The enemy of my enemy is my friend – Sun Tzu

Operation Giga Pudding (D-46 hours)

The wind blew from Ordos Bay, along the river, and through the forest surrounding Fort Carré. A pair of blue candles flickered each time the breeze passed by on top of a map of Battle City

Heather, resting against a white birch tree, ran her fingers through her reddish-brown curly hair. Nearby, a pair of rats—one grey and the other white with a black spot over its eye—nibbled on a slice of cheese. Their tails occasionally brushed against a set of bongos.

Heather gazed at her Tarot cards, spread out on a blue silk scarf. The Tarot spread confirmed what she already knew: despite countless adjustments to the rescue plan and contingencies for potential black swan events, the results consistently concluded with the Happy Rabbit in the ‘final results’ position.

Heather closed her eyes, her mind a swirl of chaotic thoughts. A familiar pang of self-doubt crept in, tightening its grip. The tactical map spread out before she felt like an impossible puzzle with half the pieces missing. Maybe this was too much. The scale, the planning, the stakes—it all seemed beyond her grasp.

She glanced around the forest, watching the trees sway by another incoming breeze. She wanted to ask for help, but all eyes were focused on the mission to reclaim the Boardwalk. She wanted to admit she was struggling, but her throat tightened at the thought. How could she interrupt them? Everyone else seemed so sure, so capable. Even T.C., who she ridiculed, made the planning and logistics appear to be easy, though he struggled here and there, most of his plans were successful.

Estelle wouldn't be much help, especially with her disdain and distrust of oracles and fortune-telling.

Heather’s fingers drummed on her knee. She bit her lip, fighting back the frustration gnawing at her. The sense of inadequacy was suffocating. Each minute that passed felt like another step towards failure, another confirmation that she wasn’t cut out for this. Heather took a deep breath, trying to steady herself, but the knot in her stomach only grew tighter.

Checking on the position of the sun, it was on the distant horizon when she first started planning. She paused a few times to communicate with Yellow Bird, but the mental link was erratic at best. Perhaps due to a storm brewing on the astral which caused havoc with telepathy Heather suspected.

“And what do I do now?” Heather said getting up and wandering into a clearing. “Stupid cloud, you are blocking my way!”

From the position of the bright sunlight, the best she could tell was that the sun was mid-sky. Then she wandered back to her resting spot by the birchwood tree. Her body felt heavy and allowed herself to close her eyes again, if only for a moment. After all, what harm would it do?

Her thoughts drifted off as her mind began to wander.

What would Montigaine do? How would Boss Kitty conduct this operation? How does one counter seven druids whose sole purpose was to protect Yellow Bird? What about other factors?

Heather asked herself these questions over and over.

The rustling leaves calmed her mind as they lulled her to sleep. Voices from long ago called to her from the depths of the past.

***

Heather found herself sitting in a plush carriage riding down a cobblestone road. The horse’s hooves clopped on the road, but the interior of the remained still.

An older man with a long grey beard and, a thick head of silver hair with hints of brown tapped his finger on the window to the rhythmic beat of the horse’s canter.

Heather sat back in her seat; the fluffy cushions gave her the feeling she was sitting on a cloud. The old man reached out and placed his hand on top of her open palm.

When he withdrew his hand, he left a golden cylinder, a pinky length in size. Heather took it and concealed it up her sleeve.

“My beloved, remember no more than ten seconds, any longer and you will kill the pharaoh,” he said inhaling deeply. “And…”

“I know Father,” she said, holding up a golden lipstick case. “Wipe it off immediately or it will affect me too.”

“Perfect,” he said flicking his finger against the window. “We need him neutralized till we push our family’s environmental proposals through.”

He stared out the window towards the gently rolling hills.

Heather's eyes blazed with fury as looked where she had hidden the vile, her fists clenched tight, turning her knuckles white. She slammed her hand against the door of the carriage, the sound carried through the cabin.

"Allowing the Merchant clans to strip mine our ancient forests? It's a disgrace," she spat, her voice trembling with indignation.

Her father leaned over and kissed her forehead. She unclenched her hands and let the sunlight wash across her.

