Part 1
Winter's breath seeped through the imperial purple silk of Alexander's command pavilion, making the fabric pulse like a living thing. The brazier flames wavered in their dance, casting copper shadows across maps bristling with colored pins like a field of tiny lances. The golden eagles embroidered on the inner hangings seemed to stir, their wings rippling as though poised for flight.
Alexander occupied his campaign throne—carved from cedar and reinforced with bronze, austere in its authority—positioned so near the table that his knuckles pressed white against the ink-drawn fortifications of Podem.
They delivered Nikolaos to him as dawn broke.
Captivity had transformed the governor in unexpected ways. His wavy dark hair now cascaded past his shoulders in waves. A full beard masked the marble-carved definition of his jaw. The lean, predatory physique of a battlefield commander had softened into something more approachable, almost scholarly. Yet his eyes—those retained their edge, sharp as newly honed steel. They swept the pavilion in a single assessment, marked Igor's position with a warrior's instinct, then lowered as he descended to one knee.
"Your Imperial Majesty." The words emerged steady as stone. "Your devoted servant, Nikolaos, returns to your service."
"Rise." Alexander's scrutiny was methodical, cataloguing each change. "You appear remarkably well-preserved. The Vakerians were eager to demonstrate their civility, it seems?"
A shadow of his former arrogance touched Nikolaos's lips. "Three meals without fail. Daily courtyard access for maintaining one's strength." His shoulder lifted in the barest shrug. "Their conduct was... unexpectedly honourable. More generous than I had any right to expect."
"Than one would expect from our own men," Igor observed quietly, his green eyes holding no warmth in that sculptor's face.
Nikolaos neither flinched nor rose. He stood with practiced stillness, hands clasped behind his back, awaiting his emperor's next words.
"Speak plainly," Alexander commanded. "Every detail from your capture to this exchange. Leave nothing to interpretation or imagination."
And so Nikolaos recounted it all. How the one they called the Great Mage—this James—had intervened when Vakerian soldiers moved to open his throat in the mud. How Captain Velika, her leg severely injured, had nearly perished at his hands during an escape attempt born of desperate fury. How the Great Mage had restored her completely and then pleaded—actually pleaded—that no retribution be taken, insisting that the cycles of vengeance must be severed if peace were ever to take root.
"He believed it with his whole being," Nikolaos admitted, and the confession clearly shook him. "Not the calculated mercy of commanders who preach compassion for political gain. Every word rang with conviction. And their general—Bisera—she reinforced his stance. No 'enhanced interrogations.' No calculated degradations." He paused, his jaw working over difficult words. "She told her soldiers: 'Our honor shall be the architect of our victory; for while men may scheme, heaven ultimately decides.'"
Alexander's gaze never wavered from Nikolaos's face, reading truth in every uncomfortable shift of expression.
"And their discipline?" Igor prompted. "Mercy without order breeds only chaos."
"Their order held firm." Nikolaos touched his wrist—a telling gesture he seemed unaware of. "They possess backbone, particularly when Bisera walks the battlements. And the Mage... he demonstrates remarkable wisdom regarding war's mundane necessities. He established a water tribunal, implemented strict rationing, posted sentries at every cistern. He even advocated for letting civilians leave the city before the sieges began in earnest." His voice flattened to emotionless recitation. "Though Bisera argued against letting the civilians leave Podem, warning they might be used as human shields by us if we ever get desperate and the unwittingly civilians settling in nearby countryside."
Alexander's fingers tightened on the map's edge. "She anticipated that possibility?"
"She apparently commented that men of honor commit monstrous acts when provisions dwindle and mutiny threatens." Nikolaos's mouth twisted with bitter acknowledgment. "Eventually, they reached a compromise. The Mage's moral influence was so strong among the Vakerians warriors who would have delighted in breaking my bones for intelligence instead brought blankets. One even left honeyed bread at my threshold when he thought none observed."
The brazier clicked and whispered in the ensuing silence.
Alexander caught Igor's eye. They'd been circling this question for weeks now, neither willing to voice it first. If this wasn't elaborate theater—if Adelais's reports aligned with Nikolaos's testimony—then their entire calculus required recalibration.
