pride and determination in his chest. He envisioned the countless sacrifices made by those who fought, each life a testament to the unwavering spirit of the nation. Immediately, he understood, the war is not going to end anytime soon as he thought.

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Takashi glanced at his watch once more, a calm counterpoint to Erika, who stood rigid, her impatience clear as she tapped her foot and folded her arms tightly across her chest. The candlelight in the dining room flickered against her dark German officer’s uniform, contrasting starkly with Takashi’s crisp white Japanese attire.

“This is why we don’t get along with Brits,” she muttered under her breath, her words barely audible but brimming with frustration.

He allowed a faint smile, then raised an eyebrow at her, as if to say he’d expected this reaction.

“Takashi, do I really have to join this one?” she groaned, her frustration slipping into a sharper tone. “We’re at war!”

"Just a little longer, Erika," Takashi said with a patient nod. "You know Japan is still in diplomatic ties with both Germany and the UK. We can't just cut off relations with the British simply because you two are at war. These ties go deeper than that."

She let out a quiet groan, rolling her eyes, but Takashi continued, his tone steady. "Besides, the British ambassador specifically requested your presence. He wants to meet you himself."

This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

Erika's shoulders slumped as she looked away, "Fine, but if this turns into another one of their endless lectures about ‘our misguided choices,’ I’m out the door in two minutes.”

The dining room door creaked open, and a young man stepped in, his posture and poise unmistakably British. He wore a well-tailored suit, every button and crease immaculate, and the air around him carried a practiced formality. His gaze swept the room with a courteous nod, betraying just a hint of the reserved confidence so characteristic of his countrymen.

Takashi rose from his chair with a polite nod, gesturing to the British gentleman to take a seat across from him. The man returned the gesture with a slight bow, moving gracefully to sit down. Erika, however, remained still, her gaze fixed on the newcomer, cool and appraising. She made no move to stand, nor did she offer a word, her silence speaking louder than any greeting. Her posture radiated both impatience and authority, a silent reminder that this was not a meeting she attended by choice.

“A lady appears less than pleased with my company,” he said with a light chuckle, his eyes twinkling as they settled on Erika. He eased himself into the chair, maintaining an air of charm despite the tension in the room. Erika’s expression barely softened; she met his gaze with an icy detachment, her silence a firm retort to his attempt at humor.

Takashi took a deep breath, sensing the chill in the room between Erika and their British guest. Both carried the weight of their nations' pride: Erika, unmistakably proud and a bit dismissive, her stance bolstered by Germany’s recent victories, while the British envoy wore his charm like armor, undeterred but watchful. Takashi understood Erika’s unspoken view—after all, Germany’s dominance on the continent had left Britain appearing weakened.

Yet his own duty as ambassador went deeper. Japan's strategy demanded the appearance of friendship; Tojo had personally tasked him with maintaining British trust, masking Japan's true intentions. He knew he had to lighten the atmosphere, to bridge this tense gap.

With a polite smile, he said, “It’s rare to host such distinguished guests from both sides of Europe here in Tokyo. Let’s make this evening a memorable one, shall we?”

The British envoy smiled, his demeanor polished and composed as he met Erika’s unyielding gaze. “Ah, of course, young prince,” he replied smoothly, his accent a refined echo of the English countryside. Then, with a wry grin, he turned his attention to Erika. “I bear no grudges, you see,” he said, his voice laced with an unmistakable charm. “My lady, I humbly propose a truce—a rather splendid proposal of friendship, if only for this delightful afternoon.”

His tone was a blend of wit and diplomacy, each word delivered with an air of civility, as if offering a game of strategy rather than a mere peace offering.

Erika forced a smile, the corners of her mouth barely lifting as she shot back, “Of course. I’d say you’re smarter than your Prime Minister, at least, since you’re willing to agree to a moment of peace unlike him, Mr. Rane.” Her words dripped with provocation.

The British envoy remained unfazed; his composure unshaken by her jibe. “Oh, quite! I’ll gladly take that as a compliment,” he replied, a light chuckle escaping his lips. His eyes sparkled with mischief, revealing a man well-versed in the art of diplomacy and banter, fully prepared to navigate the tense waters of their conversation with charm and grace.

Takashi couldn’t help but notice the stark contrast between the two. Despite their similar ages, Rane exuded a sense of maturity and calm that Erika seemed to lack. The British man’s demeanor was poised and collected, a testament to his extensive experience in the political arena. In contrast, Erika’s fidgety impatience and sharp retorts revealed her military upbringing, where emotions often ran high and discipline was paramount. Takashi pondered whether it was Rane’s immersion in the world of diplomacy that had shaped his composed nature, while Erika, shaped by the rigors of military life, found it harder to mask her frustration.

“Ahem,” Takashi cleared his throat, his gaze steady on Rane. “So, Mr. Rane, it’s rather unusual for you to invite me to dinner, especially with Erika present. If I recall correctly, you’ve never initiated such meetings during your four years here in Japan. I can’t help but be curious about what’s prompted this change.” His tone was polite, yet there was an underlying note of scrutiny as he studied the British diplomat’s reaction.