“Honestly, I have no idea why the pharaoh insists on using this style of transportation. They're more efficient means are readily available,” he said.

“Our lord is a traditionalist, and therefore predictable, Father,” Heather said with a coy smile. “As you say, the predictable are easily manipulated?”

He acknowledged her with a pointed finger, his eyes locking onto Heather's with a subtle nod of approval. A satisfied smile tugged at her lips as she adjusted her corset, the fabric pulling taut to give her breasts a more pronounced, shelf-like appearance.

He bit back a grin, the corners of his mouth twitched, but the glimmer in his eyes betrayed his pride. She felt a warm rush in her chest, knowing deep down that she had impressed him.

***

Guests mingled about the ballroom as soft music drifted from concealed vents in the walls and floors.

Heather spotted her target, surrounded by a gaggle of bootlickers showering him with congratulations on his 18th birthday. It was all for show. Behind their masks of kindness and well-wishes, she detected flickers of contempt and jealousy.

She pushed closer. The Pharaoh was speaking with a woman who had long black hair and almond-shaped eyes. Her metallic silver dress shimmered with each forced giggle in response to his bad jokes. Heather's eyes narrowed as she observed the scene, every detail fueling her desire to carry out her father’s plan.

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“Everyone will be laughing when you vomit on your guests, my lord,” she thought.

Heather then noticed a platinum broach pinned to the woman’s dress. It was a crescent moon with three arrows that pointed upward. She rolled her eyes.

“Military aristocracy, wonderful another warmonger family I have to put up with.”

She moved closer through the gaggle of well-wishers as the crowd thinned out. A flash from a broach momentarily blinded her causing Heather to bump into someone.

“Many pardons,” she said, unsure of who bumped into her and whether this individual was of a higher or lower social standing compared to her.

She calculated her response carefully as something cold trickled down her neck and onto her satin green dress. After all, Heather reasoned, she didn't want to draw unwanted attention to herself over a minor breach of etiquette. When her eyes focused, she saw a woman with white hair holding a half-empty crystal glass flute.

“Heather?” Estelle asked. “Heather Drekaköttr from the Silvering Magic School?”

Heather forced a smile. From behind Estelle’s shoulder, she noticed her target moving away.

“As much as I would enjoy reminiscing about old times, I must congratulate our Lord on his glorious birthday,” Heather said, attempting to step around Estelle.

"We have the entire night ahead for our esteemed leader to potentially overstep his bounds with you. I’m sure you will earn his attention once he sees you in that stunning dress, is that a Diana original? I digress…" Estelle said, her tone laced with a slight hint of disdain, she linked arms with Heather. "I refuse to take no for an answer, it will only take a moment to rectify the situation and atone for my unfortunate clumsiness."

Estelle snapped her fingers, and a few sparks flew into the air. Heather rolled her eyes and allowed herself to be escorted from the gathering.

They passed the guests who paid little if any attention. The pair rounded a corner and Estelle opened one of the many side doors that lined the hallway.

"Do you remember when students would clandestinely retreat to unused rooms to engage in romantic encounters during school hours?" Estelle asked.

“Are you making a suggestion?” Heather asked.

“On the contrary,” Estelle said as she pushed the door closed with her foot. “I would simply prefer to reminisce about the good old days.”

Estelle walked to the end of the room and sat on the desk; her feet dangled over the desk. She pulled out a slender dagger and began to pick her nails as her feet kicked back and forth.

Heather walked into the middle of the room, and she said, “It has been a while, hasn’t it? You’re how old now? Thirteen…fourteen years old?”

“Four hundred twenty-eight,” Estelle corrected.

“You were always proficient with time and dimensional magics,” Heather said. “Well as amusing as this is I believe I should return to the party. I dear say that I might be missed.”

She turned and headed back toward the door when a lanky man with dark skin, silver hair, and red eyes appeared before it. She first noticed that his black tuxedo was made of cloth woven from minuscule links of metal. Then he has his hands clasped in front of him.

"We insist you grace us with your presence," he said, holding up his hand and flashing a plain silver ring, as he narrowed his gaze.

