Part 1
The war room smelled of lamp oil and wind through stone. Bisera stood at the map table, fingers drumming wood worn smooth by countless tactical discussions. Beside her, James shifted, the pistol Seraphina had manifested a reassuring weight beneath his jacket.
"Only for non-lethal shots," Seraphina had said in that honeyed voice. "Abdomen, limbs, shoulders. No headshots, no heart shots, and absolutely no shooting at Emperor Alexander himself."
The pistol had cost five hundred dollars. Fifteen rounds. Enough to cover an escape if things went catastrophically wrong. Not enough to fight an army.
"You're certain about this?" Vesmir asked from near the door, notebook open.
Before Bisera could answer, the door swung wide. Velika strode in, rain-damp cloak shedding water, her expression caught between amusement and exasperation. Behind her came General Serko and two guards carrying a leather dispatch case.
"Alexander's reply," Velika announced, depositing the case with more force than necessary. "Delivered under flag of truce an hour past dawn. The herald looked entirely too pleased with himself."
Bisera's hand moved to the case, then hesitated. James watched her jaw tighten—that tell she had when steeling herself for bad news.
"General," Serko said quietly, "whatever it contains, we face it together."
She nodded, working the brass clasps. The parchment inside bore fine vellum with purple wax seal. Alexander's personal mark.
Bisera unrolled it, eyes scanning elegant script. Her expression shifted—surprise, then calculation, then something that might have been reluctant admiration.
"He's accepted," she said finally. "But with modifications."
"Modifications?" Velika leaned forward.
"He proposes Princess Saralta of Rosagar for two hundred Gillyrian soldiers currently in our custody."
Silence crashed through the room.
"Two hundred?" Vesmir's pen stopped mid-stroke. "We hold perhaps two hundred thirty Gillyrian prisoners total. He's asking for nearly all of them."
"For one woman," Velika added, voice flat.
"Not just any woman." Serko's tactical mind was already moving ahead. "Prince Tugor's daughter. Sister to the future Prince of Rosagar. A princess whose capture could fragment our Empire if mishandled."
James felt the weight settling over the room. He'd learned enough of medieval politics to understand the trap's elegant construction.
"He's put us in a position where acceptance is the only option," Bisera said quietly. "If we refuse—"
"Prince Tugor will feel we had a chance at saving his daughter but didn't." Velika's understanding dawned across her face. "That the Empire was unwilling to trade two hundred prisoners to secure his daughter's safety. It would be viewed as betrayal."
"And he stated that to avoid any chance of miscommunication, he would announce the proposal late today in public." Serko's voice held genuine respect. "Proclaimed before both armies with full ceremony. Every Gillyrian prisoner will know their emperor values them enough to trade an enemy noble for their lives. Every Rosagarian auxiliary will watch to see exactly how much we're willing to give for captured comrades."
"That sick, brilliant—" Velika bit off the curse. "He's not just conquering territories. He's conquering minds."
"He's always fought on multiple fronts," Bisera murmured. "Military, political, reputational, psychological."
Vesmir retrieved his notebook. "Implications aside, what are the terms?"
Bisera lifted the parchment:
"Let it be known that We, Alexander, by grace of the Universal Spirit, Emperor of Gillyria and Protector of the Faithful, extend this offer of mercy and exchange..."
She continued through elaborate prose—how the exchange would demonstrate imperial magnanimity, establish precedent for honorable conduct, serve as testament to the possibility of eventual peace. But then her voice caught:
"Furthermore, those cavalry officers of Vakeria taken during the Princess's attempt upon Our person shall remain as honored guests—held in comfort befitting their rank—to stand as surety for the oath freely given by Princess Saralta before the Universal Spirit, binding her to make no further attempt upon Our life during the remainder of the current war."
"He's keeping her officers as hostages," James said, understanding immediately. "Leverage against future assassination attempts."
"Making his unequal proposal sound reasonable," Velika said, pouring wine with slightly shaking hands.
"But here's the truly brilliant part," Bisera said. "The exchange location."
They leaned forward as she read: "Said exchange shall occur upon the open field between our blessed forces, witnessed by all, at midday tomorrow."
The room erupted.
"The open battlefield?" Velika's cup froze.
"In full view of everyone?" Serko's tactical instincts recoiled.
"That's insane from every security perspective," Vesmir stated.
"Unless," James said slowly, "maximum visibility is exactly the point. It minimizes ambush or trickery because thousands of eyes are watching. Complete transparency."
Bisera's laugh came out strangled. "Do you realize what this means? We spent the entire night planning rescue operations. Teaching Velika the drone controls. Preparing Vesmir's cavalry for desperate raids. Devising seventeen different contingency plans." She pressed palms against her temples. "And he's going to walk Saralta out into an open field and hand her over like we're trading horses at market."
Despite the tension, genuine laughter rippled through the room—that dark humor of soldiers who'd seen too much absurdity.
"Your rescue plans weren't wasted," Velika said, wiping tears of mirth. "Now I know how to fly that miraculous contraption. Though I still say it's unnatural."
"It's not unnatural," James protested.
"Says the man who talks to angels and makes water appear from nothing," Velika countered. "Your definition of 'natural' is somewhat suspect."
"Can we focus?" Bisera's command voice cut through. "We have less than twenty hours to organize this exchange."
"We must organize the prisoners," Vesmir supplied. "Verify identities, prepare them for travel, ensure they're healthy."
"And prepare our precautions," Serko added. "Cavalry positioned to cover retreat if needed. Archers on walls in case of treachery."
"He'll have the same," Velika pointed out.
"The letter specifies that too," Bisera said. "'The main forces of both armies shall withdraw to a distance of no less than three hundred paces from the exchange point, beyond effective bow range. Only the principals and their immediate escorts shall approach the designated ground.'"