Alexander leaned back, allowing the mingled scents of smoke and winter air to fill his lungs. He'd constructed his existence upon a single foundation: the Universal Spirit had anointed him to restore Gillyria's ancient glory. Through discipline and devotion, he would reweave an empire that centuries of chaos had unraveled. His victories proclaimed this divine mandate—the impossible triumph at Sparklestar River, the string of smaller conquests along the eastern frontier.
But if James's miracles truly flowed from Seraphina's hand, what did that portend? Could heaven's favor have shifted to Vakeria? Was he standing on the wrong side of history now? Had every sacrifice, every life spent, been offered to a cause already forsaken?
"Sufficient." Alexander commented, not harsh, but absolute. "Withdraw. Take nourishment. Rest. Prepare yourself for the siege ahead."
Nikolaos bowed low, gratitude and dread etching matching lines across his shoulders as he departed.
Now only Igor remained.
"The weight of this troubles you," Igor observed. They'd earned such honesty in their youth, when Alexander had purchased his freedom from the slave block and granted him not just liberty but purpose—a sword, a cause, and a family worth any sacrifice.
"The evidence accumulates like snow before an avalanche," Alexander confessed. "Either the Vakerians orchestrate history's most elaborate deception, training even their foot soldiers to perform as saints, or—"
"Or heaven truly shields them." Igor's green eyes held steady. "Yet the intelligence from Arinthia suggests the Abyss has also chosen to meddle in Vakerian affairs. Perhaps divine and infernal backing flows not to specific empires, but rather rewards particular conduct."
Alexander rose and paced, his boots striking hollow notes on the carpeted ground. Beyond the tent walls, frost held the world in crystalline suspension. The air carried the layered scents of horse sweat, distant pine smoke, and war's eternal iron tang.
"How does one wage war against heaven's chosen?"
"By choosing not to war against heaven itself," Igor replied, simple as breathing.
"You counsel withdrawal?"
"I counsel adaptation." Igor's tone remained gentle, the voice one uses with skittish warhorses. "If the Spirit demands we purchase supplies rather than plunder them, leave sanctuaries untouched, set prisoners to labor instead of bleeding them, refrain from claiming enemy widows as spoils—then we comply with heaven's requirements."
Alexander's jaw set like stone. "And if the Spirit demands we abandon this war entirely?"
"Then we abandon it." Igor's answer came swift and certain.
Alexander nodded slowly, then pushed through the tent flap into morning's bitter embrace.
A modest canvas shrine huddled at the camp's edge—nothing elaborate, merely an oil lamp burning eternal beneath a rough-painted icon. The Universal Spirit's golden radiance filled the simple board. Seraphina stood at the icon's shoulder, wings folded in contemplation, gaze cast downward from the uncarved hooded face.
Alexander crossed himself and dropped to the frozen earth. Cold bit through his knees like teeth. He remained there, counting each breath like prayer beads.
When he rose, it was only to kneel properly in supplication.
"Lord of the heavens and eternity," he whispered—the words Irene had taught him when they still shared everything, when she'd angle his prayer book to catch candlelight better. "If my fervor has outpaced Your will, recall me to righteousness. If You would have me fight, teach these hands to wield mercy alongside victory. If You would have me yield, grant me strength to bear that crown of thorns. Reveal the truth of these people to me. Render Your judgment upon them, and upon Your servant."
He thought of Irene then—not as the revered Abbess whose name inspired whispers and genuflections, but as the girl who'd debate theology until stars faded, who laughed like summer rain in court, who fell silent as held breath in chapel. The woman who had been his anchor and salvation through the most crucial decade of his existence before fate's cruel jest tore them asunder.
Forgive me, he thought, uncertain whether he addressed her memory or heaven itself.
His prayer ascended with desperate fervor: not for victory as trophy, but for wisdom's grace, for hands unstained by innocent blood, for a heart that would not forge policy from spite's bitter forge.
When he finally rose, he summoned a scribe and dictated new protocols for his army's conduct.
Between mercy and strategy, he was determined to have both.
Part 2
Dawn in Podem arrived with the particular misery only a siege could provide. James woke to discover that medieval fortress life had opinions about modern hygiene standards, and those opinions were universally terrible.
"Why," he groaned into the straw-filled mattress, "does everything smell like a combination of horse, smoke, and despair again?"
"Because that's what sieges smell like, darling," Seraphina's voice chimed helpfully in his mind. "Though I'd add 'unwashed humanity' and 'creative latrine solutions' to your list."
