Part 1
James woke to the sound of bronze striking bronze.
Not the crash of battle, but something more methodical. Rhythmic. The sound of siege engines being adjusted, tested, prepared. He lay in the darkness of his small room in the citadel's eastern wing, listening to the Gillyrian camp come alive with the new day. They'd been at this for weeks now, and he'd learned to read their sounds the way sailors read the sea.
This morning sounded different. Closer.
He rose, dressed in the predawn cold, and climbed to the western ramparts. Frost had claimed the fortress during the night, transforming stone and timber into a landscape of crystalline edges and treacherous surfaces. His breath misted in air cold enough to burn his lungs.
The Gillyrian camp had advanced.
Not dramatically. Not with fanfare or declaration. Just the patient, inexorable creep of professional siege work. Twenty yards closer than yesterday. Their towers now stood near enough that James could make out individual bronze rivets in the armored hides. Near enough that he could see the ice clinging to the catapult arms.
Near enough to matter.
"They moved during the night," a voice said beside him.
James turned to find Bisera already there, wrapped in a heavy cloak that made her look smaller than she was. She'd been on the walls before dawn, he realized. Probably hadn't slept at all. Her hair was done simply this morning, a single braid rather than the elaborate styles she sometimes wore. But she'd woven silver wire through it, and in the growing light it caught the sun like captured starlight.
"How?" James asked. "Wouldn't your sentries have seen them?"
"They were clever about it. Used the fog. Moved one component at a time rather than whole structures." She pointed to the nearest siege tower. "That was eighty yards out yesterday evening. It's sixty now. By tomorrow it'll be within bridging distance of the wall."
"Can we stop them?"
"We've been trying." Her voice was flat with exhaustion. "Scorpion bolts, fire arrows, catapult stones. They've armored everything. And they only move what they can shield completely. We're burning through ammunition trying to slow them down, and they know it."
She fell silent, and James studied her profile in the strengthening light. The line of her jaw. The way she held herself even when exhausted. The small line that had appeared between her brows sometime in the last week.
"You didn't sleep," he said.
"Couldn't." She didn't look at him. "Kept thinking about what comes next. Alexander's been patient, but patience has limits. He's been testing us for days now. Probing. Measuring our responses."
As if summoned by his name, activity erupted in the Gillyrian camp. Horns sang out. Formations began to move.
"Here we go," Bisera murmured.
The testudo formations advanced at mid-morning. Overlapping shields created bronze tortoises that arrows bounced off like rain. James watched defenders loose volley after volley, watched the arrows clatter harmlessly off the interlocking shields, watched the Gillyrians advance with mechanical precision.
Fifty yards from the gate, they stopped. Held position for perhaps five minutes. Then withdrew in the same ordered fashion they'd advanced.
"What was that?" James asked.
"That," said General Serko, appearing on Bisera's other side, "was them counting our arrows. Measuring our response times. Cataloging which sections of wall respond fastest." The old general's expression was grim. "They're building a map of our capabilities. Every probe teaches them something new."
"They're being very thorough," Bisera said quietly.
"They can afford to be." Serko gestured at the vast camp beyond the siege lines. "They have time, supplies, reinforcements. We have walls and courage. One of those is more finite than the other."
The words hung in the cold air. James wanted to argue, to point out that they also had ingenuity, determination, the advantage of defense. But Serko wasn't wrong. The mathematics of siege warfare was brutal and simple. Eventually, something would run out.
The morning wore on. More probes. More testing. Each assault carefully calibrated to learn something without committing fully. By noon, James found himself back on the western ramparts, exhausted from running between aid stations. His hands still smelled of the poultice he'd applied to a soldier's burned arm.
Bisera was there again, or still. He wasn't sure she'd ever left.
"You should rest," he said, coming to stand beside her.
"So should you." She glanced at him, and something in her expression softened. "But here we are."
"Here we are," James agreed.
They stood in silence, watching the enemy camp. Watching the siege engines gleam in the winter sun. Watching the future creep closer, yard by patient yard.
"James," Bisera said suddenly, not looking at him. "Do you ever wonder if mercy and strategy can coexist? Or is that naive?"
The question caught him off guard. "Why do you ask?"
"Because I've been thinking about Alexander. About what my spies report." She turned to face him now, and he saw something vulnerable in her eyes. "They say he spent last night questioning everything. His purpose here. The cost of this siege. Whether victory justifies what it takes to achieve it."
"That sounds like the beginning of wisdom."
"Or the first crack in his resolve." Bisera's hand moved on the stone parapet, close to his but not touching. "I don't know which it is. I don't know if wars can be won by men who question. I don't know if what comes after war, whatever we manage to rebuild, requires those same men to have found mercy before mercy became weakness."
"You're thinking about what comes after," James said quietly.
"Aren't you?" Her voice was barely above a whisper. "Don't you think about futures? About what we might have if the walls hold, if we survive, if there's anything left worth having when this is over?"