"Three hundred paces," James murmured. That was roughly nine hundred feet, well beyond accurate medieval archery range.
"He's thought of everything," Bisera said, and there was something in her voice James couldn't quite identify. Respect? Frustration? Both?
"So what do we do?" Velika asked.
All eyes turned to Bisera.
She was quiet for a long moment, hands braced on the table, head bowed. When she looked up, her expression had hardened into command.
"Yes," she said. "We accept. Not because he's forced our hand—though he has—but because Saralta deserves to come back. She rode out to break this siege, threw herself at impossible odds. If the price is two hundred Gillyrians who would likely be exchanged eventually anyway..." She straightened. "Then we pay it."
"The Rosagarian cavalry will support this," Serko said.
"And our own troops?" Vesmir asked.
"Will see that we value our captured comrades," Bisera replied. "But we don't walk into this blind."
"What do you have in mind?" James asked.
She looked at him, and he saw the tactical genius that had made her the Lioness of Vakeria.
"We prepare as if Alexander is lying. Not because I think he will betray the truce—his entire strategy depends on looking honorable. But because we must always plan for the worst." She turned to Vesmir. "You'll command the cavalry reserve. Position them at maximum range, ready to charge if anything goes wrong."
"Understood."
"James." Her gaze softened. "You'll come with me to the exchange. You and the weapon Lady Seraphina provided."
"Understood." James's hand moved unconsciously to the holster. "I handle anyone else if needed. You handle Alexander."
"No one handles Alexander," Bisera corrected. "We trust the truce, prepare for its failure, and pray to the Universal Spirit that mercy means something in this damned war."
"What about the flying marvel?" Velika asked.
"We still use it," Bisera interrupted. "You'll keep watch on Alexander's army during the entire exchange and signal Vesmir and us if there are any signs of ambush."
James nodded. "The battery should be fully charged by tomorrow morning. Velika can start tracking their movements an hour before the official exchange."
"Do it." Bisera's command voice was back. "Captain Vesmir, begin organizing the prisoner list. I want every Gillyrian verified, documented, and prepared. General Serko, select our escort force. Fifty cavalry, your most reliable veterans. Make sure they understand this is a display of strength and discipline, not a raiding party."
"Fifty?" Serko's eyebrows rose.
"Alexander will bring the same or more," Bisera countered. "This exchange is theater as much as transaction. We show strength, preparedness, and the ability to honor agreements without appearing weak. Also, remember—we're guarding two hundred prisoners while they only need to guard one."
The orders continued, each one precise. James watched her transform from conflicted commander to decisive leader, saw the others respond to her certainty.
When they'd all dispersed, leaving James and Bisera alone in the war room, she let the mask slip.
She sagged against the table, exhaustion hitting like a physical blow. James caught her before she could fall, arms wrapping around her waist, pulling her back against his chest.
"Did you sleep well last night?" he murmured against her ear.
"Good sleep is a luxury I can't afford." But she leaned into him anyway. "There's too much to do, too much to plan—"
"There are always things to plan." He pressed closer. "But you can't command an exchange if you collapse from exhaustion."
She stared up at him. Three days of stubble darkened his jaw, making him look rougher, wilder. Exhaustion carved shadows beneath his brown eyes, but they still held that warmth that touched her heart every time.
"I can't rest," she whispered. "Every time I close my eyes, I see the ways this could go wrong. Saralta dead. You bleeding out in that field. Alexander's sword through my heart."
"Then don't close your eyes," James said, and pulled her close, wrapping his arms around her and just holding her.
They stood like that for a long moment, breathing together, hearts beating in sync. Then Bisera tilted her head back, looking up at him with an intensity that made his pulse race.
"Tomorrow," she whispered, "we face Alexander. Face whatever trap or trick he might have planned. And I keep thinking..." She swallowed hard. "What if something goes wrong? What if this is the last quiet moment we have?"
"It won't be," James said with surprising confidence.
Part 2
The December sun climbed toward noon, pale and cold behind scattered clouds. The open ground between the armies was perhaps four hundred paces wide—a stretch of trampled grass and mud where neither force had ventured since the siege began.
Bisera sat her horse with rigid control. She'd slept perhaps six hours total in two days, and exhaustion weighed like a second suit of armor. Her eyes burned. Her head pounded with dull, persistent ache. But she couldn't show it. Not now. Not here, with thousands of eyes watching.
Beside her, James rode with surprising competence for someone who'd only learned horsemanship recently. His height made him look natural in the saddle, though she could see the tension in his shoulders, the way his hand occasionally drifted toward the hidden pistol.
Behind them, fifty cavalry rode in perfect formation, armor gleaming, bearing proud. And behind them, two hundred Gillyrian prisoners marched with dignity—fed, rested, wounds tended, walking freely under light guard. Bisera had made sure of that.
The Gillyrian camp stirred on the opposite side. Banners unfurled in cold wind—purple and gold, the double-headed eagle catching light. Drums began a slow, rhythmic beat. Not war drums. Something ceremonial. Almost hypnotic.
"They're coming," Vesmir called from his position, voice tight.
And they were.
The Gillyrian procession emerged like something from legend, and Bisera felt her breath catch despite herself.
First came the imperial guards—not fifty, but one hundred of them. Golden-armored giants on massive warhorses. Their shields bore personal devices—lions, eagles, crossed swords, each one a mark of individual valor. They moved in perfect synchronization, making even Bisera's veteran cavalry look slightly ragged by comparison.
Behind them, more soldiers. Another fifty cavalry in ornate armor, carrying ceremonial spears tipped with gold. Sunlight caught on their armor and threw it back in dazzling displays. And interspersed among them, priests in golden vestments, censers swinging, their chanted prayers carrying across the distance.
"Sweet merciful Spirit," Velika muttered through the earpiece. "He's turned this into a religious procession. This isn't just an exchange—it's a triumph, a declaration of divine favor all wrapped in purple silk and golden armor."
