Love of Fortune and Steel

Part 1

The quiet of the mansion in Clairedon felt oppressive. James stood on the wide wooden deck, gripping his phone as it displayed the latest market data—though his involvement in the markets had been suspended indefinitely. The meticulously kept gardens stretched far beyond the house, serene and untouched, an almost mocking contrast to the chaos that had ruled his life back in Bortinto. The mansion, provided to him for the duration of his six-month stress leave, was meant to be a luxurious escape, but it failed to bring the comfort he sought.

It had been a week since his arrival, a week filled with silence and isolation. The frenetic pace of Bortinto, the megacity where he had built his career, now seemed like a distant memory. Even here, amidst the serenity, the impulse to check market updates lingered, deeply ingrained after years of operating in the heart of the financial world.

James glanced at his phone again—the Bloomberg app still open. The NASDAQ Composite had dropped another 2%, continuing its prolonged downturn. The tech sector, once the market's darling, was now in freefall. What had initially been hailed as the dawn of another tech revolution had unraveled into a speculative bubble that burst under the weight of its own overvaluation.

He leaned on the railing, feeling the cold wood press into his palms. He had once been at the center of it all—an associate at Evertson, Gold & Sterling, a prominent investment firm with major institutional clients. As an assistant portfolio manager, he had played a key role in managing the firm's tech-heavy allocation, specializing in companies driving innovation and digital transformation. The markets had treated them like the future, but now, in the aftermath of the bubble burst, his investments had suffered significantly.

The issues had been growing for months, but no one wanted to admit it. Investors had been betting heavily on the tech sector, pouring capital into startups that promised revolutionary breakthroughs. Valuations soared as venture capitalists and institutional investors fueled growth with cheap credit, and everyone, including James, rode that wave. But then the cracks began to show—many companies lacked sustainable revenue models. They were burning through cash at an unsustainable rate, grappling with the massive operational costs associated with infrastructure investments, energy consumption, and the provision of free or low-cost services. Data centers consumed enormous amounts of power, and as demand for digital services grew, so did energy costs.

The situation was exacerbated by a sudden spike in global oil and gas prices, driven by escalating geopolitical tensions and conflicts around the world. These conflicts disrupted supply chains, particularly in energy markets, sending prices soaring. Many firms that had been valued based on speculative future earnings were ill-prepared for the financial strain caused by ballooning energy costs.

On top of that, inflationary pressures began to build rapidly, fueled by ongoing conflicts and supply chain disruptions. Central banks, which had previously signaled interest rate cuts to spur growth, were forced to reverse course. The anticipated monetary easing that James and many others had relied on for future projections was indefinitely postponed. Instead, central banks had no choice but to raise interest rates sharply to combat inflation. The result was a tightening of financial conditions across the board.

Access to cheap capital vanished overnight, and the tech sector, dependent on constant injections of funding to sustain its growth, was left stranded. Without the expected rate cuts, investors began pulling out, and the tech-heavy portfolios, once considered invincible, started hemorrhaging value.

James had watched it all unfold on his multi-screen trading setup—the losses piling up hour by hour. He had been managing a sizable portfolio, much of it concentrated in high-growth tech companies. The losses were staggering. One of the key holdings, a mid-cap software company specializing in cloud-based solutions, missed its earnings targets by a wide margin. Another firm in his portfolio, a provider of AI-driven solutions for e-commerce platforms, announced significant layoffs and a restructuring plan as their operational costs spiraled out of control. Each earnings report was worse than the last.

It wasn't just the companies themselves. Investor sentiment had soured dramatically, and by the time the full scale of the bubble became apparent, it was too late to salvage much. The firm's tech-heavy portfolio had been crushed, and James found himself at the center of the fallout.

It wasn't just the companies themselves. Investor sentiment had soured dramatically, and by the time the full scale of the bubble became apparent, it was too late to salvage much. The firm's tech-heavy portfolio had been crushed, and James found himself at the center of the fallout.

His career wasn't the only thing that had fallen apart. His personal life had collapsed alongside it. Natalie had left him, frustrated by his obsessive work habits and the constant stress that permeated their relationship. She had wanted more than late-night phone calls and weekends sacrificed to conference calls. When she finally walked out, he tried to cope with the pain by quickly forgetting about her—but that only led to another disaster—a humiliating online dating scam that became the talk of the office. His colleagues, always sharp-eyed for weakness, began whispering behind his back. It all felt like a slow-motion train wreck.

The depression set in not long after.

James found himself staring blankly at his computer screen, unable to muster the enthusiasm he once had. Tasks that used to invigorate him now felt like burdens. Sleep was restless, and mornings brought no relief. His appearance began to slip—shirts wrinkled, tie askew, a shadow of stubble on his face. Meetings dragged on, and his contributions were minimal. The spark that had driven him seemed dimmed.

Noticing James's recent decline in performance and demeanor, his boss became increasingly concerned about the potential repercussions in their high-stakes work environment. Emphasizing that James's health was paramount and that even minor oversights could have serious consequences, he recommended that James take a leave of absence to recharge and regain his strength. Understanding the importance of his role and recognizing that a break might provide the relief he needed, James agreed to a six-month leave. He retreated to his relative's mansion in Clairedon, on the outskirts of Bortinto, seeking to step back from the chaos and find some peace during his time away.

