"Ugh... What happened? My skull feels like it's splitting..."
The moment the Doctor regained consciousness, her immediate sensation was a throbbing ache radiating across her forehead. It felt precisely as though her brow had been forcefully rammed by a charging beast—a lingering, agonizing pressure that defied description.
She couldn't comprehend how Jeanne possessed that level of raw strength. To manage to knock out someone wearing a reinforced titanium mask with a single headbutt was absurd. Didn't the maiden feel any pain in her own skull?
Blinking her eyes open, the Doctor caught sight of the horseshoe-shaped outer armor framing Jeanne's head. In that instant, the mystery dissolved; the maiden's cranium was wrapped in defensive plating far superior to her own mask.
Seated nearby, engaged in a quiet tug-of-war over a fresh apple with Fafnir, Jeanne let out a sigh of relief upon seeing the strategist finally awaken. She had spent the last several hours worrying that her physical intervention had been a touch too enthusiastic, potentially causing permanent damage to the fragile woman.
Deploying physical force was undeniably efficient, but the glaring drawback of such a direct methodology was the risk of breaking an exceptionally delicate patient.
When Jeanne delivered the blow, she believed she had metered her strength perfectly to grant the strategist a peaceful slumber. Only after the fact did she remember that the Doctor did not possess the superhuman constitution of someone like Talulah.
While the strike wasn't lethal, a slight miscalculation could easily induce a mild concussion. Jeanne was well aware of how dense her own skull was, especially when backed by heavy armor.
Had the Doctor remained unresponsive much longer, Jeanne would have surrendered to the medical staff, dragging a proper physician into the room to evaluate the damage. She was genuinely concerned she might have put the tactician to sleep permanently.
"You are finally among the living," Jeanne said, casting a sharp look toward the bed. "If you had stayed under any longer, I was ready to haul you down the hall and seal you into that hibernation coffin tonight."
Though her tone was biting, Jeanne had remained anchored to the bedside through the entire night, refusing to close her eyes for a single second until the patient woke.
Fortunately, her robust physical constitution made a single sleepless night a trivial matter, and spending the hours watching Fafnir kept her mind thoroughly entertained.
Interacting with the dragon child was a perfect form of relaxation. The little creature, despite bearing a face identical to Talulah's, possessed a level of innocence that completely outshone her serious appearance.
"My apologies for causing such anxiety," the Doctor murmured. With her mind fully cleared, she recognized that her previous desk sprint had been entirely reckless, leaving her companions sick with worry.
During that frantic work session, her thoughts had been consumed entirely by a desperate drive to clear the ledger. She had simply forgotten that her physical body required routine intervals of rest, drowning herself in an endless sea of documentation.
Jeanne could only marvel at the sheer ruthlessness of the display. Truly dedicated workaholics didn't stop at exploiting their subordinates; they gladly incinerated their own life force to meet a deadline.
"This schedule terminates today," Jeanne declared firmly. "If you persist with this routine, you will drop dead of sudden exhaustion right over your keyboard. Your frame is simply too fragile to endure consecutive days of nonstop labor."
What followed was a lecture that made the Doctor's skin crawl. Jeanne launched into a relentless, exhausting critique of her behavior, her voice filling the room with an unbroken stream of reprimands.
The scolding was so intense that Fafnir, after enduring the first five minutes, quietly scooped up her apple and bolted out the door. Even the fiercely attached dragon child found the lecture too painful to sit through.
By the time Jeanne finally ran out of breath, the Doctor felt as though she had barely survived a trial by fire. The Saintess's disciplinary speeches were a force few individuals on Terra could easily withstand.
The Doctor found herself praying for a savior to materialize and drag this terrifying sister away. She was entirely willing to promise a normal eight-hour workday if it meant ending the verbal siege.
Her silent prayers were answered remarkably fast, though she never anticipated her savior would take the form of Kal'tsit.
The ancient physician's stone-faced visage suddenly appeared incredibly beautiful to the trapped strategist. The Doctor felt a sudden urge to seize Kal'tsit's tail—or rather, throw her arms around the Lynx's knees to voice her profound gratitude.
However, capturing the dark, murderous glint in the doctor's emerald eyes, the Doctor wisely chose to suppress her celebratory instincts, realizing that provoking her caretaker right now would only result in being pinned to the floor and physically reprimanded.
As Kal'tsit stepped forward to conduct a rigorous physical assessment, Jeanne slipped out into the corridor. She recalled the physician stating rather coldly that she had zero intention of managing this stubborn patient, yet here she was, arriving at the first sign of trouble.
Jeanne cast a lingering glance back through the glass panel, marveling at the tangled nature of their bond. It was an intricate dynamic that a straightforward mind like her own could never fully parse.