James looked at her. Really looked. At the exhaustion she carried. At the strength that somehow hadn't broken under the weight of command. At the vulnerability she showed only in moments like this, when no one else was watching.
"Yes," he said simply. "I think about it."
Her hand moved. Just slightly. Her smallest finger brushed against his.
It wasn't much. Barely contact at all. But it felt like a promise. Like an acknowledgment of everything they hadn't said yet. Everything that waited on the other side of survival.
"Lord James. General Bisera."
They both turned to find Serko approaching, his expression grave.
"The council needs to reconvene." He glanced at the soldiers manning nearby positions, then lowered his voice. "We have a situation with the water supply. It needs to be discussed. Now. In private."
Bisera's hand drew back from James's. Her expression shifted, the general's mask sliding into place with practiced ease. "How serious?"
"Serious enough that I don't want to discuss it here."
"Understood." Bisera straightened, and just like that she was the commander again. All business. All efficiency. She started toward the tower stairs, then paused and looked back at James. "You coming?"
"Yes," James said, pushing away from the parapet. "I'm coming."
As they descended into the fortress, following Serko through corridors that grew progressively more private, James thought about that moment on the wall. About Bisera's question regarding mercy and strategy. About her hand brushing against his. About futures that might never arrive.
The Gillyrians were twenty yards closer than yesterday. Their siege towers gleamed with frost and bronze. Alexander was questioning his purpose while his armies tested Podem's defenses with mechanical precision.
And somewhere in all that machinery of war, two people had touched hands on a rampart and acknowledged that they wanted to survive. Wanted a future. Wanted each other.
If the walls held. If the water lasted. If Alexander's next assault didn't break them.
So many ifs.
Part 2
Two hundred thirty miles to the southeast, in the colonnade where winter light painted marble in shades of amber and shadow, where centuries of imperial feet had worn stone smooth, Duke Gregorios watched the designated heir with the patient satisfaction of a master craftsman observing his work take form.
Constantine, Imperial Prince and designated heir to the throne of the Gillyrian Empire, stood at the fountain's edge with an expression that suggested he'd come to a decision. The sixteen-year-old carried himself differently today—shoulders straighter, jaw set with new determination, eyes showing a hardness that hadn't been there a week ago.
"Your Excellency requested an audience," Constantine said, his voice level but carrying an undercurrent of steel.
"I did." The duke gestured to the stone bench where they'd spoken five days prior. "I wished to inquire whether you'd given thought to our previous conversation."
Constantine remained standing, and that simple choice spoke volumes. "I have. Extensively."
"And?" The duke's expression remained grandfatherly, concerned, supportive—a mask worn so long it had practically become his real face.
"And I believe you were correct." Constantine's dark eyes met the duke's pale ones directly. "I have been sheltered. Protected. Kept from the practical education an heir requires. Whether through my mother's love or my uncle's reluctance to share power, the result is the same—I'm unprepared for the throne I'm designated to inherit."
"A mature assessment," the duke approved. "Few men your age possess such self-awareness."
"Self-awareness is useless without action." Constantine's jaw tightened. "I've spent the last five days observing. Watching how decisions are made, who holds real power versus ceremonial authority, which ministers actually manage affairs versus those who merely attend councils to be seen." He paused. "I've been invisible my entire life, Your Excellency. And I've realized that's been my advantage—people speak freely around those they don't consider threats."
The duke felt a spike of interest. This was better than he'd hoped. The boy wasn't just malleable, he was genuinely intelligent. A dangerous combination. Useful, but dangerous.
"And what did your observations reveal?"
"That the treasury is bleeding gold faster than the provinces can supply it. That the military is stretched thin across too many fronts. That several prominent families—including yours, Your Excellency—are beginning to question the wisdom of my uncle's northern campaign." Constantine's voice remained level, almost academic. "And that my mother Helena knows all of this but proceeds anyway, because she believes in His Majesty's vision with religious fervor."
"Faith is admirable," the duke said carefully. "But faith without pragmatism bankrupts empires."
"Exactly." Constantine finally sat, not on the bench but on the fountain's edge—a casual breach of protocol that suggested he was testing boundaries. "Which brings me to why I requested this meeting, Your Excellency."
The duke blinked. "You requested—I thought I—"
"You put word out through your secretary that you wished to see me. But your secretary mentioned it to the palace chamberlain, who mentioned it to my tutor, who mentioned it to me." Constantine's smile was thin. "I could have avoided this meeting if I'd wished. Instead, I'm here. Because I want something from you."
This was definitely not the malleable youth the duke had expected. This was someone who'd been watching, learning, calculating. Exciting and terrifying in equal measure.
"What do you want, Your Highness?"
"Your support. Your network. Your knowledge." Constantine leaned forward. "You spoke of how I should be building relationships with provincial governors, military commanders, the true centers of power. I want you to introduce me. Quietly. Without my mother's knowledge or interference."