She was right. This was theater of the highest order. Political messaging writ large. A demonstration of wealth, power, piety, and magnanimity all at once.
And at the center rode Emperor Alexander.
Even from this distance, Bisera felt the impact of his presence like a strong gust of wind.
He sat astride a pure white stallion. The horse moved with trained grace that spoke of years of careful breeding. Its coat gleamed like fresh snow, its mane braided with golden thread, its tack studded with purple gemstones that caught the light.
Alexander himself wore golden armor that seemed to glow. Not practical, battle-scarred plate, but ceremonial armor inlaid with intricate patterns—geometric designs, religious iconography, the double-headed eagle repeated in elaborate detail across his breastplate. His purple cloak billowed dramatically behind him. A crown of golden laurel leaves adorned his dark hair.
But it wasn't the costume that made him captivating. It was him.
The way he sat his horse with absolute confidence. The way his presence seemed to command attention, drawing every eye as if by magnetic force. The way he rode at the head of this magnificent procession with calm certainty of a man who knew—knew in his bones—that he was the manifestation of imperium itself.
This was what emperors looked like in ancient mosaics. In classical statues. In fevered dreams of artists trying to capture divine favor made manifest.
"He's shorter than I expected," James murmured.
Bisera glanced at him, grateful for the observation that brought her back to earth. It was true—Alexander was tall for this world, but certainly shorter than James.
"Most men would be to you," she replied with a hint of humor.
Behind Alexander, mounted on an elegant wagon drawn by matching horses, sat Saralta.
Bisera's breath caught.
The Rosagarian princess looked... transformed.
Gone was the dust-covered, blood-spattered warrior. In her place was someone who looked rested, healthy, and—Bisera had to admit—absolutely stunning.
Saralta's raven-black hair, usually braided tight for battle, now hung loose in thick waves that fell past her shoulders, shining like black silk. No more elaborate golden headpiece. Just her natural beauty on full display, framing her face in a way that made her soft features even more striking.
Perhaps it was rest. Perhaps proper meals after weeks of siege rations. Perhaps simply the removal of weeks of accumulated battle grime and stress. But Saralta looked radiant—her dark eyes bright and alert, her skin glowing with health, her full lips curved in what might have been amusement at the whole spectacle.
She wore her battle gear—the golden lamellar armor that marked her as a princess of the steppes, the fur-lined shoulders, the intricate designs that spoke of her noble lineage.
The wagon itself was elegant, its sides carved with decorative patterns, cushioned seats covered in expensive fabric. Saralta sat upon it not like a captive, but like royalty being paraded through conquered territory. Not bound, not chained, though six mounted imperial guards flanked her.
"No visible injuries," James murmured, his medical training assessing from a distance. "Good color. Alert. Responsive. Whatever happened during her captivity, she hasn't been starved or beaten."
"No," Bisera agreed softly. "She looks like she's been treated like a princess."
The two processions advanced slowly, ceremonially. The drums continued their rhythmic beat. The priests chanted. The December wind tugged at cloaks and banners. Both armies watched—the Vakerians from Podem's walls, the Gillyrians from their camp.
When they were fifty paces apart, both groups halted.
The silence that followed was profound. No one moved. No one spoke. Just thousands of soldiers holding their breath.
Alexander dismounted with fluid grace, his white stallion standing perfectly still. He walked forward alone, his purple cloak trailing behind, until he stood at the exact center point of the field.
"Well," Velika's voice crackled in James's ear. "He's committed now. Your turn, General."
Bisera took a deep breath. She'd practiced this. Knew exactly what she needed to do. But actually doing it—walking into open ground between armies, trusting that centuries of military tradition would protect her—felt like stepping off a cliff.
She dismounted, passing her reins to Vesmir. Straightened her armor. Checked that her sword moved freely in its scabbard.
"Ready?" James asked quietly beside her.
"No." She gave him a tight smile. "But we're doing this anyway."
James dismounted as well, and Bisera saw several Gillyrian soldiers point and whisper. They'd heard of the giant foreign mage. But seeing James in person—all six feet of him, towering over most medieval warriors—was clearly something else.
Together, they walked forward.
Bisera was intensely aware of every step, every breath. The squelch of mud beneath her boots. The weight of her armor pressing down on exhausted shoulders. The beating of her heart, too fast, too loud. James walked beside her, close enough that their hands occasionally brushed—a reminder that she wasn't alone.
When they were ten paces from Alexander, Bisera stopped.
For a long moment, the three of them simply regarded each other. Two commanders and a modern man, standing in a field between armies, the fate of hundreds hanging in the balance.
Up close, Alexander was even more striking. His face could have been carved by the finest sculptors of antiquity—sharp cheekbones, strong jaw, straight nose that spoke of classical proportions. His dark eyes held both intelligence and something else. Sadness, perhaps. Or weariness. The look of someone who'd carried too much for too long. His dark hair, crowned with golden laurel, fell in artfully tousled waves.
He looked every inch the perfect emperor. The living embodiment of imperial glory and divine favor.
Except James towered over him, making Alexander's classical proportions look almost delicate by comparison.
It was an oddly comical reminder that this man who commanded armies and wore golden armor was just another man, despite all the pageantry.
"General Bisera," Alexander said, his voice rich and cultured, carrying just far enough to be heard by nearby soldiers. "You honor me with your presence." His gaze shifted to James, taking him in with undisguised interest. "And you must be James, the mysterious Great Mage. Your reputation precedes you."
His eyes flickered between them—taking in Bisera's exhaustion, the dark circles under her eyes, the tightness around her mouth. Then to James, studying him with careful assessment.