James dragged himself upright in the small chamber he'd been allocated near the garrison quarters. Through the narrow arrow slit that passed for a window, he could see frost coating the courtyard stones. The turquoise skeleton of the water purification system pulsed steadily, at least—five percent complete and growing.
A knock at his door interrupted his morning self-pity. "Lord James? General Bisera requests your presence for the morning rounds."
Morning rounds. That sounded official and probably involved walking on cold stones before breakfast. James pulled on the rough woolen tunic and leather vest Bisera had provided—his modern clothes were "being cleaned" which he suspected meant "being studied by every seamstress in the city."
He found Bisera in the courtyard, and his breath caught despite the smell. She wore her hair in an elaborate crown braid today, threaded with silver wire that caught the morning light. At her throat, a delicate gorget ring chimed softly when she turned—audible only when close, a subtle music for those near enough to matter. Her armor had been polished to a mirror shine, and she'd definitely done something with kohl around her eyes that made them even more striking in the morning light.
"You're staring," Saralta observed, appearing at his elbow with her characteristic ability to move silently. The steppe princess had adapted to siege life by somehow looking even more dangerous—her curved sword never left her hip, and she'd taken to wearing form-fitting leather that clearly outlined the sculpted contours of her body. "Though I can't blame you. Our general does clean up nicely when she's not covered in yesterday's blood."
Bisera's cheeks colored. "We have inspections to conduct."
"Inspections?" James asked, falling into step beside them.
"Daily review of supplies, weapons, morale," Bisera explained, her general's mask sliding into place. "The garrison must see their commanders, know we share their hardships."
Their first stop was the communal kitchens, where massive cauldrons bubbled over fires that had burned continuously for days. The smell hit James like a physical force.
"Is that..." he peered into one pot, seeing a greyish mass of grain and legumes.
"Barley and pea porridge," the cook, a massive woman with arms like ham hocks, said proudly. "With a bit of lentil when we have it. Good solid food for fighting men. Though when things get truly desperate—" she grinned wickedly, "—we'll be boiling boot leather for the gelatin. My grandmother survived a three-month siege on boot soup and prayer!"
James's expression must have been something special because Saralta burst into laughter. "His face! Oh, by the gods, he looks like she threatened to feed him his own foot!"
"It's actually quite nutritious," Bisera said diplomatically. "Though thankfully we're not there yet. The barley porridge is... acceptable."
The cook ladled out a bowl anyway, presenting it to James with the kind of expectant look that suggested refusal would be a grave insult. The grey-brown mass had... things floating in it. Possibly lentils. Possibly things that had once dreamed of being lentils.
"Perhaps the Great Mage would prefer our morning brew?" the cook suggested, producing a clay cup of something that looked like tar and smelled like burnt socks mixed with hatred.
"That's..." James paused, trying to identify it.
"Roasted barley and acorn," Bisera supplied. "With a touch of honey if we're lucky. Some call it soldier's comfort."
James took a sip and immediately regretted every life choice that had led to this moment.
"Oh my," Seraphina's voice practically sparkled with mirth in his mind. "Is the great champion of love conquering all discovering that 'all' includes medieval cuisine? What was it you declared so boldly just a few days ago? Something about 'love covering a multitude of sins'? Though I don't recall if you meant to include crimes against taste buds in that particular reference."
"You were eavesdropping on my private romantic declarations?" James thought back indignantly, his face heating as he tried not to choke on the acorn coffee.
"Darling, you were projecting your thoughts so loudly, cherubs three universes over were taking notes for their romance novels. Besides," her tone turned wickedly amused, "someone has to document your transformation from 'I'll endure anything for love' to 'except medieval breakfast, apparently.' James darling, you fully embody that phrase, 'frailty, thy name is James.'"
Saralta watched his changing facial expressions with undisguised glee. "In the steppes, we start our mornings with fermented mare's milk. Much more invigorating. I could prepare some for you?"
"I'm good, thanks," James managed, setting down the cup with extreme care.
They moved on to the weapons stores, where soldiers were maintaining their equipment. The smell here was different—oil, metal, and enough concentrated masculinity to choke a horse. Several soldiers worked with sleeves rolled up despite the cold, their breath steaming in the frigid air as they worked whetstones along blade edges. Their forearms glistened with oil, muscles flexing with each practiced motion.
