Vael's brief moment of freedom behind the jungle thicket's thickest tree was annihilated. He barely had time to throw his hands up in despair before the two forces he dreaded most converged.
The wives arrived first. Their faces were dark, not with fear, but with a volatile mix of panic and utter fury that he had stolen the glory of the decisive battle. They formed a tight, protective crescent around him just as the 400 enemy soldiers broke through the undergrowth, surrounding the clearing.
The battle that followed was brief and desperate. The wives were a storm, instantly felling over fifty men, but the odds were overwhelming. Vael watched in horror as Astra, Serana, Lyra, and the others were expertly disarmed and subdued. His wives fought like mythical warriors, yet the enemy soldiers were precise in their capture, avoiding serious injury.
Vael, the prized trophy, was trussed up instantly.
"Take them!" the Lieutenant barked. "Take the Commander and his six fierce bodyguards to the General! We must expose his black magic!"
Vael and the wives were marched deep into a heavily fortified clearing where General Vorlag awaited with his remaining 550 troops. Vael found himself bound, kneeling in the dirt, the center of attention for an entire small army.
The Interrogation of Black Magic
General Vorlag stared at Vael—the frail man who had shattered his formations and whose mere presence had decimated his army.
"Silence!" Vorlag commanded, his voice tight with controlled terror. "I know you are not merely a man. Your eyes hold the wisdom of a demon, and your words hold terrible power. Confess, sorcerer! What black magic do you use to control minds? How do you command such savage wives?"
A cold soldier's pike was pressed hard against Vael's throat. He felt the terrifying, genuine conviction in Vorlag's stare.
This is it, Vael thought, a cold sweat breaking out. If I speak poetry, I will be kissed by 550 soldiers. If I don't speak, I will be killed. Being kissed is slightly better than being speared.
"I... I have no magic!" Vael pleaded, his voice trembling. "That charm you fear? It's just a terrible curse! Someone gave me magical incense and said, 'Recite this nonsense and women will marry you!' I recited it! It was a mistake! I'm just a normal person who was running away from the fighting! The horse took off on its own! I swear, I am completely powerless now!"
General Vorlag and his Advisor, Krell, exchanged frantic, baffled glances.
Krell: "Nonsense, General! A perfect diversion! He claims powerlessness because he knows we'd believe a fool's defense! He was not running away! He was strategically fleeing through our defenses to reveal the weakness in our central command! He thinks we are fools!"
Vorlag: "He claims to be normal! He claims he was running away!" Vorlag slammed his sword tip into the ground. "Is that not exactly what a supreme intellect would say to lull us into complacency? You cannot escape your destiny, sorcerer! Recite your magical words now, or die!"
Vael closed his eyes in resignation. Death by sword, or death by 550 highly devoted admirers. He chose the latter, deciding to recite a poem that was so honest and self-pitying that maybe, just maybe, it would neutralize the charm into mere confusion.
The Poetic Confession and The Divine Revelation
Vael delivered a poem filled with bitter, genuine despair, not just about the war, but about his miserable, hijacked life:
"I am not a Lord, I am just a man who cries,
Trapped between my wives and the death in your eyes.
I want a small cottage, a life without fame,
Why, oh why, must you torture me in this strange game?
I beg you, good sirs, release me and go,
For I am truly nothing, but sorrow and woe!"
Vael felt a sudden, seismic wave of unwanted divine power rip through the entire clearing—his curse, it seemed, was attempting to one-up itself.
The effect was immediate and overwhelming. The soldiers did not fall in love; they collapsed into tears of profound, spiritual recognition. General Vorlag dropped his sword and fell to his knees, his face streaming.
Vorlag (weeping, bowing low): "The words! The sacred truth! Oh, my Lord! It is you!"
Krell (wailing, beating his chest): "My Lord has returned! He spoke the Prophecy of the Humble Servant! He wishes to be seen as nothing, but we know the truth! Our Lord has returned!"
Vael stared, horrified. "What are you talking about? I'm not your Lord! I'm Vael! I just want a boring cottage!"
Vorlag (clutching Vael's tied leg): "That is precisely what our Lord, Aethelred the Piteous, always said! Ten years ago, before he was murdered by the ancient King, he always preached of being just a simple man! You are the reincarnation! You are the Lord of Pity!"
Vael looked up to the sky, shouting internally: Aethel! You didn't just give me a curse; you gave me the identity of a dead, charismatic saint! I've gone from commander to cult leader in under five minutes!
The Paradox of Victory
The entire army of 550 now knelt, worshiping Vael. They scrambled to untie him and his wives, presenting Vael with Vorlag's ceremonial armor and a velvet cloak.
Vorlag: "We apologize, My Lord! We thought you were a sorcerer, but you are our saviour! We are now yours to command! What is your first holy directive?"
Vael felt his sanity strain. "My first directive? My first directive is for you all to stop staring at me! And for my wife, Astra, to stop looking at General Vorlag like he's a new recruit!"
Astra (to Serana, her eyes shining): "He's not just a commander; he's a prophet. Our Vael is too important to die."
Princess Kira (furious, whispering): "He spoke of being 'trapped by his wives'! Did he mean me? This is a betrayal! I am the one who brings him glory!"
Vael, now the Divine Lord and Cult Leader of a 550-man enemy army, looked at his chaotic Harem—now facing a theological, polygamous crisis—and realized his poetic power was a completely random, uncontrollable disaster machine.
"Vael's accidental victory in the jungle had just created the largest, most emotionally volatile harem in the Kingdom's history, combining war wives and tearful, devoted cultists. He hadn't even finished the first military campaign, yet he was now forced to organize a religious pilgrimage."