"I must confess," Alexander continued, turning his full attention to James, "I have been most curious to meet you. A man supposedly visited by the Archangel Seraphina herself. Who manifests miracles with but a prayer. Who heals the wounded and produces marvels from thin air." His tone was respectful but carried an undercurrent of polite skepticism. "It is... quite the claim."
"I don't claim anything," James said evenly. "I simply do what I can to help."
"With Seraphina's assistance."
"Yes."
"Interesting." Alexander's gaze grew distant, contemplative. "I have prayed to the blessed Seraphina every day of my life. Begged for her guidance in matters of state and war. Offered sacrifices and devotion at her shrines from Gillyria to the eastern provinces." His eyes refocused on James, sharp and assessing, with a hint of something that might have been pain. "And in all the years of my life, I have never received a direct response. Never heard her voice. Never seen her manifest before me."
He paused.
"Yet you, a foreigner who reportedly barely read the Holy Book, claim regular communion with her. One might wonder why the Archangel would favor a stranger over a devout servant who has spent his entire life in her service."
The words were delivered without hostility, but the implication was clear. Either James was lying about his connection to Seraphina, or the prevailing understanding of the Holy Book was fundamentally wrong. Or perhaps worst of all—the Seraphina that James thought he was communicating with was an imposter.
"Perhaps," Bisera interjected carefully, reading the subtle pain in Alexander's eyes, "the Universal Spirit works in ways beyond our understanding. Perhaps Seraphina's purposes require someone from outside our conflicts, unmarked by years of bloodshed between our nations."
Alexander's gaze shifted to her, and she saw recognition there. Respect, even. The acknowledgment of one tactician appreciating another's skillful deflection. "Spoken like a true diplomat, General. Your tactical mind is matched by political acumen." He paused, then added more softly, and the sadness in his voice was unmistakable, "I am sorry we meet as enemies. In another world, I think we might have been allies. Perhaps even friends."
The sincerity in his voice startled Bisera. This was not the cold, calculating conqueror she expected. This was... a man. Complicated. Haunted, perhaps. Carrying his own burdens. Someone who genuinely seemed to regret the necessity of their conflict.
"Perhaps," she agreed quietly, feeling the weight of roads not taken. "But we are in this world, fighting this war. So let us conduct this exchange with honor, and perhaps prove that even enemies can show mercy."
"Well said." Alexander gestured, and Igor stepped forward bearing a white banner—the ancient symbol of truce.
Up close, Igor was even more impressive. Easily towering over Alexander by a head. His armor strained over muscles that looked carved from granite. Blond hair, green eyes, and a face that somehow managed to be both breathtakingly beautiful and utterly terrifying. He looked like a warrior from ancient Norkerman legends, transplanted into reality.
"The terms," Igor announced in a voice that carried like distant thunder. "Princess Saralta of Rosagar, returned unharmed and with full honor, in exchange for two hundred soldiers of the Gillyrian Imperial Legions, similarly returned unharmed. The exchange witnessed by both armies, blessed by priests of the Universal Spirit, and bound by sacred oaths before all present."
"Agreed," Bisera called out.
Igor continued. "The prisoner exchange to be conducted in good faith. Princess Saralta's cavalry officers shall remain as honored guests of the Gillyrian Empire until war's end, ensuring her oath—sworn freely before the Universal Spirit—is maintained."
"Understood," Bisera replied, though the words tasted bitter.
"And finally," Igor said, "let it be known that this exchange represents not merely the return of prisoners, but a testament to the honor that binds all warriors. That even in war, mercy and dignity may prevail."
The priests began chanting, their voices blending in ancient harmonies. The same prayers, the same god, divided by politics and swords.
Alexander raised his hand, and the wagon bearing Saralta began to move forward. The six imperial guards kept pace, alert but not threatening.
Bisera gestured, and the Vakerian guards guided the two hundred Gillyrian prisoners forward in ordered ranks.
The exchange itself was anticlimactic in its simplicity.
Saralta reached the midpoint first, the wagon pulling to a smooth stop. She stood with athletic grace, and for a moment, Bisera got the full impact of her transformation.
The princess was glowing. Absolutely radiant. Well-rested, well-fed, her natural beauty enhanced rather than hidden. Her dark eyes sparkled with something that might have been mischief.
But more than that, there was something in her bearing. A knowing look. A slight smirk playing at the corners of her full lips that suggested she found this entire spectacle more amusing than traumatic.
"General," she said, her voice carrying clearly. "Thank you for coming for me."
She stepped down from the wagon with fluid grace.
"Saralta." Bisera wanted to embrace her, to check her for injuries. But propriety and thousands of watching eyes held her in check. "Are you well?"
"I am." That slight smirk deepened into something that was almost a grin. "I have had... quite the educational experience in Gillyrian hospitality."
Before Bisera could ask what that meant, Alexander spoke.
"Princess Saralta." His voice held genuine warmth, and Bisera saw something pass between them—mutual respect. Recognition of worthy opponents. "It has been an honor hosting you, despite the circumstances of your arrival. I hope you found your accommodations... satisfactory."
Saralta turned to face him, and her expression was complicated—part gratitude, part frustration, part something that might have been grudging admiration. "Surprisingly satisfactory, Your Imperial Majesty," she replied with elaborate courtesy that somehow managed to sound both genuine and mocking. "Your bathing facilities were particularly impressive."
James choked on a laugh, quickly converting it to a cough.
Alexander's eyebrows rose in genuine surprise.
Behind Saralta, Igor was trying very hard not to smile, his massive shoulders shaking slightly with suppressed laughter. Several nearby imperial guards were equally struggling to maintain composure.
The moment of levity broke the last of the tension. The two hundred Gillyrian prisoners had completed their crossing and now stood among their own forces, some looking around in wonder, others maintaining discipline. The exchange was complete.