"That would be... inappropriate," the duke said slowly, though his mind raced ahead. "Your mother is the regent. To go behind her back—"
"Is exactly what you've been suggesting I do," Constantine interrupted, and now there was heat in his voice—controlled but present. "Don't insult my intelligence by pretending otherwise, Your Excellency. You've been very carefully, very subtly pushing me toward asserting my rights as heir. Suggesting that my mother is too protective, too controlling, too reluctant to share power. All of which is true, but let's be honest about what you're actually proposing—you want me indebted to you. You want to be the power behind the throne when I eventually inherit."
Silence stretched between them. The fountain dripped. Somewhere distant, guards changed watch.
"And if that were my intention?" the duke asked softly.
"Then I'd call it a fair trade." Constantine stood, pacing now with nervous energy. "You get influence over the future emperor. I get the practical education I desperately need. We both get insurance against my mother's stubbornness and my uncle's overreach." He stopped, turning to face the duke directly. "But I'm not an idiot, Your Excellency. I know this makes me your client. Your protégé. Possibly your puppet if I'm not careful."
"You seem remarkably clear-eyed about the risks," the duke observed.
"Because I've been studying history while everyone assumed I was just a pretty ornament." Constantine's voice turned bitter. "I know what happens to young heirs who let themselves be manipulated by ambitious ministers. Some become puppets. Some get discarded when they're no longer useful. The smart ones..." He paused. "The smart ones learn to balance everyone's interests and have long, successful reigns where the empire prospers."
The duke laughed—genuinely delighted rather than merely amused. "You have your grandfather's cunning. And perhaps more of your uncle's ruthlessness than anyone suspects."
"I'm my father's son," Constantine said quietly. "And my father died young, precisely because he didn't know how to balance competing interests. I intend to learn from his mistakes."
They regarded each other—the old duke who'd outlived three emperors and the young prince who might outlive him, or might destroy the empire trying. Two predators recognizing each other, deciding whether to hunt together or against one another.
"Very well," the duke said finally. "I'll arrange introductions. Quietly. Carefully. Starting with governors and administrators who are... sympathetic to concerns about the current campaign's sustainability." He stood, leaning on his staff. "But understand, Your Highness—once you begin walking this path, there's no turning back. Your mother will discover what you're doing eventually. And when she does..."
"Then I'll deal with it." Constantine's jaw set. "I'm designated heir. That means something, or it means nothing. I intend to make it mean something."
"Then we have an understanding." The duke extended his hand—an informal gesture, almost insulting in its casualness toward imperial dignity.
Constantine took it without hesitation, his grip firm. "We do."
As they parted ways—the duke moving slowly toward his apartments while Constantine headed toward the gymnasium for afternoon training—neither noticed the small figure in the shadows of a service corridor. Palace scribe Theodosios had been positioned too far to hear specific words but close enough to observe everything—the duration of their meeting, the body language suggesting conspiracy rather than innocent conversation, the handshake that sealed whatever bargain they'd made.
Theodosios slipped away to make his report, knowing Regent Helena would want to know that her son was making moves. Whether those moves were dangerous, desperate, or both, she would have to judge for herself.
But as he walked through marble corridors toward Helena's private offices, Theodosios couldn't shake the memory of young Constantine's expression—not the innocence of youth but the calculation of someone who'd studied the board and decided it was finally time to move his pieces.
The empire was gathering storms. In the north, Alexander besieged Podem. In the capital, Helena bled the treasury to support him. And in the shadowed halls of power, a sixteen-year-old heir was learning to play the game that could make or break empires.
The question was whether he would be the player or the pawn.
Part 3
Halfway through the council meeting, James went to retrieve his notes from the guest quarters to help him explain the concepts better. Explaining filtration systems and cistern rationing to medieval soldiers were no easy task.
The corridor in the citadel's eastern wing stretched empty and quiet. Most soldiers were either manning the walls or stealing sleep in the carefully orchestrated shifts Bisera had arranged. James fumbled with his iron key, fingers stiff from cold despite the gloves Bisera had pressed on him that morning.
Then he noticed a door stood slightly ajar.
In his tired state, he assumed he'd forgotten to close his own door properly. The rooms along this corridor all looked identical. He pushed it open and stepped inside.
And froze.
Saralta stood in the center of the chamber, caught mid-change. Her elaborate golden armor lay stacked with military precision on the writing stool, the sun-ray headpiece resting atop the lamellar plates like a displaced crown. Thick fur-lined pauldrons and battle skirt pooled on the floor in a cascade of leather and bronze.
She wore only loose cotton trousers. She'd just pulled her under-tunic over her head, and for one suspended moment, James saw her back.
The sight struck him with unexpected force. Not with crude desire, but with something closer to awe. Her skin was flawless, smooth as polished ivory, every muscle defined with the precision of classical sculpture. Lean and powerful, her shoulders spoke of years wielding weapons that would break lesser warriors. Her raven-black hair, freed from its intricate braids, cascaded down her back in waves that caught the afternoon light.
She was, objectively, breathtakingly beautiful.