James noticed both women's eyes tracking the display with interest.
"See something you like?" he asked Bisera quietly.
She jumped slightly, then lifted her chin. "I'm conducting an inspection. Checking for... proper techniques."
"Is that what we're calling it?" Saralta purred, not even pretending she wasn't enjoying the view. "Because that one there—" she pointed at a particularly well-built soldier whose rolled sleeves revealed impressive arms, "—is wielding his sword with exceptional... vigor."
The soldier in question looked up, caught Saralta's frank appreciation, and promptly dropped his whetstone on his foot.
"Smooth," James commented.
"The town dwellers, they're always so shy," Saralta sighed dramatically. "In the steppes, we wrestle in the yurts, stripped to the waist. Strength must be proven where everyone can see it."
"Really?" James asked before he could stop himself.
Bisera made a choking sound, her gorget ring chiming softly.
"Oh yes," Saralta continued, her dark eyes dancing with their familiar mischief. "It's the most efficient way to assess a warrior's... capabilities. We also have ice-bathing competitions—you should see the definition it brings out when they emerge. Everything becomes so wonderfully sculpted by the cold." She turned her appraising gaze on James, circling him slowly like a cat evaluating particularly interesting prey. "Speaking of which, you're quite the puzzle, aren't you? Built like someone who wrestles bears for entertainment, yet you are a mage by trade. I'm fascinated by how all that martial training of yours resulted in such an impressive... frame, rather than any actual sword work. Unless—" her grin turned positively wicked, "—your physical skills are of a different variety entirely?"
"Saralta!" Bisera's voice hit a pitch that made her gorget ring sing in alarm.
"What? I'm merely conducting my own inspection. Military readiness assessment, you might say." She tilted her head thoughtfully at James. "Don't you think our divine mage displays excellent... structural integrity, General? Those shoulders alone could bear significant... responsibilities."
James felt his face achieving temperatures previously thought impossible outside of forge work. "Can we please inspect something else? Preferably something that doesn't involve commentary on my... structural integrity?"
Their next stop was the latrines, which James immediately regretted requesting. Medieval sanitation was... creative. The fortress had a sophisticated system by period standards—channels cut through stone that carried waste to a pit outside the walls—but the actual facilities were communal wooden benches with holes cut at regular intervals.
"No privacy at all?" James asked weakly.
"Privacy is for peacetime," Bisera said, though she seemed to be fighting a smile at his discomfort. "Though if it helps, there are separate facilities for officers."
"Oh good, elite pooping privileges."
Saralta cackled. "He's adorable when he's horrified. Tell me, James, in your world, do you each have your own personal throne for such matters?"
"Something like that, yes."
"How decadent! Next you'll tell me you have special servants just for—"
"Moving on!" Bisera interrupted quickly, her face crimson, the gorget ring at her throat tinkling with her sudden movement. "We need to check the eastern wall."
As they climbed the stairs to the ramparts, James noticed how both women moved with practiced ease despite the ice making every surface treacherous. He, on the other hand, had already grabbed Bisera's arm twice to avoid falling.
"Careful," she murmured the second time, steadying him with a hand on his waist. "The stones are worn smooth here. Generations of soldiers have walked these steps."
Her touch lingered a moment longer than necessary, and James caught Saralta's knowing smirk.
On the wall, they found Velika overseeing the installation of additional scorpions. The captain had her hair pulled back severely and was gesturing with her usual dramatic flair at some poor engineer.
"No, no, NO! The angle is wrong! Do you want to shoot our own walls? Because that's how you shoot your own walls!"
She spotted them approaching and grinned. "Ah, our morning inspection party. Come to admire my improvements?"
"Your improvements seem to involve a lot of shouting," Saralta observed.
"Shouting is how things get done properly. Speaking of which—James, you look exhausted. Did our general keep you up late with... tactical planning?"
"The events of last night, if you have already forgotten," Bisera said stiffly.
"Of course, I am sure there were no more discussions afterwards." Velika's grin widened. "Though I notice someone took extra care with their appearance this morning. Silver thread in the hair, Bisera? And is that a new gorget ring? How very... melodious."
"They serve a practical purpose," Bisera protested. "The ring helps my immediate staff locate me indoors."
"Mhmm. And the kohl? Does that help with... battlefield visibility?"
James decided to intervene before Bisera committed murder. "What's that smell?"
