Part 1
Dawn broke over Podem's eastern hills, painting the frost‑covered landscape in hues of amber and gold. Beyond the city's imposing walls, where the land opened into rolling plains, the encampment of the Rosagar cavalry stirred to life. Unlike the permanent stone barracks that housed Podem's garrison within the city, the steppe warriors preferred the sprawling field camp they had established—rows of hide tents arranged in concentric circles around a central training ground, all surrounded by a temporary palisade of sharpened stakes.
They rode through the eastern gate together on Bisera's warhorse, her arms encircling James as she held the reins. Despite her exhaustion from recent days, Bisera's posture remained perfect—military training ingrained to her core. The morning air bit with winter's chill, their mingled breath forming small clouds that dissipated in the weak sunlight. James tried to focus on the frost‑covered landscape ahead, but the gentle pressure of Bisera's metal breastplate against his back made concentration nearly impossible. Each time the horse navigated the uneven ground, the sculpted curves of her ample bosom pressed more firmly against him, sending a warmth through his body that defied the winter air.
"You're unusually quiet this morning," Bisera murmured close to his ear, her voice carrying a hint of amusement that suggested she knew exactly what was distracting him.
"Just… admiring the view," James managed, glad she couldn't see the flush spreading across his face.
"Remember," Bisera said quietly as they approached the Rosagar encampment, "these steppe warriors follow different customs. Their loyalty to the empire is… conditional."
James nodded, adjusting his borrowed cloak. "So we need to win their trust, not just assume it."
"Precisely. Princess Saralta may be Emperor Simon's subject in name, but her primary loyalty is to Rosagar." Bisera's eyes scanned the encampment with professional assessment. "Her thousand riders could tip the balance against either Gillyria or the traitors in Arinthia, if they remain loyal."
As they neared the palisade entrance, a sentry called out something in the harsh, guttural language of the steppes. The gates swung open to reveal a sight that made both Bisera and James pause in surprise.
The circular training ground teemed with activity. Dozens of warriors—men and women alike—worked in pairs, practicing combat techniques unlike any Bisera had seen in the imperial army. They moved with fluid grace, many fighting from horseback with curved bows and slender sabers. The warriors' distinctive lamellar armor caught the morning light as they twisted and feinted, their techniques clearly honed for the mobile warfare of the open plains rather than the disciplined formations of Vakerian infantry.
At the center of this whirlwind stood Saralta, her raven‑black hair bound in an intricate braid that hung to her waist. She moved among her troops with the easy confidence of someone born to command, occasionally barking corrections or demonstrations. In full combat gear—including helmet and ceremonial headdress—she stood nearly as tall as James, towering over many of her own warriors. The distinctive armor of Rosagar—strips of lacquered leather reinforced with metal plates—accentuated her athletic build while allowing the free movement her fighting style demanded.
A hush fell over the training ground as the visitors were noticed. Warriors stepped back, forming a respectful perimeter as Saralta turned to face the newcomers. For a heartbeat, she simply observed them, dark eyes assessing, before striding forward with purposeful grace.
"General Bisera," she called, offering a warrior's salute—arm crossed over her chest rather than the bow of a courtier. "I see you've brought your famed mage to observe our morning exercises."
Bisera returned the salute with equal formality. "Princess Saralta. Emperor Simon wishes our forces to coordinate closely in the days ahead. I thought it wise to begin that process immediately."
Saralta's gaze shifted to James, lingering with undisguised interest. "And you must be the Great Mage who's caused such a stir." Her lips curved into a slight smile. "You look less mystical in the daylight."
James inclined his head. "I'm just James. The 'Great Mage' title wasn't my idea."
Saralta laughed, the sound unexpectedly warm and genuine. She circled him slowly, her assessment frank and unabashed in a way that made Bisera stiffen slightly. "Yet they say you summon items from another world and heal with a touch." Her eyes glinted with mischief. "Perhaps you could demonstrate some of this magic for my warriors? It would boost their morale immensely if they know their wounds would be readily healed."
Before James could respond, Saralta gestured to the training ground. "But first, my Lady, you should observe our morning exercises. The fighting techniques of Rosagar differ greatly from Vakerian formations. So it might help with your future tactical planning."