"General Bisera," Alexander said, his tone shifting back to formal. "Our business here is concluded. The prisoners are exchanged. The oaths are witnessed. I trust you will convey to Prince Tugor that his daughter has been treated with all due honor befitting her rank and courage."
"I will," Bisera confirmed. "And I trust you will convey to your men that Vakeria does not mistreat prisoners of war."
"That message has been received most clearly." Alexander glanced at the returned soldiers, many of whom looked well-fed and healthy, several showing obvious signs of having received medical treatment. "You have acquitted yourself with honor, General. As expected of the Lioness of Vakeria."
He stepped back, preparing to withdraw. But then he paused, his gaze fixing on James once more, and something complicated passed across his classical features—curiosity, doubt, and perhaps a hint of envy.
"A word of advice, mage," he said quietly, his voice pitched low enough that only those immediately nearby could hear. "If Seraphina truly favors you, treasure that blessing. Cherish it as the rarest of gifts. It's an honor of the highest degree. But make sure... she who favors you is truly Seraphina. After all, the Lord of Abyss excels at deceptions."
There was something both vulnerable and threatening in those words. A confession, perhaps, from a man who'd spent his life seeking divine approval and never quite knowing if he'd received it. But also a warning that James might be deceived.
"I'll keep that in mind," James replied evenly, his voice gentle despite the tension.
Alexander nodded, then turned to Saralta one last time. "Princess. Until we meet again—and we will, I suspect, for warriors such as ourselves seem fated to cross paths repeatedly—may the Universal Spirit guide your steps."
"And yours, Emperor." Saralta's tone was surprisingly respectful, without any of her usual irreverence. "Though I hope next time we meet, it's under less... constrained circumstances. Perhaps a proper rematch, without chains and oaths."
"Indeed." The ghost of a smile touched Alexander's lips, transforming his face for a moment into something younger, more human. "Though I confess, I'm not eager to face your archery skills again. You ride better than anyone I've ever encountered."
"We're raised in the saddle," Saralta said simply. "Before we walk, we ride."
Then Alexander turned and walked back toward his forces with that same fluid grace, purple cloak billowing dramatically like something out of an ancient tapestry. The imperial guards formed up around him. The priests continued their chanting. The entire Gillyrian procession began its withdrawal, ceremonial and magnificent, a demonstration of imperial power and piety that would be talked about for years to come.
Bisera waited until they were fifty paces away before she finally allowed herself to breathe. Then she turned to Saralta and simply opened her arms.
The Rosagarian princess stepped into the embrace without hesitation, and for a moment, they were just two women who'd survived impossible circumstances. Friends reunited after believing they might never see each other again.
"I am so sorry," Bisera whispered fiercely. "I should have stopped you. Should have seen—"
"Hush." Saralta pulled back, her hands on Bisera's shoulders, her grip firm. "I made my choice. Foolish, perhaps. But mine. And I survived. We both survived." Her gaze shifted to James, and that mischievous smirk returned.
"Back to the fortress," Bisera ordered, her command voice returning though it was somewhat undermined by the lingering emotion.
Part 3
The outer edge of Alexander's camp felt like the edge of the world.
Igor stood beside his emperor, breath misting in the crystalline air, watching frost creep across the trampled grass at their feet. December had arrived with clear skies and cutting cold—the kind of weather that made men huddle close to braziers and count the days until spring. Above them, stars blazed with winter's particular clarity, uncounted thousands scattered across the vault of heaven like diamonds on black silk.
Alexander's breath plumed white as he spoke. "Beautiful, isn't it? On nights like this, I almost understand why the old poets claimed the gods dwelt in the sky."
"Your Majesty." Igor's voice carried the patience of long friendship. "We're standing in freezing weather when you have a perfectly warm pavilion twenty paces away. There's a reason."
A slight smile touched Alexander's lips. He was bundled in a heavy cloak lined with marten fur, purple silk barely visible beneath practical wool, but even so, Igor could see him fighting not to shiver. The emperor's gloved hands flexed periodically, working warmth back into fingers that wanted to stiffen in the cold.
"The reason," Alexander said, "is that warm pavilions have servants. Servants have ears. And some conversations require privacy more than comfort."
Igor grunted acknowledgment, pulling his own cloak tighter. His breath came in steady clouds, each exhalation visible for a moment before vanishing into the December night. "Then let's make this quick before we both freeze to death and save Bisera the trouble of fighting us."
"Ever the romantic." But Alexander's tone held genuine warmth—the ease of a man speaking to one of his few true friends. "Walk with me."
They moved along the camp's perimeter, boots crunching on frost-stiffened ground. The camp itself blazed with cookfires and braziers, a constellation of earthbound stars mimicking the heavens above. Soldiers huddled in groups, their voices carrying on the still air, punctuated by laughter and the eternal sounds of an army at rest.
"The meeting today," Igor began, falling into step beside Alexander. "With the ransomed prisoners. It went well."
"It went perfectly." Alexander's voice held quiet satisfaction. "Better than I'd dared hope, actually."
Igor had witnessed the entire thing—had stood to the side as Alexander personally greeted each of the two hundred Gillyrian soldiers who would be exchanged. Not a mass address, but individual conversations. The emperor moving from man to man, learning names, asking about wounds, listening to their stories of captivity.
"You held the shield wall at the eastern gate," Alexander had said to one grizzled veteran, steam rising from both their mouths in the afternoon chill. "Your centurion wrote of your courage. The Empire remembers its defenders."
To another: "Your wife—Sophia, yes?—she sent a letter to the chaplain corps. She prays for your return. Soon, my friend. Very soon."
Each conversation different. Each personal. Each carefully calculated to show that their emperor knew them, valued them, grieved their suffering and celebrated their imminent freedom.
"The men's morale has tripled," Igor said now, breath clouding. "Every soldier in this camp knows that their emperor traded a princess—a woman who tried to kill him, no less—for two hundred common troops."