Now, here he was, a week into his break, standing alone on the deck of a mansion that wasn't his, staring out at a world that suddenly felt unfamiliar. For the first time, he wondered if his life had any real meaning.

He had money—more than most people his age—but what had it gotten him? More investments? A bigger portfolio? He had been so focused on making money grow that he hadn't stopped to think about what that money was for. What was the point of amassing wealth if it didn't make a difference in the world? What was the point of succeeding if there was no one to share it with?

He longed for something more. Something deeper. A real connection. He had no close friends, no family nearby, no one to turn to in this moment of vulnerability. He had lost them all on his road to pursue success. For the first time in years, James felt completely, utterly alone.

And so, without thinking, he did something he had never done before.

He prayed.

It wasn't to any specific god or goddess—James had no religion, and before this moment, he had always believed that his destiny was his alone to shape. But standing there, on the deck of the mansion, with the wind rustling through the trees in the massive garden and the sky stretching out endlessly before him, he closed his eyes and prayed.

"Please," he whispered into the breeze. "Let my life mean something. Let me matter. Let me do something that makes a real impact."

He stood there for several moments, waiting—hoping—for some kind of sign. But nothing happened. The wind continued to rustle the leaves, the clouds drifted lazily across the sky, and the world remained unchanged. There was no divine revelation, no voice from the heavens, no sudden burst of clarity. Just silence.

James opened his eyes and sighed, shaking his head at his own desperation. Of course, nothing would happen. This wasn't the kind of world where prayers were answered with miracles.

James pocketed his phone and walked inside the mansion, searching for something to do. He needed a distraction, something to ground him. His mind wandered back to a time before his life had been consumed by earnings reports, asset allocations, and client calls. Back then, he had hobbies and passions. He loved sports, board games, traveling, meeting people, and most importantly, he had been passionate about history—particularly premodern civilizations. He used to spend hours in museums, immersing himself in the stories of empires that had risen and fallen.

Maybe reconnecting with that part of himself would help.

He opened his laptop and searched for something that might reignite his old passion. The Provincial Museum in Bortinto was hosting an exhibition on early medieval Europe, focusing on the Byzantine Empire and its neighboring cultures—the nomadic steppe tribes such as the Khazars and Bulgars, the northern kingdoms including the Vikings and the early Kievan Rus', and the Eastern empires like the Abbasid Caliphate and the Umayyad Caliphate. It was the perfect way to escape for a few hours, a means to forget the disaster his life had become.

Without hesitation, he booked a ticket and called for a cab. The drive from Clairedon to Bortinto was peaceful, the quiet of the countryside eventually giving way to the steel and glass of the city's skyline. But as they neared downtown, James couldn't shake the strange sense of detachment. Bortinto, the city that had once been his world, now felt foreign. The life he had lived there seemed distant, almost like it belonged to someone else.

When the cab pulled up to the museum, James stepped out and gazed at the modern facade. The sleek glass panels and towering marble columns stood in stark contrast to the ancient relics housed within. Inside, the buzz of the city faded, replaced by the quiet murmur of other visitors. The exhibits, filled with relics of a bygone era, brought him a sense of peace he hadn't felt in months.

He wandered through the galleries, absorbing the sight of Byzantine coins, ornately decorated icons, and weapons from the steppe cultures that had once challenged the great empires. The weight of history settled over him, a reminder that everything—empires, markets, lives—rose and fell. It was all temporary.

Then something caught his eye.

In the center of the gallery, displayed on a raised platform, was a scepter. Unlike the other artifacts, this one gleamed with an unnatural luster. The head of the scepter was dominated by a giant blue gem, around which eight mini wings curled gracefully, each poised as though ready to take flight. This unique design gave the scepter a mystical and ethereal appearance. There was no plaque, no description—nothing to explain its origin or significance.

James stepped closer, curious. Other visitors walked past the scepter without a second glance, as if it wasn't there at all. His heart began to race. There was something strange about the object, something that pulled him toward it.

And then he heard it—a voice, soft and melodic, whispering in his mind.

A banker, alight with passion's glow,

Found his purpose where fates doth flow.

Beside a warrior, both strong and true,

Their souls entwined as conflicts grew.

Torn between devotion and deep desire,

He must now choose what his heart admires.

The words echoed through his thoughts, sending chills down his spine. He looked around, but no one else seemed to hear it. The room began to blur, the walls and exhibits fading into the background as his focus narrowed on the scepter.

The voice called again, soft but insistent. The world around him dissolved into a swirl of light and color. Through the vortex, a figure appeared—a woman with raven-black hair, sapphire-blue eyes, and eight flaming wings extending from her back. She radiated power, an ethereal presence that left him breathless.

She extended her hand, palm facing downward in a regal gesture, and James, captivated by her royal bearing, stepped forward and respectfully lifted it.

"Go forth, my knight, and fulfill your destiny," she whispered, her voice weaving a blend of command and grace.