The rational part of James's mind screamed at him to leave. Immediately. Close the door. Apologize through the wood. Wait in the hallway. Every instinct from his former world told him this was deeply inappropriate.
He stood paralyzed for perhaps three heartbeats before his better judgment reasserted itself. Heat flooded his face as he spun on his heel, presenting his back to her with deliberate speed.
"I apologize," he said, keeping his voice level despite the embarrassment. "Wrong room. I'll wait outside."
Behind him, Saralta's laughter rang out, genuinely delighted rather than offended. "Oh? The great divine mage, flustered by mere flesh? How endearing."
James kept his eyes fixed firmly on the door. "This is your room. I thought it was mine. I'm sorry."
"Are you?" Her tone was playful, amused. "You looked rather appreciative for someone who's sorry."
"I didn't mean to look at all."
"And yet you did." The rustling of fabric suggested she was finishing dressing. "Don't torture yourself, James. I'm not offended. Surprised, perhaps. Most men would have stared longer."
"I'm not most men."
"No," Saralta said, her voice taking on a different quality. Softer. "No, you're not. You may turn around now, oh modest one."
James rotated slowly, half-expecting a trick. But Saralta had donned a fresh tunic, deep crimson embroidered with golden thread in intricate steppe patterns. She'd fastened it with a tooled leather belt. Without her armor, she looked oddly domestic, though no less striking. Her hair remained loose, framing features that were bold and beautiful in equal measure.
She stood studying him with open curiosity, arms crossed, a smile playing at her lips. "You know, most men would have made excuses. Blamed me for leaving the door open. Or pretended they saw nothing while stealing glances." Her smile widened. "You just apologized and turned away. Bisera has chosen well."
"Bisera and I—" James began.
"Oh, please." Saralta waved a hand dismissively. "Everyone in this fortress knows. The way she looks at you. The way you look at her. The gloves she gave you this morning that you keep touching like they're a talisman." She moved to her armor, began the process of donning it with practiced efficiency. "I've been meaning to ask you something, actually."
James waited, wary now.
"Bisera mentioned you'd given her and Captain Velika these curious support garments. Sports bras, she called them?" Saralta glanced at him while fastening a pauldron. "Something about battlefield advantages and preventing chafing during extended campaigns. She showed me hers. Quite ingenious, really. Far superior to the binding cloths we use, which are about as comfortable as wrapping yourself in sailcloth."
"They're practical garments," James said carefully. "Common in my world for physical activity."
"Mmm-hmm." Saralta's eyes danced with mirth. "And yet you, a man, seem to know quite a lot about women's undergarments. The sizing. The fit. The proper support for different activities." She tilted her head. "Most men couldn't tell a chemise from a cloak, even sober."
"In my world, understanding practical clothing is just common sense. Not intimate knowledge."
"Such a carefully diplomatic answer." She laughed, the sound like silver bells. "Tell me, James, when you recommended the size for Bisera, did you perhaps help her measure? Ensure proper fit through direct observation?"
"Absolutely not." The words came out firm. "She determined her own sizing. I facilitated procurement through Seraphina. Any suggestion otherwise would be inappropriate."
Saralta's expression shifted to something more genuine. "I believe you." She reached past him for another piece of armor, close enough that he caught the scent of steppe wildflowers mixed with weapon oil. "Relax, Divine Mage. I'm not trying to corrupt your virtue."
"I appreciate that."
"Though I admit," she continued, her tone playful again, "if you keep insisting that you and Bisera aren't close, it might give me hope."
James felt his carefully maintained composure waver. "What?"
"Hope that I might squeeze myself a spot in there somewhere." She fastened the golden lamellar plates with familiar precision, not looking at him. "In the steppes, it's not uncommon for great men to have secondary wives. I might not mind being one for a man like you." She paused, then added with deliberate theatricality, "But for other men? Oh, never."
James found himself speechless.
Saralta glanced at him over her shoulder, her expression unreadable. Was she serious? Joking? Testing him? He couldn't tell.
"I actually do want one of those support garments," she said, changing the subject smoothly. "Not for teasing purposes. Bisera made valid points about battlefield practicality. If you could arrange it with Lady Seraphina?"
"Of course," James managed. "I'll consult with Bisera about sizing recommendations."
"Wise choice." Saralta finished with her armor and reached for her sun-ray headpiece. But before donning it, she turned to face him fully. All playfulness drained from her expression, replaced by something raw and honest.
"James," she said quietly. "Do you know what tomorrow brings?"
The shift in tone was so abrupt that James felt the weight of it settle over the room like a shroud. "Alexander will commit his forces. Full assault."
"Yes." She looked down at the headpiece in her hands. "And do you know what that means for cavalry? For riders like me?"
"I cannot say I do."
"We'll charge to our deaths." She said it matter-of-factly, without drama. "Most of us won't come back. That's the tactical reality. That's what cavalry does in sieges like this. To buy time with our blood."
James felt something cold settle in his chest. "Bisera won't ask that of you."