"Hardly common." Alexander's correction was gentle. "Each one a defender of the Empire. Each one worth ransoming."
"You know what I mean." Igor shot him a look. "The optics are extraordinary. You personally visited every single man, remembered details about their families, their service. You made each one feel valued."
"They are valued." Alexander stopped walking, turning to face his companion. Starlight caught the planes of his face, emphasizing the classical beauty that made common soldiers whisper about divine favor. "That's not performance, Igor. Those men bled for Gillyria. The least I can do is remember their names."
Igor studied his emperor—this man he'd known since they were boys training in the palace gymnasium, before purple robes and imperial burdens. "You do know you're terrifyingly good at this, yes?"
"At what?"
"At making people love you." Igor's breath streamed white. "At crafting exactly the image you need. The pious emperor, merciful yet strong, who values every soldier's life. You've turned a prisoner exchange into a propaganda victory."
Alexander was quiet for a moment, gloved hands clasped behind his back. When he spoke, his voice was thoughtful. "Is it propaganda if it's true? I do value them. I am grateful for their service. The fact that expressing genuine sentiment also serves strategic purposes doesn't make it false."
"Philosophy in freezing weather." But Igor smiled. "Still, you've achieved something remarkable. The men see you rejected vengeance for the good of common soldiers. They'll follow you into the mouth of hell after this."
"Let's hope it doesn't come to that." Alexander resumed walking, Igor falling in beside him. "Though I suspect the campaign ahead will feel close enough."
They walked in companionable silence for a few moments, boots crunching frost, breath misting in the clear, cold air. The temperature had dropped significantly after sunset—Igor guessed it was hovering just below freezing, cold enough that moisture from their breath tried to crystallize on their beards, cold enough that metal touched with bare skin would burn.
"I have a question," Igor said finally.
"Only one? You're losing your edge."
"How did you know?"
Alexander glanced at him. "Know what?"
"That Bisera would accept." Igor stopped walking, forcing Alexander to halt as well. "One princess for two hundred soldiers. It's an absurdly unequal exchange. You gave her every political reason to refuse—accepting makes her look desperate, trading at a loss, valuing politics over military pragmatism. Yet you seemed certain she'd agree. How?"
Alexander's smile was sharp as the winter air. "Because I understand something fundamental about General Bisera that perhaps she doesn't fully understand about herself."
"Which is?"
"That she's not a politician. She's a warrior with a warrior's heart." Alexander's breath plumed white as he spoke, words crystallizing in the cold. "Politicians calculate costs in abstract terms—resources, advantages, strategic positions. Warriors calculate costs in blood and bonds."
He turned to face the distant walls of Podem, barely visible in the starlight. "Saralta rode out to break the siege. Foolish, tactically disastrous, but done from genuine loyalty and friendship. Bisera knows this. Every report says they were close—allies, perhaps even friends despite their differences."
"So?"
"So Bisera refusing the exchange would place her in impossible personal debt." Alexander's analytical mind dissected it with surgical precision. "Saralta risked everything for her. How does Bisera face that woman—if they ever meet again—knowing she had a chance to bring her home and refused? How does she live with abandoning someone who rode into death for her sake?"
Igor's eyes narrowed with understanding. "It would haunt her."
"More than that. It would destroy her authority." Alexander's voice took on that lecturing quality he got when explaining complex political theory, the same tone he'd used in the palace academy years ago. "Bisera commands loyalty because her troops believe she values them. That she'll move heaven and earth to bring them home. What happens to that loyalty if she publicly demonstrates that political calculation trumps personal bonds?"
He let the question hang in the freezing air between them.
"The soldiers would question," Igor said slowly. "Wonder if she'd abandon them if the price got too high."
"Exactly." Alexander's breath streamed white with satisfaction. "Who risks their life for a commander who won't risk political capital to save them? Bisera's power comes from devotion, not fear. I threatened to undermine the very foundation of that power."
"And the diplomatic angle," Igor added, pieces falling together. "Prince Tugor."
"Prince Tugor," Alexander confirmed, "who entrusted his daughter to the Vakerian cause. Who sent his finest cavalry to fight in their war. Imagine Tugor learning that Bisera had a chance to redeem Saralta and refused because two hundred Gillyrians seemed too steep a price."
Igor let out a low whistle, breath condensing instantly in the frigid air. "That's not a diplomatic incident. That's a fracture point."
"The end of the Vakerian-Rosagarian alliance," Alexander agreed. "The steppe principalities already sit uneasily under Vakerian suzerainty. They're horsemen forced into coalition with settled farmers, warriors bound to an empire that barely understands their culture. Saralta is Prince Tugor's daughter—his favorite daughter, according to our intelligence. Abandoning her?"
"Would be interpreted as Vakeria abandoning Rosagar itself."
"And since the Rosagarian cavalry represents a third of Bisera's effective fighting strength..." Alexander spread his hands, gloved fingers catching starlight. "I didn't need to threaten Bisera militarily. I threatened her politically, personally, and strategically all at once. The only winning move was to accept my terms."
Igor studied his emperor in the starlight. "And if she'd called your bluff? Refused anyway?"
Alexander's smile turned contemplative. "Then I would have won anyway. Vakeria fractures from within, the steppe principalities reconsider their allegiance, Bisera's troops question her commitment to them. The empire cracks further." He paused, breath misting. "I'd simply pull back to Gillyrian heartland for the winter, let the political storm ferment, and return in spring to an enemy already half-defeated."
"You've thought this through frighteningly well."
"It's not frightening. It's necessary." But something in Alexander's voice suggested he might agree with Igor's assessment more than he wanted to admit. "War isn't just swords and sieges, my friend. It's hearts and minds. Break the spirit, and the body follows."
