The outer plaza behind the House of the Hill was quiet, but not empty—willing and waiting to receive the Japanese delegation. The Plaza was an over sized patio built right into the side of the center of power.

  Part helipad, part parade ground, it was usually just an observatory—its winding, park-surrounded pathways rarely used.

  But not today. Today it had been filled with intention—sound-dampened, drone-calibrated, every shadow held in tight by exacting protocol. There was no press. No civilian spectators. Just the weight of observation. From above. From afar. From everywhere that mattered. Reserved for purpose.

  I stood just off the centerline of the formal path, a few paces from the platform waiting. The incline was subtle, the paving clean, the curvature of the bluff behind us sloping down toward the sea like a set piece someone had spent far too much time designing. Because we had.

  And flanking the path itself? A full ceremonial company of Interceptors resting at parade rest. A ceremonial color guard welcoming our guest.

  I had taken my kings words literally. I would show them diplomacy through strength.

  All five classes of our reserved security troops.

  Heavy assault models stood just behind their smaller, fast-response counterparts.

  Advanced units flanked the edges like field sergeants.

  A full platoon of Vanguard models held the front—stoic and steadfast, exactly as their name implied.

  And stationed ahead of each group stood a Relay unit, armband-painted like lieutenants.

  Arranged not for show—but for doctrine.

  Not subtle.

  Not meant to be.

  Let the intelligence services squint at the footage. Let the satellites scan. Let the analysts estimate count, weight, heat signature.

  We weren’t hiding anything anymore.

  The Japanese arrived in a sleek-looking jet—a C-971 Hercules V, the V for VTOL capability—still burning traditional fuel sources. Thing must eat a ton of it. The plane barely cleared the edge tolerances of the plaza.

  We’d run the math. They’d be fine against our mana-reinforced composite.

  The diplomatic aircraft was unbranded, broad-framed, and quiet in the air—its retrofitted belly designed for multi-purpose deployment. Everyone on the island knew that design.

  It had once carried infantry into China. Artillery. Drones.

  A nuclear dawn waiting on the horizon—gracefully cycled down by an upstart nation that threatened to end the world if they didn’t.

  Maybe a mistake on our part.

  But I’m pretty sure the soldiers on both sides were grateful.

  Now it carried envoys. Allegedly.

  The rear ramp hissed open.

  Two Enforcers emerged first—tall, armored, visors down. Not ceremonial. Not subtle. Just two meat-and-metal slabs sent forward as presence.

  Behind them came three officials:

  A senior diplomat, all postured grace and soft shoes.

  A younger tech attaché, overly careful and visibly scanning.

  A so-called cultural envoy who walked like a man who had held command—and maybe still did.

  Two civilian drones hovered just behind them, unarmed, high-spec. Eyes and ears for someone else.

  They walked six steps forward. Then they saw the Interceptors.

  The shift was minor—a slight pause in stride from the Enforcers. But it was there. Their controllers obviously overriding their combat triggers.

  They came to make a statement.

  Ours was already standing there.

  TAI stepped forward to greet them first. Not many made mention of it, but she was nobility just as much as any other. Some people debated if she was royalty or not. It was a good question.

  She'd always be a queen to me.

  Her silhouette caught the light—cut from silver-threaded synthweave, tailored with deliberate asymmetry. Smooth across the shoulders, sharp down the back. Her comm bands glinted under the morning haze, polished like ceremonial cuffs.

  She offered a kind, slight nod that read more like punctuation than deference—precise, noble, final.

  Mai followed behind her, fluid as ever. Her dress was a modern Tulantian wrap, its cut inspired by old Japanese floral lines—subtle, not ceremonial—laced with micro-filament thread that shimmered faintly with motion. One side draped higher along the shoulder, balanced by a minimalist sash marked with dual glyphs: her lineage and her allegiance.

  One half of her hair was pinned in a tight braid behind her ear; the other fell loose, catching the breeze like it knew the attention was hers.

  Her eyes missed nothing. Neither did the delegation’s.

  Small expressions—tight mouths, wary glances—betrayed old grievances.

  They didn’t speak first. They let the silence work.

  I stood off to the side, near the Interceptors.

  At some point, we’d apparently decided I needed to look like I belonged here—so I was in uniform now.

  Not the traditional kind. No brass buttons. No epaulets. Just precision-cut cyberwear: matte gray, reinforced along the spine, modular at the joints, sealed at the neck. My comm bands were synced to the command grid—flashing quiet pulses that confirmed my link to the full company.

  It wasn’t decorative. It was directive.

  I looked like what I was—field commander of Tulanto’s post-human deterrent.

