John stepped into a grand hall that nearly stole his breath. Towering columns of white marble lined the walls, each carved with intertwining motifs of sunbursts and stars. High above, a great dome of stained glass blazed with the morning light, its colors cascading over the hall in patterns of gold, azure, and blood-red. Scenes were set in that glass – John glimpsed stylized figures of heroes and mages, and at the apex a radiant sun flanked by two moons. Perhaps it was the emblem of the conquered City of Light, now illuminated by the rising sun that symbolized Arslan's new reign. The floors beneath were polished marble, inlaid with an elaborate mosaic at the center depicting what looked like the city itself encircled by runic sigils. Rich tapestries in crimson and indigo hung along the walls between columns, each embroidered with motifs of lions and stars – likely the banners of Arslan's own dynasty now claiming this palace.
At the far end of the hall, on a dais of polished onyx, stood the Imperial Throne. It was an imposing seat wrought from brass or gold, fashioned in the likeness of two great wings curling up to form the backrest. The throne caught the rainbow hues filtering through the dome and shimmered as if alight. John's stomach tightened at the sight – it was where he was expected to sit, to dispense judgment and command as emperor.
As he moved forward with measured steps, flanked by his two guards, John kept his face stern and unreadable. Yet his eyes darted discreetly, cataloguing the scene. The hall was already populated: along the sides, rows of courtiers, military officers, and robed functionaries bowed as he passed. A mix of emotions played across the sea of faces – awe, fear, curiosity, resentment. The aftershock of conquest was evident. Some courtiers wore rich local attire of the City of Light – long embroidered coats and veils – likely nobles or officials of the former regime now come to pay homage (or feign it). Others were clearly Arslan's own people, their style distinct: armored officers with the lion emblem etched on their breastplates, advisors in the deep green robes that perhaps marked the imperial administration. John even spotted a cluster of men in rougher dress with tool belts – could they be engineers or craftsmen summoned here?
He ascended the dais steps, every footfall echoing in the hush. Standing beside the throne was a tall man with a hawk-like face and a neatly trimmed gray beard. He wore a fur-lined cape despite the warmth of the hall and rested one hand on the pommel of a slender sword. A general, by the martial posture and the scars crisscrossing his left cheek. His eyes appraised John keenly as he approached, and he gave a curt bow of respect.
"Your Imperial Majesty," the general greeted in a voice rough as gravel, "we are blessed to see you this morning. The court awaits your words." He stepped back, allowing John to take his place.
John inclined his head to the man – likely one of Arslan's top commanders. The general's stance was relaxed but his gaze was sharp; clearly a man used to speaking his mind, perhaps even to the emperor. John filed that away for later, then turned and lowered himself onto the throne.
The seat was surprisingly comfortable – padded with cushions – but John felt a jolt as he sat, as if the air itself crackled with energy. Up close, he saw that the onyx dais itself had fine lines of silver and brass inlaid in geometric patterns beneath his feet. Those lines glowed faintly, connecting from the throne's base outward across the floor in whorls and straight paths – a network of runes and conduits. The throne wasn't just a chair; it felt like sitting at the heart of a circuit. Is this part of the ley-grid? he wondered, heart quickening. Maybe the throne tapped into the city's magic somehow, symbolically or literally linking the ruler to the land. If so, he sensed no immediate effect except a slight tingling in his fingers.
To the gathered court, he hoped his momentary surprise was not evident. He straightened, resting one hand on the lion pommel of his sword and letting his gaze travel impassively over the assemblage. A hush fell fully as all waited.
The chief eunuch had positioned himself to one side of the dais, ready to prompt or assist as needed. It was he who gently signaled a herald. The herald, an elderly man with a scroll, stepped forward and cleared his throat. In a loud, clear voice he proclaimed, "This morning's court is now in session before His Imperial Majesty, Arslan Rûmî, Conqueror of the City of Light, Emperor of the Seven Realms." His words echoed, and every head bent lower in deference.
