A soft knock came at the chamber's grand double doors just as the dawn light strengthened. John – now Emperor Arslan Rûmî, he reminded himself, though the name still felt alien – turned away from the mirror's reflection and faced the door. He schooled his features into what he hoped was a composed, regal mask. In truth, confusion still churned inside him, but he knew enough to hide weakness.
"Enter," he called out, praying his voice sounded normal. The word left his lips in a low, resonant tone. It was a stranger's voice to his ears – richer, with a slight accent he couldn't place. But it hadn't trembled, and that was what mattered.
The doors swung inward without a sound, perfectly balanced on oiled hinges. A trio of figures approached, heads bowed. Leading them was a man of indeterminate age with a smooth, clean-shaven face and narrow eyes that flicked up briefly in deference. He was clad in flowing robes of deep blue and wore a delicate gold circlet. John instantly noted the subtle cues – the man's deliberate, graceful movements and the slightly high timbre of his voice when he spoke.
"Good morning, Your Imperial Majesty," intoned the robed man, bowing low with hands pressed together. "I trust you slept well. We did not wish to disturb you earlier, given the… celebrations last night."
His accent was lilting, each word enunciated with care. John caught a slight emphasis on "celebrations," and the briefest hesitation before he said it. Last night. His mind raced. What happened last night? He had nothing to draw on – Arslan's memories were a void. But at least he had confirmation that some event had taken place. Perhaps the conquest of the city had been formally feted.
Behind the robed man stood two younger attendants – a boy and a girl in matching white tunics embroidered with silver script. Their eyes were lowered respectfully, but John could see curiosity in their furtive glances. They carried a large polished tray laden with a breakfast spread: flatbreads, fruits, and a steaming clay pot likely filled with spiced tea or coffee, judging by the rich aroma that reached his nose.
John realized an awkward silence was stretching. He had been too quiet. Quickly he dipped his chin in what he hoped was a kindly, if reserved, nod. "I… slept very well," he lied smoothly. It wasn't entirely false; he felt physically rested if mentally stunned. "You did right not to wake me."
The robed man – a eunuch, John was now almost certain from the voice and absence of facial hair – gave a pleased smile. "Your Majesty's health is our utmost concern." He clapped his hands softly and the two servants glided forward, setting the breakfast tray on a low ebony table near the balcony.
John took the opportunity to step away from the mirror and nearer to the table, moving carefully, measuring each gesture. He must project confidence and familiarity with this environment, even as he noted every detail like a scout behind enemy lines. The aroma of the spiced beverage was strong; it reminded him fleetingly of cardamom and cinnamon, scents from distant memories of markets in far-off deployments. The fact such spices existed here was oddly comforting – a small commonality between worlds.
The eunuch watched him with a polite, expectant expression. John realized he was waiting for some indication to proceed. Perhaps Arslan had a morning routine known to them. Without missing a beat, John lowered himself onto one of the large cushions by the table, gesturing subtly for the attendants to pour the drink. He hoped taking initiative would mask any missteps.
At once, the girl stepped forward and deftly filled a delicate porcelain cup for him, then another. The boy presented a platter of cut fruits – figs, dates, and something that resembled a peach with vibrant purple flesh. John picked up the cup, inhaling the steam. It was tea, heavily spiced and sweetened. He took a cautious sip and felt warmth and energy spread through him – perhaps enhanced by magic, as everything else here seemed to be touched by the arcane.
He maintained a neutral expression, though inwardly he marveled. It was delicious and invigorating. Setting the cup down, John allowed his gaze to sweep over the eunuch and the attendants, who stood quietly awaiting further commands. This must be part of Arslan's household staff. They likely knew him well – or thought they did. Any odd behavior could arouse suspicion.
The eunuch cleared his throat gently. "If Your Majesty pleases, shall I have the royal attendants draw a bath and prepare your raiment for the day? The morning court is scheduled at the second hour after sunrise. There is also the matter of the petitioners from the city…"
He trailed off tactfully, eyes on the floor at John's feet. John's mind caught on the mention of "morning court" and "petitioners from the city." That sounded like official duties. Facing a gathering of courtiers or petitioners so soon felt daunting – he hardly knew who or what awaited him. But it also might offer valuable information.