In the center lay a sliver of black metal, no larger than her pinky fingernail. The metal absorbed the surrounding light, with wisps of ash-grey steam rising from its surface. She felt a lump in her throat form, only one class was allowed to wear the abyssal steel.

“Pharaonic assassins,” Heather said as she took a single step back.

“Counterespionage, my dear,” he said.

Heather turned on her heels to face Estelle who was still playing with her knife. A silver broach had appeared over her heart. In the center of the broach was a black gem that had a setting constructed from abyssal steel. The emptiness from the gem called to her till Estelle snapped her fingers refocusing her attention.

“I’m royal born, heiress to House Drekaköttr. I insist you move at once and allow me to return to my father at once!” Heather said, summoning the courage to stand her ground.

“He is presently engaged in a private meeting with the royal birthday boy,” Estelle said, as her heels kicked the back of the table.

The man's face twisted in concealed anger as his gaze narrowed sharply.

“It’s beyond me that you insisted on talking his lordship out of ending dear old Daddy Drekaköttr,” he said as he pronounced each word with precision and clarity. “I do so miss the old days of having unrestricted rules of engagement with issue management resolution.”

A bead of perspiration ran down Heather’s forehead. She tried to still her heart by slowing her breathing. If what she could recall the stories involving hunter-assassins, they could hear a heartbeat in a hurricane.

"Moments like these I recall the teachings of Ch’ien Shu. When one turns an enemy into a friend, it’s an act of wisdom. A former adversary, once won over, often proves more loyal and valuable than a friend from the start," Estelle said, then slammed the dagger into the table.

“What will become of my father?” Heather asked, her voice shaky.

The dark-skinned man tapped his ear and frowned.

“You should go see him, the…pharaoh is done with him. Please do give him my best once you see him,” he said and stepped aside.

Heather rushed out the door, not bothering to look back. She pushed past curious onlookers, even knocking down a waiter in her haste, but she didn't care.

Her eyes darted around the room, searching desperately. She spotted the young pharaoh at the top of the balcony, engaged in conversation with a portly gentleman in flowing golden robes, but her father was nowhere in sight. Panic rising, she scanned the room frantically, her heart pounding in her chest.

As she reached the base of the stairs, a hand touched her shoulder. Startled, she turned around to see her father standing there, a warm smile on his face and holding a gift box adorned with a silver ribbon and the royal seal. Relief washed over her like a wave, and she felt the tension in her body melt away.

“I was so worried about you, father. I thought you were…” she started to say.

“I just now had a long conservation with the young lord,” he said taking and lowering his voice. “He is aggregable to most of my administration proposals and plans on appointing me as the new minister of the interior.”

“That’s…better than anything we had hoped for,” Heather said as tears welled up in her eyes.

He leaned closer and whispered in her ear, “You didn’t meet with our Lord yet, did you?”

Heather shook her head and explained what had transpired between her, Estelle, and the dark-skinned assassin.

“I took all proper precautions, even wiped the Akashic Record before I walked in. There’s no way anyone could have known,” she whispered. “It might have been a case of wrong place at the wrong time, but better be sure and get rid of the lipstick.”

She tapped her sleeve and discovered the case was missing. A cold shiver ran down her spine.

Her father’s eyes widened, and they turned their attention to the box. He gulped and pulled at the ribbon, breaking the royal seal.

Inside the taffeta-lined box was the lipstick container with a note written in golden ink that read, “I only forgive once.”

***

Heather opened her eyes and rubbed away the crusty bits. Her mind drifted back to the aftermath of the event.

“What was the lesson from all of that?” she asked herself. She recalled how her family grew closer to the Pharaoh and aided him and his family during an attempted coup by the Brightwoods.

“Hungry sharks,” Heather mused. “More like slippery eels. Too bad the Brightwoods can’t be flipped so easily. Wait a moment.”

After shuffling her Tarot cards, she randomly drew one—the Knight of Swords. The picture featured a knight riding a charging horse, carrying a long spear pointed in front of him.

“I know what I’m missing. I need an enemy,” Heather said, feeling a boost of confidence.

***