Seven Realms? John kept his expression neutral, but that was a valuable nugget of information – the empire apparently spanned seven realms. He didn't know their names or conditions, but it suggested Arslan's conquests were vast and likely unfinished.
The herald continued, "Let all who speak do so with respect and humility. May the light of heaven and the wisdom of our great Emperor guide us to prosperity."
With that formal opening, the proceedings began. John braced himself, fingers flexing subtly on the armrest. He would have to navigate whatever came with minimal knowledge. Listen first. Speak little, he reminded himself.
The first petitioner was brought forward by two guards. A middle-aged man with fine silk robes and a gaunt face knelt at the foot of the dais. His hands trembled as he lifted a wooden box above his head in supplication.
"Rise and speak," John said quietly. The herald repeated it in a louder voice for all to hear, perhaps a customary ritual.
The man stood, though he kept his eyes downcast. "Mercy, O Great Lion of the West," he began, voice quavering. "I am Hassim al-Kerim, once a servant of the treasury of this city. I come bearing tribute on behalf of the remaining council of the City of Light." He gestured and a servant boy brought the box closer, opening it to reveal rows of glittering gems and gold coins. "This is but a token of our loyalty. We beg Your Majesty to accept and to be merciful with the citizens… in these uncertain times."
John's jaw tightened. The man's fear was palpable – he likely worried about retribution for any resistance during the conquest. John felt a pang of discomfort; he had no desire to inflict cruelty on a civilian population. But what would Arslan's typical response be? Likely, a show of sternness to cement authority, tempered by just enough clemency to keep the city functional.
He recalled historical parallels from Earth – conquerors who either sacked cities to terrorize others, or spared them to win loyalty. Not knowing Arslan's reputation in full was a handicap. He had to improvise.
John leaned forward slightly. "Treasurer Hassim," he said, the title a guess but a calculated one, "your tribute is accepted." His voice came out firm, carrying across the hall. A soft collective exhale from the court suggested relief. John continued, "The City of Light is now under my protection. Its people shall be treated fairly, so long as they abide by imperial law and keep the peace."
That sounded appropriately imperial, he hoped – neither too harsh nor too lenient. To emphasize, he added a gesture of his hand. "See that food stores are opened to the common folk and that trade resumes swiftly. An impoverished city serves no one's interests."
He knew well from experience that a population with full bellies and hope was far less likely to revolt. Winning hearts after battle could secure a peace that force alone never would.
As the man bowed repeatedly in gratitude, John noticed a few of Arslan's officers exchange surprised glances. Perhaps the real Arslan might not have spoken of fairness or feeding the common folk. To cover this deviation, John allowed a thin smile, but one edged with a hint of warning. "Let it not be said Emperor Arslan cannot show mercy. But remember – any who disturb the peace will answer to me."
The mix of reassurance and veiled threat seemed to satisfy both sides. The petitioner and his entourage of nervous former officials effusively thanked him and backed away, guided by guards.
Next came a delegation of what looked like artisans – the men in work tunics John had spotted. They carried rolled scrolls and looked more angry than scared. One, an older man with ash smudges on his sleeves and a complex set of goggles perched on his cap, spoke for them. He bowed, a bit stiffly, perhaps unused to court formalities.
"Your Majesty," the man began, voice resonant and surprisingly bold, "I speak for the Guild of Illuminators and Engineers of the City of Light. We beseech your attention to a grave matter. During the siege, one of your… one of our –" he corrected awkwardly, "—battlemages unleashed a shockwave that damaged the Grand Ley Nexus beneath the central plaza. Since then, half our glow-stones have gone dark and the aqueduct's flow is intermittent. If not repaired, the city will face nightly blackness and water shortages."
As he spoke, a murmur ran through the hall. John caught the general with the scar raising an eyebrow, while another official, a fatter man in embroidered robes, scowled deeply at the guildsmen.
The petition intrigued John immensely. Glow-stones – likely those glowing orbs he had seen – and a Grand Ley Nexus, which sounded like a key component of the magical infrastructure. This was exactly the kind of information he craved.
He kept his voice measured. "Go on."