Everyone stopped and sniffed.
"Bread!" Saralta exclaimed. "Fresh bread!"
They rushed to the wall's edge. Below, in a section of the courtyard James hadn't visited, several ovens had been constructed from rubble and clay. Women and elderly men worked steadily, pulling round loaves from the glowing mouths.
"The baker's guild," Bisera explained, pride evident in her voice. "They volunteered to work through the siege. Said if we're going to die, we'll die with full stomachs."
"That's... actually beautiful," James said.
"You haven't tasted it yet," Velika warned. "Siege bread is mostly bran and acorn meal. Though occasionally you get lucky and find a weevil for extra protein."
"She's joking," Bisera assured him, then added quietly, "Usually."
They descended to the bakery, where the head baker—a thin man with flour in his beard—immediately pressed a warm loaf into James's hands.
"For the Great Mage! Fresh from the oven! Only slightly stretched with acorn flour!"
James tore off a piece. It was dense, gritty, and tasted faintly of nuts and earth, but it was warm and it was bread. "It's perfect," he said honestly.
The baker beamed. "You hear that? The divine mage approves! Martha! The blessed one likes our bread!"
Suddenly James was surrounded by bakers, all pressing their particular creations on him. Someone had made a kind of flatbread with herbs. Another offered honey cakes that were mostly honey-flavored hope. An elderly woman presented what might charitably be called a pie but looked more like someone had declared war on fruit and pastry.
"You have to try them all," Saralta whispered wickedly. "To refuse would be an insult."
James looked at the dozen expectant faces. Then at Bisera, who was clearly trying not to laugh. Then at the "pie" which might have been moving.
"Seraphina," he thought desperately, "I need something for indigestion."
Part 3
Two hundred thirty miles to the southeast, the Gillyrian capital lay draped across its horned bay like a merchant's fortune scattered on azure silk. Aqueducts marched across its seven hills on legs of ancient stone. The harbor sang with the music of a thousand masts dancing against each other. Above it all, the dome of Holy Wisdom trapped winter sunlight like a bowl of captured flame.
In the Palace, the Hall of Nineteen Couches—christened for symposiums of philosophy, now serving the harder truths of statecraft—whispered with silk and ambition barely leashed.
Helena, Regent in her brother's absence, commanded the center like the stillness at a storm's heart. She did not lounge as lesser courtiers might, playing at authority. She sat forward, poised like an archer drawing back the string. Purple silk proclaimed her station. Pearls rested against her throat like winter's first frost. Her raven hair—a masterwork of the capital's expectations, each strand placed with architectural precision—framed features too forthright to disguise their grief.
The foolish saw vulnerability ripe for harvest. The wise recognized iron dressed in silk.
"General Velisarios," she commanded.
The old warrior they called the Fox advanced, his bow as deep as battle-worn joints permitted. A jaw broken twice in wars most had forgotten bore white stubble like frost on stone. He'd held mountain passes when half this court still suckled at wet nurses' breasts.
"Speak plainly," she instructed.
"Numbers don't bend to wishes." His voice carried no patience for gilding. "Each fighting man requires nine liters of grain weekly—a modios, give or take. Add meat when the Spirit smiles, lentils when He doesn't. That's 120,000 modioi monthly for soldiers alone. The camp followers and engineers demand another fifth. Then the horses—twelve thousand between cavalry and wagons, each demanding eight to ten kilos of barley daily. Horses don't negotiate their appetites."
He let the arithmetic settle before continuing. "The northern roads are rivers of mud and sheets of ice. The army feeds by sea or starves. Grain ships from Asia, oil from the southern provinces, salt fish from Bithynia. Every captain weeps about winter storms. Our esteemed finance minister—" he acknowledged the sallow man with a nod "—weeps louder about coin."
Silk rustled like disturbed serpents. Rings drummed nervous rhythms on ancient wood. Two retired generals exchanged the satisfied smirks of men convinced that feminine minds couldn't grasp such calculations.
Helena lifted a single finger. Silence fell like a blade.
The finance minister dabbed his perpetually damp brow. "Your Majesty, the treasury can sustain this hemorrhage for two months at present consumption. Beyond that—" He mimed a throat being cut. "We select our poison. Levy war taxes across the themes. Slash garrison wages on the quiet frontiers. Or debase the coinage and pray the merchants are slow to notice."