"She won't have to." Saralta smiled, but there was no humor in it. "It's what I do. What I've always done. The Thunderbolt of the Steppes doesn't earn that name by playing it safe." She moved to the narrow window, looking out over the fortress. "I've been thinking about everyone I've lost. Every friend who rode beside me and didn't ride back. Do you know how many that is?"
"No."
"Neither do I anymore." Her voice had gone soft. "I've forgotten so many faces. So many names. And tomorrow I'll probably join them, and in a few years someone else will be trying to remember mine." She turned back to face him. "That's why I said what I said. About secondary wives. About hope."
"Saralta—"
"Let me finish." She raised a hand. "I wasn't serious. Not really. Or maybe I was, for a moment, because I've lived my whole life taking what I wanted, fighting for what mattered, never backing down from anything." She laughed, but it sounded tired. "And here's this man, kind and gentle and completely devoted to a woman who deserves him. And I thought, maybe, if I flirted enough, teased enough, I could steal a piece of that happiness for myself before I run out of time."
"You're not going to die tomorrow," James said.
"Probably not tomorrow specifically." She smiled. "Maybe the day after. Maybe during the charge. Maybe when Alexander's Praetorians counter-attack." She shook her head. "The timing doesn't matter. What matters is that my time is running out, and I know it, and I'm trying to figure out what to do with whatever moments I have left."
She placed the sun-ray headpiece on her head, transforming back into the legendary warrior. But her eyes remained vulnerable.
"Bisera is a good woman, James. The best I've ever known. I've served under dozens of commanders in my life, and I've never seen one like her. She cares about every soldier under her command. She sacrifices sleep, comfort, safety, everything, to keep them alive." Saralta's voice strengthened. "She'll be a great wife. A great partner. Someone worth building a life with."
"I know," James said quietly.
"If I don't survive this war," Saralta continued, "promise me something. Promise you'll be with her. Treat her well. Give her the happiness she's been denying herself for years because she thought duty meant loneliness." She moved closer, her eyes searching his. "Promise me that my death, and the deaths of all the others who'll fall tomorrow, will at least purchase something good. Something worth the cost."
"I promise," James said, his throat tight.
"Good." Saralta reached out and squeezed his shoulder, the gesture surprisingly gentle. "You walked in on me half-dressed, saw me at my most vulnerable, and your first instinct was to look away and apologize. That tells me everything I need to know about the kind of man you are." She smiled, and this time it reached her eyes. "Bisera chose well. I'm glad she has you."
She moved toward the door, then paused at the threshold. When she looked back, the playful mask had returned, but James could see the cracks in it now. Could see the woman beneath who used humor to bear weights that would crush most people.
"In the steppes, we have a saying," she said. "The bravest die young, but at least they die having lived." Her voice went soft. "I've lived, James. Ridden farther, fought harder, loved fiercer, albeit one-sided, than most people manage in three lifetimes. If tomorrow is my last day, at least I got to spend part of it flirting with a handsome mage who blushes like a maiden."
"Saralta—"
"Take care of her," she said simply. "And remember me."
Then she swept out, leaving behind only the lingering scent of steppe wildflowers mixed with weapon oil and leather.
Part 4
The presentation had gone better than expected, though James's hands still cramped from sketching water filtration diagrams. Three hours of explaining cistern rationing and well contamination protocols to men who measured time by the sun and treated disease with prayers. Yet they'd listened. General Serko had even taken notes.
Small victories, he thought, climbing back to the western wall as afternoon light softened toward evening. The kind that might keep a few more people alive when the real assault came.
Bisera stood at the far end of the battlement, her back to him as she spoke with Captain Vesmir. Even in profile, James could read the tension in her shoulders. She'd been on the walls since dawn, inspecting every scorpion, every arrow stock, every weak point in their defenses. Preparing for tomorrow. Or the day after. Whenever Alexander decided to commit his full strength.
Vesmir noticed James first. The scarred captain said something that made Bisera turn, and James caught the shift in her expression. The general's mask slipping for just a moment before she dismissed Vesmir with a nod.
As the captain passed, he muttered, "About time," just loud enough for James to hear.
"Captain Vesmir seems to have opinions," James said as he reached her.
"Vesmir has opinions about everything." Bisera's tone was light, but she didn't quite meet his eyes. "He thinks I've been working too hard."
"Have you?"
"Of course." She turned back to the parapet, looking out over the Gillyrian camp where cooking fires were beginning to bloom in the dusk. "But there's no such thing as too hard when tomorrow might be our last day."
James moved to stand beside her. Close, but not touching. Aware of the guards at the other towers, the soldiers moving along the wall. Aware that Bisera had a reputation to maintain, a command to preserve.
"Serko approved the water plan," he offered.
"I know. He told me." A pause. "You did well today, James. Practical solutions, clearly explained. Some of the officers were skeptical about taking advice from an outsider, but you won them over."
"Is that your way of saying you're proud of me?"
She smiled then, a real smile that reached her eyes. "Perhaps."