The engineer bowed his head. "We humbly request imperial support to acquire the necessary rune-smiths and materials to restore the ley-grid. The previous ruler had a dedicated cadre for such civic magic, but many fled or were... lost. We fear without aid, the City of Light will truly become a City of Darkness at night, and disease could spread if water supply falters."
Before John could respond, the fat official in robes cut in sharply, breaking protocol by speaking out of turn. "Your Majesty, if I may." He gave a shallow bow and sneered at the guild petitioners. "These people exaggerate. The city's defenses and grid faltered because of their incompetence. If the glow-stones are dark, they should light torches like in any ordinary city. We have more pressing concerns, such as establishing Your Majesty's law and order. Resources are better spent on the garrison and—"
John raised a hand, silencing the man mid-sentence. The interruption and obvious disdain annoyed him. He could guess the type – a sycophant from his own retinue, maybe more interested in stripping the city's wealth than helping its recovery. Arslan's reputation as a conqueror might lean towards extraction of resources, but John's instincts, both as a leader of soldiers and a man with modern sensibilities, rebelled at ignoring critical infrastructure.
He addressed the guild spokesman. "Master engineer, what is your name?"
The grizzled man blinked in surprise at being addressed directly. "Ah, Zafir, Your Majesty. Head of the Illuminators' Guild."
"Master Zafir," John said, adopting a formal yet respectful tone, "how long to repair this Grand Ley Nexus if you have what you need?"
Encouraged, the engineer answered, "We could stabilize the nexus within a week and have the glow-stones fully functional in two, if we can procure the keystones and if a royal enscriptor or sorcerer is assigned to assist. As for the aqueduct pump runes, those can be recalibrated in a few days with the proper sigils."
John nodded slowly. A week to restore light and water – crucial for the populace's goodwill and health. He felt this was not only humane but tactically sound. A content city would be less prone to rebellion. And selfishly, he wanted that nexus fixed so he could study it.
He cast a cool glance at the interrupting official. "The well-being of the city is establishing law and order," he said pointedly. "Dark streets and thirst breed chaos, do they not?" The fat man paled and bowed his head.
John turned back to Zafir. "You shall have what you need. Coordinate with my Master of Works." He paused, realizing he wasn't sure who that was. He glanced to the side where a cluster of his advisors stood. The eunuch subtly tilted his head toward a thin man with ink-stained fingers among them. Perhaps that was the one. John added smoothly, "Master Aru here will ensure you are provided resources and a sorcerer from the imperial cadre to assist."
The thin man started, then bowed, shooting a glare at Zafir that suggested he wasn't thrilled with the task. But he complied: "At once, Your Majesty."
Zafir and the guild members all bowed deeply, some with relieved smiles. "Thank you, Emperor," Zafir said earnestly. "The Light bless you for your wisdom."
The audience continued for another hour. John handled it by minimal speaking and careful listening. A few more petitioners came and went – a group of farmers from outside the city pleading not to be taxed too harshly this season, a captain of Arslan's army reporting the need for more barracks space for the occupying troops, and a noblewoman of the city asking for confirmation that her family's estates would not be seized outright.
With each, John measured his responses, aiming to appear as a firm but not capricious ruler. He granted the farmers a temporary reduction in grain levy (earning grateful prostrations), told the captain to requisition an unused caravanserai for quarters (which pleased the soldiers present), and assured the noblewoman that loyal subjects would keep their lands – a statement that visibly relieved several local nobles present.
The general with the scar watched John throughout with a slight furrow in his brow, as if reassessing the man he served. John wondered if he was overdoing the benevolence. Arslan's persona might have been harsher. Yet the general made no open objection, and none dared question the emperor's orders in public.
At last, sensing that both his own patience and Arslan's would be wearing thin, John raised a hand to signal the end of the session. "That is enough for today," he declared. He stood from the throne, and everyone fell to bowing again. "We will resume on the morrow if needed. Go forth and do your duties. My thanks for your presents and petitions."
It might have been an unusual note for an emperor to thank his subjects for their petitions – typically it was a one-way street – but John let it stand. He was already striding down the dais steps before anyone could parse it.