They resumed walking, moving along the camp's outer edge where sentries stood watch with spears and heavy cloaks, their own breath creating small clouds in the winter night. The stars overhead seemed unnaturally bright, the way they only got on clear, cold nights when the air itself felt scrubbed clean.
"Still," Igor said after a moment, "there was risk. What if Bisera had found some third option you hadn't anticipated?"
"Then I would have adapted." Alexander's glove-encased hand gestured at the camp around them. "Strategy requires flexibility, Igor. Yes, I calculated probabilities and leveraged pressures, but I also prepared alternatives. If she'd refused, we'd have proceeded with the siege. If she'd tried to negotiate different terms, I'd have considered them. The art isn't in having one perfect plan—it's in having responses to every possible move."
"Like playing shatranj."
"Exactly like playing chess." Alexander smiled at the Persian reference. "Except the pieces bleed and the board stretches across empires."
Igor was quiet for a moment, then said: "You mentioned pulling back for winter. Retreating to Gillyrian heartland if Bisera refused." His breath misted as he spoke, eyes sharp despite the cold. "That's the first time I've heard you seriously consider retreat from this campaign."
Alexander didn't answer immediately. They walked another dozen paces, frost crunching beneath their boots, before he finally spoke.
"Winter campaigns in Balkanian highlands are hell," he said simply. "Supply lines become nightmares. Men freeze in their tents. Disease spreads faster than in summer. The ancients knew better than to campaign through winter in these mountains."
"We've done it before."
"We've survived it before. There's a difference." Alexander's voice was thoughtful. "And this year... circumstances are different."
"How so?"
Alexander stopped walking. They'd reached the very edge of the camp, where firelight barely reached and the winter darkness pressed close. He reached into his cloak, gloved fingers fumbling slightly from cold, and withdrew a folded parchment sealed with wax.
"This arrived three days ago," he said quietly. "Courier from the capital by way of the coastal route. It's taken weeks to reach me."
Igor took the letter, noting how Alexander's hands trembled slightly—though whether from cold or emotion, he couldn't tell. The seal bore Helena's personal mark—the imperial eagle clutching an olive branch. The quality of the parchment spoke of urgency despite the formal presentation.
"What is it?"
"A letter." Alexander's voice was carefully neutral. "From Helena."
The name hung in the frozen air between them. Helena—Regent of the Empire, ruling from the capital's seven hills while her brother campaigned in the north. The woman who'd sacrificed her personal fortune to keep this army fed, who'd faced down ambitious dukes and skeptical generals to maintain support for Alexander's vision.
"Helena," Igor repeated slowly, breath streaming white. "Has something happened to her?"
"No." Alexander's voice was barely above a whisper. "But something is happening. In the capital. Something that changes everything."
The winter wind picked up, knife-sharp and carrying the scent of distant snow. It made their cloaks billow and sent fresh clouds of breath streaming from their mouths.
"Are you going to tell me what it says?" Igor asked carefully.
Alexander was quiet for a long moment, staring out at the darkness beyond the camp. When he spoke, his voice carried something Igor had rarely heard from his emperor: sadness.
"Read it," Alexander said. "Then tell me if I'm overreacting or if our entire strategy just became catastrophically more complicated."
Igor unfolded the parchment with cold-numbed fingers. The starlight was barely sufficient to read by, but Igor managed.
In the dim light, with winter pressing close and their breath creating small clouds between them, Igor began to read Helena's elegant script.
And with each line his eyes traced, his expression shifted—surprise, confusion, then dawning horror at the implications of what the letter contained.
Above them, the stars blazed cold and indifferent. Around them, the camp settled into night watch rhythms. But here, at the edge of firelight and darkness, two friends stood frozen not by winter but by words on parchment.
Igor looked up from the letter, face drained of color. His breath came in rapid clouds.
"Your Majesty," he managed, voice tight with shock. "This is—"
"I know," Alexander said quietly.
"Constantine?" Igor's normally steady voice cracked slightly. "How could he be so foolish to trust him over his own mother—"
"I know." Alexander's tone was flat, emotionless.
"Helena must be—" Igor stopped, looking back at the letter. "She's known for five days and only now sent word?"
"She wanted to be certain before alarming me." Alexander's gloved hands clenched. "My sister doesn't panic, Igor. If she's writing this, it means the situation is grave."
Igor's eyes scanned the letter again, taking in details he'd missed in his initial shock.
"Should we march back now?" Igor's hand moved unconsciously to his sword hilt, as if he could solve political conspiracy with steel.
"No." Alexander's voice cut through the night like a blade. "We can't abandon this campaign. That would be the worst possible response." His jaw set with determination. "We need to at least reach the first milestone. But faster. Much faster."
He turned to Igor.
"Listen carefully," Alexander said, voice dropping to barely above a whisper. "What I'm about to tell you stays between us. You breathe no word of this to anyone—not the generals, not the chaplains, not even your wife. Do you understand?"
Igor straightened, recognizing the tone. "On my life, Your Majesty."
Alexander tucked the letter back into his cloak, pressing it against his chest where it rested like a brand. "This is beyond just Constantine." His breath misted white in the cold. "If we don't end this siege quickly, if we don't return to the capital with undeniable victory, they'll use every day of delay as proof that I've lost my way."
"Then we end it," Igor said simply. "We take Podem. Fast and brutal."
"Exactly." Alexander's voice took on that quality it got when strategy crystallized into certainty. "No more measured siege. No more patient starvation. We overwhelm them." He paused, eyes distant as he calculated.
"Last night, I had already sent out three separate messages to the capital." Alexander's gloved hands flexed as he spoke. "Each carried by our fastest birds. One to the Grand Master of the Alchemist Association, granting him direct imperial authority to commandeer the designated production facilities in the imperial armory. I want Gillyrian fire produced in quantities we've never stockpiled before."