The silence that followed was comfortable. They'd had enough of these moments over the past weeks that James had learned to read her moods, the small tells that showed what lay beneath the general's composure. Tonight, something was different. Her hands rested on the stone parapet, and he could see the slight tremor in her fingers.
"Are you all right?" he asked quietly.
"No." The word came out flat. Honest. "I'm terrified."
James waited. Bisera wasn't one to elaborate unless she was ready.
"I've fought in seventeen major engagements," she continued, still looking out at the Gillyrian camp. "Led soldiers into situations where I knew some wouldn't come back. Made decisions that cost lives. And I've never been this afraid."
"Because of tomorrow?"
"Because of you."
The words hung in the cold air between them. James felt his breath catch.
"I've spent my entire adult life being careful," Bisera said. "Careful about what I say. How I act. Who I let close. Because one mistake, one moment of weakness, and they'd use it to strip away everything I've built. Women in my position don't get second chances." She finally turned to face him, and James saw the naked vulnerability in her expression. "And then you arrived. With your strange knowledge and your gentle hands and your absolute certainty that I deserved to be treated like a person instead of a weapon. And I've been trying so hard not to fall in love with you."
"How's that working out?"
She laughed, a sound caught between humor and tears. "Terribly."
James reached for her hand. Slowly, deliberately, giving her time to pull away. She didn't. Her fingers interlaced with his, cold from the evening air.
"I remember the first time I saw you smile," he said. "Really smile, not the face you show the troops. It was in the medical tent after we'd saved that boy with the infected leg. You thought no one was watching. You stood there looking at him sleeping, and you smiled like you'd just witnessed something miraculous." He squeezed her hand gently. "That's when I knew."
"Knew what?"
"That I was completely lost."
Bisera's eyes were bright with unshed tears. "Tomorrow, Alexander will throw everything at these walls. People I've commanded for years will die. I might die. And all I can think about is that I want more time. More mornings waking up knowing you're somewhere in this fortress. More moments like this." Her voice dropped to barely a whisper. "More of you."
"Then take them." James lifted their joined hands, pressed his lips to her knuckles. "Take every moment. Every morning. Every evening like this one. Take all of me, Bisera. I'm already yours."
"The soldiers are watching," she said, but she didn't pull away.
"I don't care."
"You should. If I'm seen as compromised, as letting personal attachments affect my judgment—"
"You're the finest commander in this empire." James's voice came out fiercer than he'd intended. "Every person on these walls knows that. They also know you've sacrificed everything for them. Your youth. Your chance at a normal life. Your ability to be anything other than perfect." He moved closer, close enough to see the silver threads woven through her braid, close enough to smell the lavender oil she'd used that morning. "Maybe it's time they saw that you're human too."
"James—"
"I love you." Simple words. Insufficient for what he felt, but the only ones he had. "I love your strength and your stubbornness and the way you care about every soldier under your command. I love that you're terrified right now but you're still standing here, still planning, still fighting. I love you, and tomorrow might be our last day, and I refuse to waste it pretending otherwise."
Bisera's breath hitched. A single tear tracked down her cheek, catching the last golden light of the dying sun.
"Damn propriety," she said.
Then she kissed him.
Not gently. Not tentatively. But with the fierce intensity of someone who'd been holding back for far too long. James responded immediately, his free hand finding the small of her back, pulling her closer. Her fingers tangled in his hair. The world narrowed to the warmth of her mouth, the way she fit against him, the small sound she made when he deepened the kiss.
When they finally broke apart, both breathing hard, the silence on the wall was absolute.
James became aware of it slowly. The guards at the nearest tower, frozen in place. Soldiers along the battlement, staring. Captain Vesmir, who'd apparently not gone far, wearing an expression caught between approval and concern.
Bisera rested her forehead against his, her eyes closed. "I've just ended my career."
"No." The voice came from the tower stairs. General Serko emerged, his expression unreadable in the failing light. "You haven't."
Bisera straightened, but didn't release James's hand. "General Serko."
"General Bisera." Serko moved closer, his footsteps deliberate on the stone. "In my forty years of military service, I've learned a few things about leadership. One of them is that soldiers will follow a commander they respect. Another is that they'll die for a commander they love." He looked out at the assembled soldiers, many of whom had moved closer during the exchange. "Your troops love you, General. Not because you're perfect. Because you're worth following."
"The regulations—" Bisera began.
"Are clear," Serko interrupted. "An officer's personal entanglements become a problem when they compromise duty or judgment. But a declared and honorable attachment?" He paused. "That's different. That's a betrothal. That's acceptable, even commendable, particularly when blessed by the Divine."
James felt Bisera's hand tighten on his.
"Are you suggesting—" she started.
"I'm suggesting," Serko said carefully, "that if Lord James were to declare his intention to marry you after this siege is lifted, and if you were to accept that declaration publicly, then what just occurred would be the perfectly natural affection between betrothed partners. Nothing more, nothing less."