He needed more time to gather himself and learn. An idea struck: if Arslan was emperor, perhaps he had the privilege to delay or cancel appearances. But that might be out of character; he had no idea. Alternatively, he could keep the engagements short and observational.
John remembered the eunuch had asked about a bath and clothing. First things first. Maintaining the facade, he gave a slight wave of his hand as he'd seen a commander do when granting leave. "Yes. That sounds fine."
"Very good, sire." The eunuch bowed again, seeming to relax at the routine response. He murmured to the younger attendants. The boy darted off through a side door John hadn't noticed, presumably to summon bath servants. The girl began clearing away the breakfast things once John had eaten a piece of fruit, moving efficiently and silently.
As John chewed the unfamiliar but sweet fruit, he observed the eunuch from the corner of his eye. The man oversaw everything with practiced ease. Clearly a chief attendant of some sort – perhaps the head eunuch managing the Emperor's personal quarters. John recalled from history lessons and his own readings how imperial courts often had such figures wielding quiet power behind the throne. This one had a benign air so far.
Within minutes, more servants arrived – older women and a couple of slender men – carrying buckets of steaming water which they poured into a marble tub sunken in an alcove beyond a carved screen. Through the open door, John glimpsed a lavish bathing chamber with mosaic tiles depicting phoenixes and lions amid flames – likely symbols of whatever dynasty or personal emblem Arslan bore.
John stood, intending to walk to the bath on his own, but the eunuch quickly motioned and two servants moved to assist in disrobing him. John fought the instinct to recoil at strangers' hands. He was used to dressing himself, and the last people to take off his clothes had been field medics cutting away combat uniforms. Now, a middle-aged maid with gentle hands was sliding the embroidered crimson robe from his shoulders as another attendant gathered his long hair back with a ribbon to keep it dry.
He allowed it, reminding himself that this must be normal here, and to refuse might seem odd. Still, the sensation was surreal – being waited on like a king (because he was one, he had to constantly remind himself). He felt exposed, not just physically as they peeled away the robe and loosened his silk trousers, but vulnerable in this role he was playing.
As they guided him to the bath, John mentally catalogued the layout of the chambers. The alcove with the bath was to the east side, screened by carved wood panels that nonetheless allowed him to see silhouettes of those moving beyond. One main door to the hall, one side door servants used – likely connecting to servant corridors. He hadn't spotted other exits yet, but suspected there was at least one more, perhaps to a private study or bedroom for concubines or guards.
The bath water was scented with oils – he could detect sandalwood and rose. When he sank into the tub, the almost-too-hot water sent a pleasant jolt through him. He bit back a sigh of relief; it had been ages since he'd had a real hot bath, as opposed to quick showers in military barracks or even cold streams on deployments.
While attendants busied themselves washing his arms and back with soft sponges and strange pearlescent soaps, John let his gaze wander. Decorative columns flanked the bath, etched with more of those glowing runes, forming patterns that he realized were subtly shifting, like a slow circling flow of light under the surface of the stone. So even here in the bath chamber, magic ran through the architecture, likely heating the water or maintaining temperature, perhaps even refreshing the water from some source.
Rune-Enscriptive Energetics, he mused, recalling the term that had surfaced in his mind as he observed the runes. If that was the name of this magic system, he needed to understand it intimately.
Two maids standing by the door were quietly gossiping in low voices, likely assuming the splashing water would mask their words. His heightened senses, or maybe just acute focus, caught pieces of their conversation.
"…never seen His Majesty so quiet," one murmured.
"Exhaustion, no doubt," replied the other softly. "After the battle chants and all that sorcery at the gates… I'm surprised he can even stand this morning."
John filed that information away. Sorcery at the gates? Battle chants? Perhaps Arslan – or his forces – used some magic in taking the city. Did Arslan himself wield power? The mention of sorcery could imply he had battle-mages or magical weapons. At least he now understood why the eunuch had been concerned about waking him.
