The first hints of dawn were streaking the sky pink and pale gold as John and his party approached the City of Light's walls. Birds were chirping awake in the hedgerows along the road. Despite the cool early air, John felt sweat drying on his skin under his armor and a deep fatigue starting to gnaw at his limbs. The exhilaration of battle was ebbing, replaced by sheer exhaustion and a throbbing collection of bruises.
They rode in quietly through a side postern gate opened by Safid's trusted guards. The city beyond was just stirring – bakers lighting ovens, a few laborers with carts heading to market – none paying mind to a small column of riders entering under cloak of dawn.
John kept his visor down, speaking little. At the center of their formation, two of Safid's men half-led, half-dragged the hooded cult leader, who was bound and slung over a horse. Just behind them, another pair carefully escorted the young man they'd rescued – the rumored "lost prince." He had regained consciousness during the ride and now sat in front of one of John's soldiers on horseback, hands tied but otherwise unharmed. His eyes darted about warily above the gag in his mouth, taking in the city he had presumably not seen in years.
As they passed through the sleepy streets toward the palace's side entrance, John guided his mount alongside the youth. The prince – if indeed that's who he was – noticed and stared at John's armored form with a mixture of apprehension and defiance.
John raised a hand slightly, signaling the soldier to halt. He leaned toward the captive and spoke softly so only he could hear. "Easy. You're safe from them now. We won't harm you." He wasn't sure if that was true long-term, but at least under his watch it was.
The young man's blue eyes widened in surprise at the gentle tone. He mumbled something against the gag.
John nodded to the soldier, who pulled the gag free but kept a firm hold on the lad.
The young man wet his lips, grimacing. "Who… who are you?" he whispered hoarsely. His accent held the cultured lilt of the old aristocracy.
John hesitated, visor still down. "A friend, perhaps. The usurper, perhaps. Time will tell." He realized the paradox – he was both the one who stole this boy's birthright by ruling in Arslan's body, and also the one who just saved his life.
The youth looked confused. Up close, John gauged him to be about eighteen. Hardly a child – almost a grown man, yet with a certain softness suggesting he hadn't lived rough. Probably hidden in cloisters or foreign courts rather than battlefields.
Before John could say more, Safid trotted up. "We should not tarry, Majesty. The palace awaits."
John agreed and motioned to replace the gag. The young man didn't resist, but John caught a searching, conflicted gaze from him as the cloth was tied back. He couldn't decipher it – gratitude or hatred, or both.
They entered the palace grounds through a concealed stable gate. Servants loyal to Rashid were already present to take the horses and usher the group to a secluded wing of the palace dungeons, away from prying eyes.
Rashid himself hurried down a torch-lit corridor, wringing his hands until he saw John step inside, helmet in hand. The eunuch let out an audible sigh of relief. "Thank the Light… you're back safely." His eyes swept over John's battered armor, noting scuffs and a smear of dried blood on the breastplate. "Are you injured, sire?"
John removed his gauntlets, flexing sore fingers. "Nothing serious. Others fared worse than I." He glanced over as two soldiers hauled the cult leader to a cell. She glared murder at everyone, the moon tattoo on her brow crinkling as she scowled.
Rashid followed his gaze. "That must be…?"
"The head of the snake," Safid confirmed. "We'll need to question her at length."
A low growl came from the cell as the woman strained against her bonds. One of Safid's men slammed the iron door shut, cutting off her curses. "Witches," he muttered under his breath.
John removed his helmet fully, running a hand through damp hair. "Secure her with the best wards and guards. We'll let her stew a bit before interrogation. She's a fanatic – I doubt threats alone will work, but perhaps Salim has mind-reading tricks."
"We'll see to it, Majesty," Safid said. He then motioned to the young prisoner, who was being gently seated on a bench by the guards. "And what of that one?"
Rashid's eyes went wide as he truly noticed the young man for the first time. In the better light, there was no mistaking the resemblance – the lad had the same high cheekbones and aquiline nose depicted in portraits of the last king. Rashid's mouth opened in astonishment. "By the saints… The lost prince…"
The prince in question stiffened at the recognition, looking both proud and afraid.