The old general turned to James. "Well, Lord James? I assume you have intentions toward our general that go beyond a momentary dalliance?"
James couldn't help but smile. "I do."
"Then declare them."
"Here? Now?"
"Here. Now. In front of witnesses." Serko's expression softened slightly. "Make it proper, son. Make it real. Give the regulations nothing to sink their teeth into."
James turned to Bisera. Her eyes were wide, surprised, but there was something else there too. Hope, perhaps. Or possibility.
He took both her hands in his. "General Bisera. I know the custom is to negotiate with family, to arrange terms, to do this properly with time and ceremony." He took a breath. "We don't have time. We might not have tomorrow. But what I do have is certainty. I want to marry you. After the siege. After the war. When there's time for ceremonies and celebrations and all the proper forms. But I want everyone here to know that my intention is marriage. That I'm committed. That I choose you, publicly and without reservation."
Bisera's lips curved into a smile. Not the general's smile. Not the commander's mask. Just her, genuine and unguarded and beautiful.
"Yes."
The word was barely audible, but it carried in the sudden silence.
"Yes," she repeated, louder. "I accept your declaration. I choose you, James. After this siege. After the war. When we both survive to see it." Her voice strengthened, taking on the commanding tone that made soldiers straighten. "Let it be witnessed that Lord James and I are betrothed by mutual declaration and intent."
The cheer that went up from the assembled soldiers was immediate and thunderous. It rolled along the wall, picked up by guards at other posts, carried down into the fortress below. Someone started clapping, and others joined until the sound rivaled the earlier bombardment.
Vesmir appeared at Serko's shoulder, grinning. "About damn time," he said again.
Serko nodded with satisfaction. "Well handled. Both of you." He turned to address the soldiers. "Back to your posts! This fortress won't defend itself, and our general still needs you sharp for tomorrow!"
The crowd dispersed slowly, soldiers returning to their duties but with lighter steps, sharing grins and speculation. James caught fragments of conversation as they passed: "—always knew they—" "—about time she—" "—lucky man—"
When the immediate area had cleared, leaving just James and Bisera on the battlement with the falling darkness and the distant glow of enemy fires, she let out a long breath.
"That just happened," she said.
"It did."
"We're betrothed."
"We are."
"I'm going to marry you." She said it like she was testing the words, seeing how they felt. Then she smiled. "I'm going to marry you."
"If we survive."
"When we survive." She pulled him closer. "We're going to survive this, James. We're going to win. And then we're going to have the most elaborate wedding this empire has ever seen, just to make absolutely certain everyone knows it's real."
James kissed her again, softer this time. Sweet instead of desperate. A promise instead of a farewell.
"I love you," she murmured against his lips.
"I love you too."
They stood there as full darkness fell, as stars emerged in the clear winter sky, as the temperature dropped and their breath misted in the air. Two figures silhouetted against the night, stealing moments of peace before the storm. Betrothed. Committed. Together.
Whatever tomorrow brought, they would face it knowing that they had chosen each other. That they had claimed their happiness despite the war, despite the siege, despite everything that said it was impossible.
Sometimes, James thought as he held her close, love was the only defiance that mattered.
Part 5
The storm they'd been dreading had finally arrived three days later.
Dawn had barely broken when the Gillyrian bombardment began. Stone struck stone with impacts that traveled through the walls and into James's chest, each blow a reminder that Podem's ancient defenses had limits. The siphons came next, spitting their alchemical fire in arcs that painted the morning sky orange. Wherever the liquid flame touched, men died screaming.
James ran. Between the aid stations, between the wounded who kept appearing faster than he could treat them, between moments of pure chaos where survival became the only thought that mattered. His hands shook as he pressed bandages against wounds too terrible to name. Seraphina's supplies manifested when he needed them, but there was never enough. There would never be enough.
Above it all, Bisera's voice. Directing. Commanding. Holding together a defense that should have already broken. He caught glimpses of her through the smoke and chaos, sword in hand, moving with the terrible economy of someone who'd been born for this. She was magnificent. She was going to get herself killed.
The siege towers reached the walls mid-morning. Their drawbridges slammed down with percussion that James felt in his teeth, and Gillyrian elites poured onto the battlements. The fighting turned brutal. Close. Personal. James watched a young soldier he'd treated yesterday take a spear through the chest. Watched another man lose an arm and keep fighting. Watched courage and cowardice exist in the same heartbeat, the same person.
Then a horn sang out. Three clear notes cutting through the chaos.
From the eastern plains, where morning mist still clung to the ground, two hundred riders exploded into motion.
Saralta led them.
Even from the walls, James could see the corona of power surrounding her. Mana made visible, burning so bright it hurt to look at directly. This wasn't the woman who'd teased him about undergarments three days ago. This was something older. Something the steppes had birthed in blood and wind and endless sky.
The cavalry hit the Gillyrian flank like a hammer striking glass.
Saralta's world narrowed to pure sensation.