Igor's eyes widened. "Your Majesty, the cost alone—the security protocols—"
"Which is why I sent the second message to Helena herself," Alexander interrupted, his voice carrying the cold certainty of absolute conviction. "I've authorized her to arrange the logistics personally. Fast river barges up the coast, then overland convoy through the military roads. Heavy guard—not regular troops, but my personal household guard. Two hundred of them, rotated from the capital garrison."
"You are serious?" Igor's breath caught. "You're pulling your palace elite troops for a supply convoy?"
"For this supply convoy." Alexander's tone made it clear this was non-negotiable. "Gillyrian fire is the most closely guarded secret in the empire. Its production is centralized under direct imperial supervision precisely because if the formula were to fall into enemy hands..." He didn't finish. He didn't need to. Both men knew the implications.
"The armory can produce that quantity?" Igor asked, tactical mind already calculating.
"With the emperor's mandate? Yes." Alexander's breath misted in rapid clouds as he spoke faster, his strategic mind fully engaged. "The formula is known only to the senior alchemists of the Association. The production equipment exists but is rarely used at full capacity—we've never needed it before. But the infrastructure is there."
He began pacing again, frost crunching beneath his boots. "I've ordered them to work in shifts. Day and night. The liquid itself—the base mixture—can be produced in sufficient quantities within fifteen days. It's the clay vessels that take time, but I've authorized them to requisition existing inventory from the naval arsenals."
"How much did you order?" Igor's voice was quiet.
"Sufficient to soak enough haystacks to produce sustained bombardment." Alexander's answer was precise. "Enough to rain fire on Podem for a month or two if necessary. Helena's message said she could arrange delivery within fifteen days after the production, potentially twelve if the weather holds and the roads remain passable."
"Fifteen days." Igor did the calculation in his head. "That's..." He looked at Alexander. "That's fast. Incredibly fast for such a convoy."
"I know." Alexander stopped pacing, turning to face his friend fully. "It means exhausting horses, bribing river barge captains, potentially commandeering civilian vessels. Helena won't make friends doing this. But I've given her absolute authority. Whatever resources she needs, whatever strings she must pull, whatever political capital she must spend—I've authorized it all."
The wind gusted, carrying the promise of snow. Igor pulled his cloak tighter.
"When the convoy arrives," Alexander continued, his voice dropping to something almost gentle, almost regretful, "we begin bombardment immediately. Not random harassment—systematic, targeted."
"What pattern?" Igor knew better than to question the decision itself. If Alexander had committed to this course, the debate was over. Now there was only execution.
"Three days of continuous bombardment targeting the wall garrisons," Alexander said, and there was something in his voice that Igor had rarely heard—genuine reluctance married to absolute determination. "Day and night. No respite. The catapults work in shifts, but the defenders don't get to rest. Fire every hour. Just frequent enough that sleep becomes impossible."
Igor's expression tightened. "Sleep deprivation."
"Precisely." Alexander's gloved hand gestured as he explained, breath streaming white with each word. "After three days, we stop. Complete cessation. Let silence ring loud after the constant bombardment. And in that silence, we make a public offer—Bisera and her garrison can surrender with full honors. Soldiers allowed to leave with their weapons, civilians unharmed, the city spared further damage. We make it very public. Proclaimed from our lines loud enough for every defender to hear."
"She'll refuse," Igor said.
"Of course she will." Alexander's smile was cold. "The first time. But then we resume. Another three days of bombardment. Same pattern—constant fire, no rest, systematic grinding of morale and physical endurance. Three days that feel like three years when you can't sleep, can't rest, can't escape the knowledge that at any moment, liquid fire might arc over the walls and consume you."
"And then?" Igor asked, though he suspected he knew.
"Then we rest for one day." Alexander's tactical genius showed in the simple brutality of the plan. "Complete silence again. Let them think maybe it's over. Let them start to hope. And during that day of rest—when they're desperately trying to recover, trying to sleep, trying to believe the nightmare has ended—we send another offer. Another chance to surrender. Very public. Very generous terms. We make sure every soldier, every civilian in Podem hears it."
"Breaking their spirit," Igor said quietly.
"Breaking their unity," Alexander corrected, but his voice carried no pride in the distinction. "If they refuse again, we repeat the cycle. Three days bombardment, one day rest with another surrender offer. Over and over. We make it clear that the suffering will continue until they accept our terms or until the walls fall—whichever comes first."
He stopped pacing, turning to face Igor directly. In the lamplight and starlight, his classical features looked carved from marble—beautiful and remote and terrible in their certainty.
"The fire won't just target walls," Alexander said quietly. "It will be visible from inside the city. Every burning arc that crosses the battlements will be seen by civilians. They'll watch their defenders exhausted, unable to sleep, unable to do anything but try to extinguish fires. They'll hear the surrender offers. They'll know—know—that their suffering could end at any time if Bisera would just accept."
"You're making her the villain," Igor said slowly, understanding the full psychological warfare of the strategy. "Making her troops, her civilians, question why she won't just surrender when the terms are acceptable."
"I'm giving her every opportunity to end this with dignity," Alexander corrected, though his eyes acknowledged Igor's point. "I will offer honorable surrender publicly and repeatedly. If she refuses—if she chooses to let her people suffer when escape is offered—then yes, that choice is hers to own."
Igor was quiet for a long moment, breath steaming in the winter air. Then: "This is brutally effective, Your Majesty. But it's also..." He searched for the right word.
"Merciless?" Alexander supplied. His voice carried no defensiveness, just weary acknowledgment. "I know. I didn't want to fight this way, Igor. But if we don't finish this soon and march back, the plot might have progressed towards a point where civil war is inevitable. And if that happens, then I won't be able to fully spare Constantine as Helena had pleaded for."
Finally, Igor spoke, "What about the third letter?"
"It alerted Irene to the situation and sought her help to provide a weekly update of the situation at the capital." Alexander replied.