"The merchant fleet?" Helena inquired.
The foreign minister's hands spread in calculated helplessness. "A quarter of available hulls already under imperial charter. Salt devours rope, winter passages demand double rates. We might commandeer a third of the merchant fleet. Push beyond that, and we strangle the coastal trade. The guilds already bay like hounds."
"Let them bay until their throats are raw," spat a duke, wine-flushed and land-fat. "We restore divine order to the world. The merchant classes can shoulder their share."
"The guilds carry this city's daily bread," the foreign minister countered with practiced dryness. "Bread carries the city's peace. Empty bellies carry emperors to their tombs."
Laughter erupted, too sharp. Men who hadn't known hunger since their milk teeth fell out always laughed that way.
"You advocate retreat?" Helena's tone remained perfectly level.
"I advocate what I've always advocated," Velisarios replied. "Cold pragmatism. His Majesty possesses brilliance in siegecraft. But brilliance doesn't make winter blink. If Podem surrenders quickly, the north cracks like a rotten egg. He becomes the greatest emperor since Constantine. If it resists past the spring thaw, we pour gold into mud until we drown in it."
"Gold can be mined anew," proclaimed one of the other retired generals. "Glory, once lost, never returns."
"Neither do sons," Velisarios shot back. "Or the boys who won't see another harvest." His voice gentled at the memory of Helena's husband's sacrifice. "We purchased eastern peace with those boys' blood."
Ever since Helena's husband had bought lasting peace on the eastern frontier with his life and the lives of countless soldiers, the court had developed two approaches to the widow-regent. Half believed grief had softened her into something malleable. The other half treated her like a child who needed patient instruction in the arithmetic of power.
Both halves wearied her to the bone.
"Gentlemen," she said, her voice requiring no elevation. When she spoke in certain registers, men fell silent—partly from her beauty, partly from an authority they couldn't name but couldn't ignore.
"This campaign isn't some idle fancy. It represents the culmination of lifetimes—not merely my brother's. Mine as well. My late husband's. The dream of every purple-born emperor who came before. We traced our ambitions on maps before we could properly hold a stylus. We don't abandon them now simply because winter has the audacity to exist."
"Your words paint lovely pictures," one duke oozed, mistaking flattery for a leash. "Yet men of experience must sometimes recognize when noble ventures transform into fool's errands. No slight intended, naturally—"
"Naturally," Helena echoed sweetly. "You deploy courtesy like a shield against consequences should your judgment prove faulty."
His face darkened. Others concealed their amusement poorly. Several looked openly affronted—in their world, beautiful women were supposed to accept condescension with grace.
She denied them time to regroup. To the finance minister: "No debased coinage. That's a fire that burns quick but leaves ashes for generations. Impose a war levy in the themes in Asia Minora, scaled to the harvest's bounty. A man with ten granaries can spare one. A man with one keeps what he has. Strip the palace of every luxury that doesn't touch imperial dignity itself. Sell nothing bearing the crown's mark save my personal ornaments."
The sallow minister's smile escaped before he could cage it. She'd just handed him a cudgel—her jewels sacrificed first, then let the preening wives object.
To the foreign minister: "Charter a third of the merchant fleet through the feast of the Nativity. Fix grain prices to soothe the guilds—they fear less when they know the floor beneath them. The shipwrights may harvest oak from two imperial reserves, this winter only. Send inspectors whose virtue can't be purchased. If you can't find any, conscript monks."
"Your will becomes reality," he bowed.
This should have concluded matters—commands issued, the machinery of empire grinding forward. But power despises a woman sitting serene at its center, especially when winter strains every sinew.
A duke, hawk-nosed and decorated with honors earned when half the court was still unborn, leaned upon his staff with rehearsed humility. "Majesty, the court would breathe easier if the succession plan were more... firmly in place. Should misfortune—"
"My brother will return," Helena cut him off with silk-wrapped steel. "The succession requires no discussion until that day."
His staff struck marble once, irritation costumed as courtesy. Yet he possessed too much cunning to press further, knowing how easily loyalty could be questioned. Still, unease rippled through the assembled nobles like wind through grain. Death claimed emperors on campaign as readily as in their beds, whether by enemy steel or treacherous fever. And the designated heir remained untested in the fires that forged true rulers.
Helena raised her hand, and for a moment looked carved from sorrow itself.