The thunder of hooves beneath her. The weight of her saber, perfectly balanced, singing as it cleared the sheath. The first Gillyrian who stepped into her path died before he could raise his shield. Her blade took him at the collarbone and didn't stop until it exited near his hip. The mana channeling through her arms made the strike feel effortless. Made her feel like she could carve through the world itself.
Behind her, her warriors followed. Good riders. Good fighters. Men and women who'd chosen to follow her into this because they believed in something. She couldn't think about how many of them would die today. Couldn't afford that luxury.
The Gillyrian lines buckled. Broke. Her cavalry carved through formations that had no answer for mounted warriors moving at this speed, hitting with this force. Blood sprayed. Men screamed. Her horse's hooves trampled the living and the dead without distinction.
Ahead, through the chaos, she could see the purple pavilion. Alexander's command post. The emperor himself, surrounded by his golden-armored Praetorians.
Close enough to touch. Close enough to end this.
Her body protested as she channeled more mana. Her bones sang with strain. Her muscles screamed. She ignored it all. Pain was just sensation. Death was just a possibility. Glory was the certainty she'd been chasing her entire life.
A champion in prayer-inscribed armor stepped into her path, war hammer raised. The weapon could crush stone. Saralta didn't slow. Their weapons met in a shower of sparks that left the champion reeling backward. In the heartbeat it took her horse to pass, she struck twice more. Deflection. Throat. The champion was falling before she'd fully cleared him.
Praetorians converged from multiple angles. She cut down two without conscious thought, her blade finding gaps in armor with the precision of decades of practice. A third lunged at her horse's flank. She kicked him with mana-enhanced force, felt ribs shatter under her heel, sent him flying.
Three more came at her from the right. She parried with a circular motion that caught two blades simultaneously, guided her horse into a tight turn with her knees alone, and opened the third man's throat as he stumbled into range. Efficient. Clinical. Terrible.
The command pavilion loomed closer. She could see Alexander now, his hand on his sword hilt. Beautiful, even now. Terrible, even now. The man who'd brought this war, who'd besieged her friends, who represented everything she'd been fighting against.
The man she was about to kill.
A unit of Praetorians formed a wall in her path. Saralta drove her horse straight at them. The front rank scattered or died. She swept her saber in a wide arc that left three men dying in her wake. The distance closed.
Almost there. Almost.
A Praetorian sergeant threw himself at her horse's forelegs in a desperate, suicidal attempt to bring her down. Brave man. Foolish man. Her mount leaped the obstacle cleanly.
But as the horse landed, something changed. The beast stumbled. The accumulated wounds, the exhaustion, the sheer impossible demands she'd placed on it finally claimed their price. She felt the animal's legs buckle beneath her.
Saralta kicked free of the stirrups and rolled. Came up running. Her legs burned. Her lungs screamed. The world had narrowed to a tunnel with Alexander at the end.
Twenty yards. Just twenty yards.
He drew his sword. Didn't run. Didn't hide. Stood ready to meet her. Despite everything, she felt a spike of respect. This emperor would at least die well.
She gathered every scrap of mana left in her body. Her bones protested. Her muscles trembled. One strike. That's all she needed. One perfect strike, and the siege would break. The war would shift. Everything would change.
Ten yards.
She could see his eyes now. Dark. Intelligent. Sad, somehow.
Five yards.
The ground vanished beneath her feet.
Not metaphorically. Literally. Canvas and carefully arranged dirt gave way to reveal a concealed trench. Saralta had one instant to understand what was happening, to try to twist mid-stride, but momentum is physics and physics doesn't care about mana or glory or desperation.
She fell.
Landed hard on something that cushioned the impact but immediately began to wrap around her. Heavy chains, not rope. The kind used to restrain bears or bulls. The weight was crushing. She struggled, channeling mana into her muscles, trying to tear free.
More chains descended from above. Soldiers grabbed the edges of the trap and rolled her, adding layer upon layer of restraint with each revolution. She fought with everything she had. Managed to tear through one layer before three more covered her.
Too many chains. Too much weight. Too many hands.
Then Igor was there, the massive Praetorian commander moving with surprising speed. He flipped her over and sat on her back in one fluid motion. Other soldiers piled on, restraining her legs, her arms, adding their weight to the growing mountain of metal and flesh pinning her down.
Above her, framed against the morning sky, Alexander looked down.
His expression was complicated. Triumph, yes. But also something else. Regret? Respect? She couldn't tell. Didn't care.
She spat at him. Managed to hit his boot. A small, futile gesture of defiance.
Alexander laughed. Actually laughed. "You are brave, Princess Saralta. Perhaps the bravest I've faced." His voice carried despite the chaos around them. "But bravery isn't always enough."
"Bind her well," he commanded his men. "No harm comes to her. This one is worth more as a prisoner than a corpse."
As they dragged her away, chains rattling, Saralta had one last coherent thought before exhaustion and pain claimed her:
I came so close.
So close to glory. So close to ending it. So close to everything she'd been riding toward her entire life.
Close enough to taste it.
Not close enough to touch.