For the next hour, they watched as the steppe warriors demonstrated their distinctive combat style—a fluid, mobile approach that emphasized horseback archery and lightning strikes rather than the shield walls and disciplined infantry tactics of the empire. James observed with genuine fascination, while Bisera's professional interest was evident in her thoughtful expression.
"Your warriors fight as individuals," Bisera noted. "Vakerian forces emphasize unit cohesion."
Saralta nodded, pride evident in her stance. "On the open steppes, mobility surpasses formation. Each rider makes decisions independently while understanding the greater strategy." She glanced sidelong at Bisera. "Perhaps our approaches could complement each other."
"Perhaps," Bisera agreed cautiously. "If we develop mutual understanding of each other's tactical style."
As the demonstration concluded, warriors began to disperse to various training stations around the encampment. Saralta turned to her guests with renewed focus.
"Now, Great Mage," she said, eyes bright with challenge, "I'd like to see these legendary powers myself."
James exchanged a quick glance with Bisera. "I'm not much for performances," he began.
Saralta's expression turned sly. "Then perhaps we might start with something simpler." Without warning, she gestured to two warriors nearby. "Bring the Great Mage's mount!"
When the horse was brought forward, Saralta swung into her own saddle with effortless grace. "I've heard you came to us from another world entirely. I wonder if you ride as we do in Rosagar." Her challenge hung in the air.
James hesitated. Though he'd improved under Bisera's tutelage, he was still far from comfortable on horseback. "I'm still learning Vakerian riding techniques," he admitted.
"Perfect!" Saralta's eyes danced with mischief. "Then allow me to demonstrate the Rosagar way."
Before anyone could shout a warning, Saralta gave her mount a sharp prod with the spurs. With the thunder of hooves and a swirl of dust, she slid her leg over the cantle and, in one breathtaking sweep, scooped James up from behind. He went from standing on solid earth to dangling against her in an instant—his boots grazing the leather of her saddle.
A collective gasp rippled through the clustered warriors, quickly drowned out by their gleeful cheers. Saralta wrapped an arm around James's waist, her fingertips brushing the hem of his shirt and, for a heartbeat, he swore he felt her pulse race against his back. "Hold tight, my great mage," she teased, a bright laugh spilling from her lips as she urged the stallion into a gallop.
James clung to the horn of the saddle with white‑knuckled fervor. Between the sweet tang of horse sweat and the sharper bite of damp leather, he caught a whiff of her braid's pine‑scented oil. She guided the beast through a series of deft turns—spinning so close that James's heart pounded not just from fear, but from the unexpected nearness of her bosom, the curve of her hip pressing into him as if the two of them were one wild creature born of wind and fur.
Bisera's reaction was immediate. Her eyes narrowed, jaw tightening as she watched this unexpected abduction. Without hesitation, she swung onto her own mount and urged it forward with a sharp command. The powerful warhorse responded instantly, hooves pounding the frozen earth as she pursued the pair.
Saralta glanced back to see Bisera gaining on them, and a competitive gleam entered her eyes. She leaned forward, whispering something to her horse that sent it surging ahead with renewed speed. James, caught in this impromptu contest, could only hold on tighter as the ground blurred beneath them.
"Is this how you typically welcome allies?" he managed to call over his shoulder.
Saralta laughed. "In Rosagar, we test new companions through challenge, not ceremony!" Her arm remained firm around his waist as they raced toward a low stone wall at the edge of the training ground.
James's eyes widened. "You're not going to—"
"Brace yourself, mage!" Saralta called, urging her mount faster.
The horse gathered itself and launched into the air, clearing the wall with room to spare. James felt his stomach drop and rise in a sickening lurch as they soared momentarily weightless before landing with a jarring impact on the other side.
Bisera, not to be outdone, followed suit. Her warhorse took the obstacle with practiced ease, and she drew alongside them as they thundered across the open field beyond the encampment.
"Enough, Princess!" Bisera called, her voice sharp with authority. "This display is unnecessary."
Saralta turned to her with a challenging grin. "Is it concern for your mage I hear, General? Or perhaps something more personal?"
The question hung between them, charged with unspoken implications. Bisera's expression remained carefully neutral, though a flush of color touched her cheeks that had nothing to do with the cold air rushing past them.
"It's concern for our honoured mage's safety," she replied evenly. "He's still recovering from some earlier injuries."