As the maids fell silent, John pretended to rest his head back, closing his eyes as if enjoying the bath. Truthfully, it gave him a moment to concentrate. He flexed his arms under the water. This body was strong, more muscular than his original. If it had been through combat yesterday, it showed no wounds or even soreness that he could detect – possibly healed overnight by magical means or simply resilient.
When the bath was done, John stood, water cascading off his broad form. Attendants rushed forth with plush towels, drying him with practiced efficiency. He caught his reflection again in a silver mirror on the wall – droplets clung to the curved muscles of his arms and chest, and the scars looked stark against his skin. One long scar along his ribs looked especially nasty, perhaps a blade wound from some past skirmish. He wondered idly how Arslan had earned it, but no memories came.
Back in the bedchamber, a fresh set of clothes had been laid out: an under-robe of fine white linen and over it a sleeveless coat of midnight blue silk embroidered with golden thread in swirling patterns that looked like stylized flames or maybe flowing script – perhaps both. It was a garment befitting an emperor, ornate yet with a warrior's cut. Alongside it on a stand was a wide leather belt with a curved scabbard attached.
John's eyes were drawn to the weapon. The scabbard was lacquered wood, trimmed in gold, and the hilt of the sword protruding from it was wrapped in dark ray-skin and capped with a pommel shaped like a snarling lion's head. He felt a thrum in the air as he stepped near it – a faint vibration that raised the hairs on his arm. The sword fairly glowed with significance. Could this be Arslan's sword? Perhaps a legendary blade taken as a trophy or one handed down through his lineage. Either way, runes were visible along the scabbard's length and likely on the blade itself, radiating a subtle power that John could almost feel humming.
"Shall I assist with your sword, Your Majesty?" the chief eunuch asked, noticing where John's attention had drifted. His tone remained carefully neutral, but John thought he detected a note of pride in the eunuch's voice, as if the sword were a symbol of great import.
John hesitated a mere heartbeat. Though he had often carried weapons, this sword seemed almost alive with energy, and he yearned to examine it more closely. But he nodded and allowed the eunuch to lift the belt. The eunuch fastened it around John's waist over the outer coat. It was surprisingly heavy and reassuringly solid at John's hip.
Dressed and armed, John felt more himself than he had since awakening – albeit himself dressed for a historical epic. The weight of the sword was a comfort, an anchor. He rested a hand on the lion pommel lightly. It fit well in his palm, as if made for his grip.
The eunuch stepped back and clapped once. Immediately, a pair of tall double doors on the opposite side of the room—doors John had presumed led to a hallway—opened. Two armored guards snapped to attention just outside, their breastplates shining and helmets adorned with plumage. They each bore a long spear etched with swirling patterns of their own. At their belts hung side swords. Their eyes were forward, posture stiff with discipline.
John noted how their gaze flickered toward him only in the briefest acknowledgment. They seemed young, probably elite troops assigned as his personal guard. He could smell oil and metal from their gear, see the alertness in their stances. Special Forces training in him quietly assessed reaction times, lines of sight, possible weak points—instinctive analysis of any armed presence. Satisfied enough for now that they posed no threat to him—and would likely protect him with their lives—John let out a slow breath.
"Your Majesty," the eunuch said softly, "the court awaits at your pleasure. If I may be so bold, many will be relieved to see you in good health this morning."
John turned to the eunuch, fixing what he hoped was a confident, inscrutable expression on his face. The morning sun now streamed fully through the balcony doors, illuminating the opulent chamber and the people within it. He realized this was the moment he had to step out and truly play the emperor before an audience of courtiers and petitioners.
He gave a single, firm nod. "Then let us not keep them waiting." His voice sounded steady, even commanding, in his ears.
Inside, his thoughts churned: I will listen, observe, and say little. With any luck, he could glean more about this world and his role within it from the proceedings, all while maintaining the facade of Arslan Rûmî, the newly crowned conqueror of the City of Light.
And so, flanked by the solemn guards and guided by the watchful chief eunuch, John stepped forward through the doors, leaving the sanctuary of the bedchamber. Whatever lay beyond in the halls of court, he was determined to face it with the same courage that had driven him into the path of a speeding truck – only this time, he would survive the collision and learn to master this new world.