“Why not, indeed,” Rane replied with a disarming smile, his voice smooth and distinctly British. “It seems rather remiss of me to constantly attend the gatherings of others without extending an invitation of my own. I thought it only proper to repay the courtesy.” He leaned slightly forward; his demeanor congenial but measured. “Furthermore, as you well know, Lady Erika and I find our countries at odds over certain… matters. I simply wish to ensure that Japan maintains its former relations with my esteemed nation, despite these minor squabbles.” His eyes twinkled with a hint of mischief, as if he were playing a game of diplomacy rather than discussing the realities of war.

“Or is it that you’re afraid of witnessing the sunset in your so-called ‘empire on which the sun never sets’?” Erika interjected, her voice laced with sarcasm. The words dripped with provocation, aimed directly at Rane.

Takashi quickly kicked Erika’s leg beneath the table, a subtle but firm reminder to temper her sharp tongue. He could sense the tension rising, knowing all too well that such barbs would only serve to deepen the divide between them.

Rane raised an eyebrow, an amused smile playing on his lips as he regarded Erika. “Ah, the lady has a way with words, doesn’t she? But I assure you, I have no fear of the sun setting, whether it be in the East or the West. Quite the contrary, in fact. A sunset can be a rather beautiful thing, wouldn’t you agree?”

Erika bristled at his tone, sensing that he was deliberately trying to unsettle her. “Did you invite me just to hear my provocations and provoke me in return?” she retorted, her voice edged with defiance.

Rane leaned back in his chair, a twinkle of amusement in his eyes. “I’m afraid you’re mistaken, my lady. You see, the fighting in Europe has escalated quite dramatically. Our empire is a benevolent one, and we wish to spare our crown colonies, like India and Burma, from being swept up in the flames of war. It would be splendid if we could confine our battlegrounds to Europe, wouldn’t it?”

Erika's expression shifted as the implications of Rane’s words settled in. She understood what he was suggesting: with German submarines raiding British convoys, the toll on the Isles was becoming increasingly dire. Rane was subtly implying that the British should refrain from targeting ships bearing the flags of their colonies, such as India and Burma.

“Then why, might I ask, does your so-called benevolent empire employ native soldiers from Asia to fight your battles in Europe?” Erika shot back, her voice dripping with skepticism.

Rane's smile faltered for a moment before he recovered, his demeanor remaining composed. “Ah, my lady, you misunderstand the complexities of empire,” he replied, his tone smooth yet firm. “Those soldiers are fighting for their own freedoms and futures, just as we are. I ….”

Erika cut him off, her voice growing icier. “Mr. Rane, if you’ve called me here just to discuss these matters, I’m afraid this meeting is rather misguided. If your nation wishes to speak of terms, it is not with me but with the Führer himself that your Prime Minister must address such ambitions. Bargaining through an ambassador in a dining room—hardly the way to change the tides of war, wouldn’t you agree?”

Rane paused, clearly choosing his next words carefully, his gaze unwavering. “Well, I had hoped we might speak plainly, Miss Guderian. But if you insist on protocol and formalities, I shall respect that. Yet understand this: history may one day turn on the words exchanged in humble rooms, far from the grand halls of power.”

Takashi subtly shook his head, his gaze steady on Erika, urging her to stay calm. She felt his insistence but couldn’t understand why. To her, this British envoy was merely a source of vague propositions wrapped in polite phrases. Irritation flared as she narrowed her eyes at Rane.

“Mr. Rane,” she began, her tone sharp, “give me one good reason to stay here and continue listening to these… pleasantries.”

Rane’s lips curved into a thin, knowing smile. “Miss Guderian, I assure you, our discussion has a purpose.” He leaned forward slightly, lowering his voice. “Our prime minister, and indeed, His Majesty the King himself, are open to a meeting with the Führer—in neutral territory, of course. Now, would that pique your interest?”

Erika felt a smirk spread across her face as she sat back in her chair, suddenly intrigued. “Now we’re finally talking.”

“Oh, not only that,” Rane continued, his tone shifting to something subtly sharper, almost conspiratorial. He turned his gaze to Takashi, eyes gleaming with an intrigue that hinted he knew more than he let on. “And for you, Prince Hirotada, we’ve caught wind of some rather... interesting developments from your corner. Shall we call it your government’s little ‘picnic’ plans in Hawaii?”

Takashi's face remained composed, a mask of diplomatic calm, but his clenched hand on the table betrayed a ripple of tension. Erika's eyes widened slightly, realization dawning. This was no ordinary peace overture. The British were here with leverage—something substantial enough to curb Japan's ambitions and deter its entry into the war.

Rane leaned back in his chair, his smirk barely concealed, relishing the flicker of unease in his audience. "Now, I’m certain you’ll appreciate our concern for the peaceful stability of the Pacific," he said, feigning a polite tone. "But let’s say... certain actions have led us to prepare for a broader response if Japan’s sights drift too far from its own shores.”

Erika exchanged a glance with Takashi, her own irritation now tempered by a realization of the stakes. This meeting had turned into a delicate game of influence—one that could determine the course of Japan’s next moves.