John raised a hand. "For now, he's just another prisoner. We won't announce anything." He fixed Rashid and Safid with a firm stare. "Only we who are present know of this. That knowledge must not leave this hall."
Safid bowed his head. "Understood, Majesty."
Rashid swallowed and mirrored the bow, though his face still betrayed awe. "Of course, sire. My lips are sealed."
John stepped toward the youth. The boy straightened his back, meeting John's gaze with a measure of courage.
"How should I address you?" John asked quietly. "Do you have a name you prefer?"
The young man hesitated, perhaps surprised to be asked politely. "I… My name is Darius," he offered finally, voice hoarse.
John crouched slightly to be eye level. "Darius. I'm told you are of the old royal line."
Darius lifted his chin. "My father was King Cyrus XII." There was both pride and sadness in how he said it.
Rashid's lips parted – that name confirmed it; the last king of the old dynasty. Safid's expression hardened slightly, perhaps remembering the war against Cyrus. John held up a hand to forestall any outburst.
He nodded slowly. "If that's true, then fate has been cruel to you, Darius. And the cult that spirited you away and tried to use you… well, they're finished."
Darius looked between them. "You… you are Arslan Rûmî?" he asked John uncertainly. Perhaps he had gleaned it from context.
"I am," John answered. He felt a strange dissonance in confirming it – him, John Sullivan, claiming that name to the rightful heir of the prior rulers. This moment could have been charged with hatred or bitterness. But Darius's eyes instead showed mostly confusion and wary respect. Perhaps saving someone's life, even a rival, buys some goodwill.
Darius glanced at the cell holding the cult leader. "They told me you would kill me if I were ever found."
Safid grunted, "Many would have."
John shot the general a cautioning look, then addressed Darius evenly, "I'm not in the habit of killing prisoners, especially not young men who've done me no personal wrong." He placed a hand on Darius's shoulder. The boy flinched, then steadied.
"You will be kept safe and treated well," John continued. "But you must remain under guard for now. I can't have you running off or rallying any remaining supporters to rebellion. Do you understand?"
Darius searched John's face. "You spare me… only to hold me hostage."
John appreciated the straightforwardness. "Call it protective custody. Until we figure out a more permanent solution."
Darius blinked, focusing on John's armor rather than his eyes. Then he gave a slight, resigned nod. "I won't be foolish."
For now, John believed him. The boy had nowhere to go; his cult protectors were gone, and any allies in the city would be in hiding or unaware. Perhaps he sensed that his best chance at life was strange mercy from the man he'd been taught to view as a usurper.
"If only those cult fanatics saw it that way," John said wryly.
Darius grimaced. "They… filled my head with grand ideas since childhood. But seeing them willing to cut my throat for their ritual opened my eyes. I was a means to their end, nothing more."
A silence fell. John broke it gently. "What would you want for your future, if you could choose freely? I ask not as your captor, but sincerely."
Darius blinked, clearly not expecting the question. He thought a moment. "I'd want a life that's mine. Not as a pawn, nor a pretender. Perhaps to travel, see the world beyond courts and hideaways. To learn a craft or scholarship." He glanced to the book pile that a guard had removed from his pack. "I find I quite enjoy reading and philosophy. In another life, I might have been a simple scholar."
John smiled. The answer pleased him. It meant Darius had no burning ambition for the throne – likely because he never truly held power, only dreamed of survival.
"I cannot release you outright yet," John said, candor in his tone. "But I intend no harm. In time, maybe we can find a suitable role or place for you, discreetly. If you prove loyal to the realm as it stands, there could be a path to a normal life."
Darius exhaled as if he'd been holding breath. "That is more than fair. Thank you, Em—" he caught himself, "…thank you."
John stood to leave, satisfied that the young man would not be a danger under watch. At the door, he paused. "One more thing. Your name, Darius – keep using it here. But if ever you leave these walls, you might consider an alias for your own safety."
Darius managed a rueful smirk. "Perhaps I'll take up 'Karim'. Seems to be a name of fortune in your guard."