  A modern nutcracker. Built to watch. And if necessary—snap... their... nuts?

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

  …Goddamn it.

  The Japanese diplomat approached with a smile that felt practiced. The tech attaché glanced nervously at the Vanguards. The cultural envoy’s eyes flicked once to Ey’s wrist, then to Mai’s collar interface, then back to Kay.

  “We appreciate the warm welcome,” the diplomat said in neutral-accented English. “It’s… impressive.”

  “It’s transparent,” Ey replied, calmly.

  At a signal I didn’t give—but had clearly been pre-arranged—the company snapped to a short salute: right fists across synthetic chests, heads unmoved. Two seconds. Then back to rest.

  The moment passed. And then—movement.

  The Vanguard platoon at the front peeled forward with mechanical grace, falling in behind the delegation as they began their walk toward the platform. Not close. Not crowding. Just two meters back, marching in sync—no weapons drawn, no posturing—just a presence you could feel in your ribs.

  Not a wall.

  Not a warning.

  An escort. Military doctrine made tangible.

  The rest of the company stayed behind—silent sentinels, unmoving, unreadable. Not forgotten. Not dismissed. Just waiting.

  Let the world watch.

  Let them guess how many more waited beneath the bluff.

  ___

  We moved indoors. Interceptors taking position with the Enforcers outside.

  The venue wasn’t large, but it was deliberate—stone flooring, high arch ceilings, and thick air that held every word a little longer than it should. Old palace vibes layered with tactical resonance tech. It looked like diplomacy. It was built for surveillance.

  Long windows overlooked the sea. A standing buffet lined the far wall—finger foods, handcrafted canapés, and a single gleaming tray of hot dogs. That had been my addition. AG had raised an eyebrow. I’d kept it anyway. I liked hotdogs.

  The delegation moved with polite curiosity, but everyone knew the pageantry was over. Now came the part where smiles meant nothing and words meant everything.

  I drifted toward the food table. Took a hot dog. Bit into it like it was the most natural thing in the world. Chewed slowly. No one said anything—until the tech attaché did.

  “Do you… need to eat?”

  He wasn’t mocking. Just curious. He had the kind of eyes that tracked movement like it might break protocol.

  “No,” I said.

  “But it tastes good. To the flavor receptors, I mean.”

  I nodded at the tray.

  “You should try one. Tulantian pork. Spanish stock. Local bred. Sustainable. And just processed enough to offend a purist.”

  Ey and Mai stood near the diplomatic half-moon arrangement.

  Subtle visual hierarchy.

  They faced the envoy. I stayed just off to the side. Not distant. Not center.

  Mai hadn’t said a word yet.

  Ey was letting the delegation warm themselves up.

  The diplomat offered the first toast—something about peace, realignment, regional future.

  Ey responded calmly. Not stiff. Not warm.

  “Peace has never been out of reach. It’s just rarely prioritized.”

  The cultural envoy stepped in, voice low and full of implication.

  “Tulanto’s response to prior incidents may have… escalated tensions.”

  Mai tilted her head. She spoke for the first time.

  In Japanese.

  “Escalation is acting on fear. We acted on memory. China has nuclear weapons too, correct?”

  Then she smiled, just a little, and picked up a drink she never sipped.

  The diplomat raised a brow.

  “We? You are Japanese--as I was also under the impression you were fluent in English.”

  Mai smiled again. This time, brighter.

  “I am. To both.” she replied in Japanese.

  "Although, as you’re aware, I am now a full citizen of Tulanto. And so is my loyalty."

  And there it was. The en garde. A perfect little open-hand strike wrapped in silk and served in their home language. Nobody even flinched—except the envoy. He blinked once. Adjusted his sleeve.

  The cultural envoy, former commander or intelligence or something along those lines, stepped forward again. This time his voice was softer. More personal. Dangerous by omission.

  “There are still unresolved matters regarding citizenship,” he said, without looking directly at her. “We recognize that certain individuals may have left the country through non-formal channels. There are protocols for repatriation.”

  Mai didn’t blink.

  Ey said nothing—just turned slightly, letting the silence weigh the room.

  That left me.

  “No,” I said, finishing the last bite of the hot dog.

  The envoy stiffened. “Excuse me?”

  “Far as you’re concerned? Mai was KIA. Long time ago.”

  The envoy finally looked at me. In Irritation, not confusion.

  “That’s not even her name.”

  I shrugged.

  “It is now.”

  He didn’t press further. The diplomat stepped back in subtly pulling the envoy away—smiling with the kind of ease that only came from pressure being felt elsewhere.