Something in her tone must have reached Saralta, for she nodded and gradually slowed her mount. As they came to a halt on a small rise overlooking the encampment, she loosened her hold on James.
"My apologies if I overstepped," she said, though her eyes still sparkled with mischief. "In Rosagar, we believe you learn more about a person from how they face a challenge than from hours of polite conversation."
James, regaining his composure, managed a smile. "I think I prefer conversation, but I take your point." He glanced toward Bisera, noting the tension in her posture.
Bisera's expression softened slightly as she met his gaze. "Are you hurt?" she asked quietly.
"More shocked than hurt," James assured her.
This drew a genuine laugh from Saralta. "Your mage has spirit, General. I think he may survive court politics after all."
As Saralta finished laughing, a ripple of silence made her pause. The amusement faded from her face as she noticed the expressions of her warriors standing just behind James and Bisera—alert, wide‑eyed, transfixed.
They weren't looking at her. Or at the others. Their eyes were fixed skyward.
Her brow creased. Curiosity stirred. She turned.
And the breath left her body.
Something was descending from the sky—a figure suspended on vast wings of white, each feather edged in light. The morning sun crowned her from behind, veiling her in a radiant blaze. Silhouetted against the brilliance, she seemed forged from divinity: hair like poured flame, armor that shimmered with impossible craftsmanship, and great green gems catching firelight as she drifted lower with inhuman grace.
She made no sound. Not a flap. Not a whisper. The wind obeyed her, not the other way around.
Saralta stared, rooted in place, unable to speak.
"Impossible…" she breathed, the word barely reaching her own ears.
Part 2
The great hall of Podem buzzed with anticipation as servants made final preparations for the evening's feast. Long tables arranged in a horseshoe pattern dominated the chamber, their surfaces already laden with polished silver platters and crystal goblets that caught the light from dozens of overhead chandeliers. Tapestries depicting Vakerian military triumphs adorned the walls, their rich colors softened by years of wood smoke from the massive hearths that kept the winter chill at bay.
As imperial stewards hurried to place final touches on the elaborate settings, Emperor Simon conferred quietly with his chamberlain, reviewing the carefully arranged seating plan. Tonight's feast would be both celebration and strategy session—a chance to formally welcome Princess Saralta's Rosagar cavalry while cementing alliances crucial to confronting both the Gillyrian threat and the coup in Arinthia.
"The Rosagar delegation must be honored appropriately," Simon instructed, "but position General Bisera at my right hand. Her counsel will be essential as we discuss military matters."
The chamberlain nodded, making a final notation on his scroll. "And the Great Mage, Your Majesty? With Lady Selene?"
Simon paused, considering. After yesterday's dramatic appearance of Selene, the court regarded both James and his angelic guardian with a mixture of awe and trepidation. "Place James beside General Bisera," he decided. "And Lady Selene… she may sit … or stand … wherever she wants. Preferably beside James. But please notify all those that will be present tomorrow to adjust their seating for Lady Selene. Her presence alone will signify to the attendees of Seraphina's favor."
As the chamberlain withdrew to implement these instructions, Emperor Simon gazed around the hall with a troubled expression. Despite the magnificent preparations, worry clouded his youthful features. The empire teetered on the brink of collapse, with enemies both foreign and domestic closing in. Tonight's feast might well be the last moment of normality before war engulfed them completely.
Outside in the torch‑lit corridor, Bisera approached James's chamber with measured steps. After the morning's encounter with Saralta, she had spent the day in strategic meetings with Emperor Simon's generals, helping coordinate Podem's defenses. Now, with the feast less than an hour away, she had come to escort James personally—partly from duty, partly from a desire to speak with him alone before the evening's public spectacle began.
Selene was not outside the door, as Bisera had expected.
Instead, she was inside the chamber—sitting, very upright, on a carved settee near the hearth like a still‑life painting brought to life. Her legs—bare and impossibly flawless—were crossed in a way that somehow made them appear as if carved from living marble, and the firelight traced every smooth, unscarred inch of her skin with suspicious enthusiasm. Bisera suddenly became self‑conscious of her scars. Selene had no such imperfections. Her form seemed sculpted by divine hands.