John laughed quietly – it was a clever reference for one who'd overheard the alias John used the night of his rescue.
"Rest well, Darius," he said, and meant it. They were unlikely friends, but maybe allies in forging a peaceful way forward regarding the old royal blood.
Late that night, John finally allowed himself to truly rest. After a long bath to wash away the grime of battle, he sank into his bed. Muscles aching, mind eased by victory, he drifted into the deepest, dreamless sleep he'd had since coming to this world.
He awoke past mid-morning the next day to find sunlight streaming in and Rashid waiting with a tray of breakfast and reports. Word of the midnight raid had been kept tightly under wraps; officially, the palace simply announced that a small band of rebels had been "neutralized outside the city" and all was well. The public was none the wiser about the lost prince, and morale remained high from the Emperor's decisive actions.
Over the following days, John tied up loose ends. The cult leader remained in the dungeon under heavy guard and magical wards. Salim attempted to sift her mind for information with spells, but she resisted fiercely. Within a week, she ended her own life in custody, cursing Arslan's name with her final breath. John took no pleasure in it, but it neatly closed the chapter.
The captured cultists were few and low-ranking; most either converted fanatics who knew little, or hired blades with no deep insight. John ensured they were interrogated fairly, then dealt with justly – some executed for murder, others imprisoned.
Darius remained a curious secret in the palace. Only Rashid, Safid, Salim, and John himself knew the boy's identity (Aru might suspect, but he wasn't told explicitly). John had him quietly relocated to more comfortable quarters within the palace proper, under the guise of a minor noble ward. Darius spent his days reading in the archives and conversing with Rashid on philosophy – an arrangement that oddly seemed to content both the youth and the old eunuch.
On the third evening after the raid, John invited Yvara to share a quiet dinner in a small pavilion overlooking the moonlit palace lake. She was delighted, though a tad nervous – it wasn't common for an Emperor to dine tête-à-tête with one concubine outside the harem halls.
They talked for hours under the stars. John found himself speaking more freely than he ever had – telling her (in careful, veiled terms) of how alienated he'd felt at first and how her kindness had helped him feel human. Yvara in turn shared stories of her childhood by the sea, her secret love of poetry, and how she had played violin before being brought to the palace (a talent John resolved to get her an instrument to resume).
At one point, Yvara shyly recited a short poem she'd composed praising "a lion with two hearts – one of stern duty, one of gentle light." John realized she was describing him, and it moved him more than he could say. In response, he clumsily attempted a few lines of an Earth poem he recalled about finding home in unexpected places. She didn't understand all the references, but the sentiment reached her; tears glinted in her eyes as she squeezed his hand.
That night ended with a tender embrace – nothing more. Both felt it was enough, for now.
Word of the Emperor's closeness to Yvara spread quietly among the harem and staff. It caused some murmurs of jealousy or intrigue, but John was careful to be fair and kind to all. Still, it was noted that Arslan's heart, which had once seemed made of stone, now clearly favored one gentle soul.
As summer gave way to autumn, the capital enjoyed a period of calm industry. The Grand Nexus integration test proceeded smoothly; a month after stabilization, John approved fully linking it to the imperial network in stages, with no adverse effects. Lights burned brighter than ever across the city at night, and the people hailed it as a symbol that the empire was truly unified again after the upheavals.
John continued his magical studies with Salim in spare evenings, now openly requesting tutoring. The archmage was pleased to oblige. Together they made progress – John could reliably cast a handful of minor runes on command: an illumination orb, a locking ward for doors, even a kinetic push to slam open a heavy gate (to Safid's startlement when John demonstrated one morning).
In mid-autumn, John took Safid and a small retinue on a tour of some central provinces that had been restive. Riding out with a modest guard – and disguised at times in common travel garments – he dropped in on local lords and town councils, catching some off guard and delighting common folk by hearing their grievances directly. It was an unprecedented move; Emperors didn't usually wander so freely. But John's personal approach earned genuine goodwill, and by the time he returned to the City of Light, reports from those provinces indicated disputes were settling and taxes flowing more readily. A little respect and listening, John found, went a long way.