The court crier proclaimed the session concluded. The tension in the hall ebbed as conversation bubbled up and people began filing out under the watchful eyes of guards.
John's two guards and the eunuch closed in around him as he left the throne's foot. The general with the scar quickly approached, falling in step. "Your Majesty, a word?"
John glanced at him and gave a slight nod, bracing internally. He expected either a critique or some pressing matter.
The general lowered his voice as they walked toward a side passage out of the hall. "I wished to report that the remaining pockets of resistance in the lower city were dealt with last night. Also," he hesitated, "I noticed Your Majesty took particular interest in the arcane infrastructure." A faint question laced his tone.
John kept his reply nonchalant. "An emperor must know his new city, General. Its strengths and vulnerabilities. The ley lines and wards here are part of that."
The older man considered, then nodded approvingly. "Just so, sire. This city is famed for its marvels. Truth told, some of us were uncertain how much stock you put in such… scholarly matters, given your focus on the campaign. It is reassuring to see you ensuring these matters are handled."
So, Arslan had not been especially known for interest in scholarly or magical infrastructure. John's subtle change had been noted but the general seemed to interpret it favorably as thoroughness. John offered a neutral "Mm."
They reached a more secluded corridor, where servants bowed and scurried out of the way. The general stopped. "One more thing, if I may. The men are anxious to know our next course. The campaign has been long – some expected you to march further east after taking the city. Others think we should fortify here for a time. I, of course, will follow whatever command Your Majesty decrees."
Ah, the strategic question. John inwardly sighed – he had no knowledge of the larger war plan or the state of the army. March further east against whom? Fortify against what threat? He needed to tread carefully, not committing to any offensive before he understood the situation.
He clasped the general's shoulder in a comradely fashion, an unexpected gesture that caused the man's eyes to widen a fraction. John realized such familiarity might be unusual from Arslan to a subordinate, but it fit John's own leadership style – he often treated his sergeants more like partners than pawns.
"We'll let the men rest for now," John said firmly. "There will be time enough to speak of new campaigns. Our priority is securing the City of Light and learning its secrets." He allowed himself a thin smile. "After all, we fought hard to claim this prize. Let's enjoy it a while and ensure it's fully in hand."
The general's surprise melted into a low chuckle. He gave a small salute, fist to heart. "As you command. I'll see to it the troops are rotated to rest, and patrols keep the peace." He paused, then added, "And, Your Majesty – well spoken in there. The balance of mercy and authority… it was inspiring."
John inclined his head, concealing his relief at the approval. "Thank you, General…?"
"Safid," the man supplied.
"General Safid." John committed the name to memory. "Your service is appreciated. We will speak again soon."
Safid departed with a respectful bow. The chief eunuch, who had silently remained a few steps behind during this exchange, now moved closer.
"If it pleases Your Majesty, the midday meal can be served in your private quarters, or perhaps in the garden if you wish some fresh air. You've had a full morning."
John realized he was, in fact, mentally exhausted from the performance and the information overload. A break to eat and quietly think sounded excellent. "The garden," he said after a moment. Fresh air and perhaps a moment alone, if he could get it, would help clear his head.
The eunuch nodded and clapped his hands. Servants materialized seemingly from the shadows to prepare accordingly. As they escorted him through the palace corridors toward an inner garden, John allowed himself a small exhale.
So far, he had survived his first court session and even made some positive moves. But many challenges lay ahead. He had learned fragments about this world and his new role: that magic ran through the city's bones, that Arslan's empire was expansive and warlike, and that now everyone looked to him for decisions great and small.
A less disciplined man might have collapsed under the weight of it. But John's resolve only hardened. He would absorb everything – knowledge, culture, magic – piece by piece, until he truly understood the game he was playing. Only then could he find a way to thrive here, and perhaps one day discover how and why he had been brought to this place.
For now, he would seize any opportunity, no matter how gentle the moment – a meal in a tranquil garden, for instance – to gather himself and plan his next moves in the City of Light.