With the Doctor secure, Jeanne pondered her next move. The prolonged peace within the fortress was beginning to make her feel slightly restless, as if she were transforming into a pampered parasite idling away the days.
She had originally intended to escort the Doctor back to Great Ursus immediately, but current developments suggested the strategist would remain anchored to the capital for a considerable window of time. "Should I find a temporary project to occupy my hours?" she mused.
"Perhaps I should try to establish a church ministry here?" she thought, before instantly dismissing the idea as madness.
Attempting to preach the tenets of Laterano within the absolute heart of Sarkaz territory was a spectacular way to invite disaster. Even if the local citizens refrained from open violence, she would likely find straw effigies of herself being burned in the streets by midnight.
While she was lost in these wandering thoughts, Theresa materialized at the end of the hall, walking briskly toward her. Jeanne's mind raced. "Have they finally unearthed Theresis's trail? Are they seeking my blade to finish the campaign?"
"Jeanne, I require a moment of your time to discuss a personal matter."
Theresa bypassed all formal pleasantries, gently taking Jeanne by the arm the moment she drew near.
She guided the silver-haired maiden down the corridor into a secluded chamber. The room was beautifully appointed, its decor suggesting a space reserved for matters of significant state gravity.
Jeanne surveyed the elegant surroundings, a quiet instinct whispering that the Monarch's purpose here was far from ordinary.
"Though I am fully aware that you harbor very little concern for material rewards, I fiercely desire to manifest my personal gratitude through a meaningful gesture," Theresa began, her gaze clear and unwavering. "I wish for you to accept the title of Grand Duchess of Kazdel. It is, regrettably, the solitary token of appreciation I can currently offer that matches your contributions."
The Monarch had spent days reviewing potential rewards, only to realize that the traditional spoils of war meant nothing to her guest.
Jeanne possessed zero desire for wealth or resources. The unique mobile fortress of Rhodes Island was the solitary asset of true value within Theresa's domain, but that vessel was permanently tied to Babel's immediate survival and could not be surrendered.
Thus, Theresa turned to nobility. While a peerage within Kazdel carried little weight among foreign empires, it represented the highest honor the Sarkaz crown could bestow.
Furthermore, if Jeanne ever encountered a diplomatic crisis where her identity as the Holy Maiden of Laterano proved inconvenient, she could simply utilize this alternative persona to navigate the political landscape. A noble title was, if nothing else, an exceptional shield.
"Please refrain from an immediate refusal," Theresa added hastily, sensing the protest forming on Jeanne's lips. "This elevation will remain entirely confidential, shielded from the public ledger, and you will not be burdened with a physical territory to govern. It functions purely as a title—a tool you may deploy whenever the necessity arises."
Though secretly granting the highest rank of the peerage deviated sharply from historical protocol, Theresa was fully prepared to bypass tradition for her savior's sake.
The ongoing structural chaos within the capital provided the perfect window to finalize the decree. If she delayed until the high kings re-established their oversight, such an appointment would require the unanimous endorsement of the Royal Court—an impossible hurdle.
Jeanne remained silent for a long interval, staring into Theresa's earnest eyes. She could feel the profound sincerity driving the Monarch's offer, yet her instincts whispered that a Laterano Saintess operating with a Sarkaz noble title was an operational nightmare waiting to happen.
Because Jeanne was at a total loss for words, a heavy silence settled over the chamber, both women waiting quietly for the other to break the impasse.
Crunch... crunch...
The crisp sound of someone chewing drew Jeanne's focus downward. Without either of them noticing, Fafnir had wandered into the room, casually munching on her retrieved apple.
Seeing the dragon child, a brilliant spark illuminated Jeanne's eyes. She scooped Fafnir up into her arms, turning to face the Monarch with a radiant smile.
"If your desire to grant a title is unyielding... then let the peerage be bestowed upon Fafnir instead! Her background is entirely free of the political entanglements that follow my name. Presenting the honor to her will suffice perfectly as your expression of gratitude."
Fafnir, entirely oblivious to the weight of the conversation, merely blinked at the two adults smiling down at her. She offered a wide, silly grin in response to their attention, a piece of apple still tucked in her cheek.
Theresa paused, thoroughly caught off guard by the unorthodox counterproposal. Yet, as she gazed at the round, innocent face of the dragon child, her features softened into a warm laugh. The arrangement was finalized on the spot.
Thus, without understanding a single facet of statecraft, Fafnir found herself elevated to the high nobility of Kazdel. Though, truth be told, the child harbored absolutely zero reverence for a hollow title; if given a choice, she would have vastly preferred a solid bar of gold.