  “Let’s not be sidetracked. What matters is building forward. Open dialogue. Shared opportunity. Perhaps even normalized defense relations.”

  Ey’s response was calm. Almost gentle.

  “Tulanto is open. Selectively. And never without memory.”

  “We’ve seen what forgetting costs.”

  The attaché tried again, lightly.

  “Surely there’s interest in… collaborative technology?”

  Ey didn’t answer. She just looked at Mai, then at me.

  A shared glance. Nothing more—but enough.

  The conversation dragged on.

  Tables. Presentations. Forecasts. Promises.

  Three days of curated projections and selective diplomacy—the full buffet of international theater.

  I stayed mostly silent, answering Ey’s side-channel nudges through the hated Squabble comms. Cold and clipped—just the way she liked it.

  We kept them talking. Let them vent. Let them try.

  Snide remarks came early. Soft challenges followed.

  By day two, we were “cooperative.”

  By day three, we were “considering frameworks.”

  They were still bitter we’d shut down their shot at escalation—still nursing the sting of being leashed mid-lunge.

  But they smiled through it. And so did we.

  In the end, they got their summit.

  We got the footage out to the rest of the world.

  At the ramp, the delegation lined up.

  I stepped forward—not much. Just enough.

  The Vanguards didn’t move, but I felt them behind me.

  “We’ve never wanted your fear.”

  “Only your trust. And your honesty.”

  A pause.

  “Tulanto runs on both. And it favors those who understand that.”

  ___

  Ey and I were finally getting some downtime—rare, really—the kind where the noise of the world outside fades into the background. We were on the balcony, looking out over the sea. The city below was still, just the hum of life far off in the distance.

  I wasn’t thinking much. Just letting the quiet sink in.

  Then the ping. Soft, almost casual.

  I glanced at the screen.

  No name. Just a code.

  I picked up without much thought.

  “Hello.”

  The voice on the other end was smooth, familiar.

  “Hello, Kay. Long time.”

  I didn’t say anything at first. Just watched Ey. She was standing by the railing, still, as usual. Her silence matched the quiet in the air.

  “Vinny. Long time indeed.”

  I finally broke the silence.

  “What’re you up to? Where you at?”

  There was a long pause.

  “Ah, Kay. Are you trying to trace me?”

  I heard that damned smug chuckle.

  “I’m not as inept as AISE was.”

  I didn’t say anything. Just let him talk.

  “I just wanted to congratulate you on your promotion.”

  Another pause, a little colder now.

  “And to say the message is out. Tulanto has troops.”

  He dropped the weight of it casually, like it meant nothing.

  “Troops I, unfortunately, want.”

  “Sounds like a you problem, primo.”

  “Yes, well, Kelsey isn’t the only way into your island, Kay. Especially now.” He took a sip of something. Rude.

  “Until we meet again… and I will be seeing you again, Dick.”

  Touche.

  I held the silence for a moment. Something about his tone—the casual threat mixed with that arrogant ease—set something off in my chest.

  I clicked the comm off without another word. Ey didn’t look at me—didn’t need to. She was waiting. She always waited. Always watched.

  The world didn’t stop. It never did. But I had to. For just a minute. To remember what I stood for.

  I rubbed my face, the weight of it pressing down. There was no escape, not really. The world didn’t stop because I needed a break, because I needed to be something other than the stone-faced guardian of Tulanto. The air around me was thick with it—the responsibility, the duty. Everyone out there, waiting for a crack. And Vinny’s words? They reminded me of what I had to protect. Not just the island, not just the people—it was something more. It was the last piece of true freedom in a world that was being swallowed by oligarchies and puppeteers. Tulanto was a fragile, fractured thing, and I was the one they counted on to hold it together.

  I stepped toward the railing, joining Ey. We both stared at the sea. Silent. Watching. We didn’t need to speak.

  Tulanto had soldiers now. And I had a duty.

  Tulanto was more than an island. It was an idea. An ideal. A last bastion of something real. Something free.

  My job now was to guard it. To keep it whole.

  And God help anyone who tried to tear it down.

  Chapter 20 – Signal’s Edge! As we close Book 1, Tulanto’s journey has only just begun. I hope you’ve enjoyed the ride and the world we’ve built together.

  Jane’s story is unfolding in parallel, offering a darker, more personal view of this world. Don’t miss her journey; check out Jane’s Book to see how the threads of Book 1 impact her life in unexpected ways.

  Your support means the world to me. If you’re enjoying the story, please consider rating the book and leaving a review. It really helps to get the word out and reach more readers who might enjoy this world as much as you do.

  Instagram for behind-the-scenes content, world-building tidbits, and character blurbs.