And then there was her attire—or lack thereof. Whatever alien fashion she favored, it involved a generous disregard for modesty and a skin‑tightness that left… very little room for imagination. Bisera blinked. Once. Twice. There were curves. There were proportions that pushed the realms of imagination. Are those… real? Her brain briefly short‑circuited.
"Lady Bisera," Selene said with a voice that was sweet and calm but devoid of emotion.
Before Bisera could respond, James's voice came from around the corner.
"Selene," he said gently, "could you give us a moment of privacy?"
"Of course," Selene said, rising with unnerving grace and heading for the door.
James had donned formal attire provided by the imperial tailors—a high‑collared tunic of deep blue velvet embroidered with silver thread, paired with charcoal breeches and polished boots. The outfit, cut in Vakerian court style but simplified to suit James's more modern tastes, lent him a dignified air that momentarily took Bisera by surprise.
He turned at her entrance, and a smile of genuine pleasure lit his features. "Bisera," he greeted her warmly. "You look…"
His voice trailed off as he took in her appearance. She had shed her usual armor in favor of a noblewoman's dress: a long, deep‑red woolen gown trimmed with embroidered gold thread at the cuffs and hem, cinched at the waist with a tooled leather girdle that bore a slender ceremonial blade. Over her shoulders hung a finely woven mantle, fastened with a brooch of polished bronze. Her blonde hair, typically bound in a tight warrior's braid, had been carefully coiled and veiled with a silk headscarf that lent a grace to her features without dulling her regal composure.
"Stunning," he finished quietly.
Bisera felt a flush of warmth rise to her cheeks. "The palace tailors worked quickly," she said, deflecting the compliment. "You look quite proper yourself—almost like a Vakerian noble."
"Is that a good thing?" James asked with a hint of his usual humor.
"It suits you better than I expected," she admitted, closing the distance between them. She reached up to adjust his collar slightly, the casual intimacy of the gesture revealing how their relationship had evolved. "Though I'm not sure Emperor Simon's court is ready for all your modern ideas."
A comfortable silence fell between them as their eyes met. For a moment, the weight of their responsibilities—the coup, the Gillyrian threat, the impossible demands of duty—seemed to lighten.
"About this morning," Bisera began, a hint of uncertainty in her voice. "Princess Saralta's… approach was rather forward."
James nodded, his expression turning more serious. "She certainly has a different style than what I've grown accustomed to."
"The steppe people have their own customs," Bisera explained, her tone carefully neutral. "Their directness can be… challenging for those used to the empire's formality."
There was something in her voice—a slight tension that James had learned to recognize over their months together. He regarded her thoughtfully for a moment before a small smile tugged at his lips.
"Were you worried when she carried me off like that?" he asked quietly.
Bisera's gaze flicked away briefly. "It was diplomatically inappropriate," she said, though the slight color in her cheeks suggested other concerns had driven her quick pursuit.
"And nothing to do with personal feelings?" James pressed gently.
Bisera met his eyes again, her expression softening. "Perhaps not nothing," she admitted. "Saralta is… not subtle in her interests."
James reached for her hand, his fingers intertwining with hers. "Then let me be equally unsubtle," he said. "My heart made its choice long before we reached Podem."
The simple declaration hung in the air between them, fragile and precious. Bisera's breath caught, her usual composure momentarily faltering as she squeezed his hand in silent acknowledgment.
"We should go," she said after a moment, though she made no move to step away. "Emperor Simon expects us."
"In a moment," James replied, drawing her slightly closer. "We rarely get these moments alone."
"Selene is just outside the door," Bisera reminded him with a hint of amusement.
"Don't worry about her. After, Seraphina and their kind see everything anyway," James countered with a soft laugh.
As they stood together in the warm glow of the firelight, the world outside—with all its dangers and demands—seemed temporarily held at bay. Tomorrow would bring new challenges: the integration of Saralta's cavalry into their forces, the planning for a possible march on Arinthia, the continued threat of Gillyrian advancement. But for now, in this quiet chamber high in Podem's fortress, they found a moment of peace in each other's presence.
The dinner gong echoed through the corridors, its resonant tone signaling the feast's imminent beginning. With reluctance, they stepped apart, though their hands remained linked for a heartbeat longer.
"Ready to face the imperial court again?" Bisera asked, her professional demeanor sliding back into place.
James nodded, squaring his shoulders. "As ready as I'll ever be."