In that instant, the world around James faded into oblivion, and James found himself swept into a new world.

Part 2

The forested mountain loomed like a vast, oppressive sea of shadows as Bisera staggered through the underbrush. The fading light of late September cast long, golden rays through the trees, but the warmth of the day had already begun to give way to a cool, crisp breeze. The weight of her reddish-brown armor felt heavier with each step, and the sharp, persistent ache from the arrow grazes across her body and the deep gash on her side throbbed more intensely now. Her vision blurred, and her body weakened, the adrenaline from the battle long since worn off after over an hour of walking.

She hadn't realized it at the time, but the cut on her side—a deep, jagged wound—must have come from a sword during the heat of the battle. Bisera had been too focused on commanding her soldiers to notice, too consumed with staying alive. But now, the pain gnawed at her, each breath making the injury flare with a fresh wave of fire. Her body felt hot and clammy, signs of her body going into shock from significant blood loss, but she couldn't stop. She had to keep moving. She had to escape the mountain and reach Nviom, the closest Vakerian-held city on Gillyrian territory, to organize an orderly retreat.

She had to bring all the Vakerian garrisons spread across the Gillyrian territories safely back to Vakeria and organize the defense of the key borderland fortress of Podem. Without her leadership, Vakeria's borders would crumble, and the Gillyrians would sweep through like a storm. Worse still, the families of her fallen soldiers—their wives, children, and elders—would be left defenseless. Bisera knew the horrors that awaited them if she failed. The Gillyrians would show no mercy to the Vakerians, whom they viewed as barbarians that had robbed them of their lands. It was a fate that haunted her thoughts, pushing her forward despite her exhaustion.

As she walked, the late afternoon sun hung low in the sky, casting elongated silhouettes across the forest floor. The warmth of the day was fading, and a light, cool breeze rustled the leaves overhead, carrying with it the earthy scent of the forest. The Balkania Peninsula was known for its mild, yet unpredictable, evenings during this time of year, and tonight was no different. Soon, the air would chill, and the shadows would grow darker, but for now, the light clung to the treetops, bathing the landscape in a soft amber glow.

She had fought hard at Sparklestar River, commanding her soldiers with precision, but she had lost. Now the weight of responsibility settled like a stone in her chest. Kurt's final words echoed in her mind. His face, along with those of the others who had trusted her with the lives of their families, haunted her steps. She owed it to them to survive, to return and protect those they had left behind. She had to honor their sacrifices.

Bisera, standing at 180 cm in her armor, was used to towering over most men. Even without her armor, at 175 cm, she was taller than nearly all the men she had ever known. In her world, even the noblemen, who were usually a little taller than commoners, rarely reached her height. She had spent her life being taller than her peers, even without her helmet. That had earned her respect and fear in equal measure, especially in the courts of Vakeria, where women were expected to play quieter roles. But Bisera had never fit those expectations.

Her parents had been mercenaries—fierce warriors from the Norkerman lands—who had died in service to Duke Boris. After their deaths, Boris had taken her in, raising her as his heir, much to the displeasure of the nobility. They had whispered behind her back, mocking her height and her strength, calling her too mannish for a noblewoman. But she had not cared. She had risen through the ranks of the Vakerian army, commanding men in battle by the time she was barely more than a girl.

Boris, despite his kindness, had lived a life full of sacrifice. He had been a legendary war hero, his name feared throughout Balkania. He had expanded the borders of the Vakerian Empire with his cunning strategies and relentless drive, but his victories had come at great cost. Boris's body bore the scars of war, including a grievous injury that had left him unable to father children. His infertility had been a private matter, never spoken of openly, but it had driven him to adopt Bisera, both as a repayment for her parents' service and to ensure that his legacy would live on through her, as she had the rare ability to channel mana. She had inherited both his name and his burdens.

She was expected to be strong, to lead, to fight. And fight she did, even if it meant carrying the loneliness that came with her station.

As the years passed, Bisera had learned to live with isolation. No man dared approach her as an equal. Even the few noblemen who showed romantic interest did so out of political necessity, not genuine affection. They admired her strength and her command on the battlefield, but they saw her as a great tool, not as a woman. She longed for something more, something deeper, but it had always eluded her.

Suddenly, Bisera noted a small pond, hidden among the trees, shimmered in the fading light. She knelt by its edge, wincing as the pain in her side flared. From a pouch at her waist, she pulled out a small piece of flint, an old survival tool her father had taught her to carry. Oleg, a Norkerman mercenary, had always warned her about poisoned water. Even the purest-looking streams could carry death. Instead of testing with silver, Bisera relied on her training—she examined the water's clarity, checked for unusual colors or residues, and sniffed for any off odors before deciding to drink.

Satisfied the water was clear and safe, she cupped the cool liquid in her hands and brought it to her lips. The liquid soothed her parched throat, and for a moment, she allowed herself to breathe. The pain, the blood, the overwhelming fatigue—all of it faded into the background as the coolness of the water refreshed her. She splashed some on her face, the cold shock waking her from the haze of exhaustion. After washing her face, she felt a momentary sense of clarity and renewal.

But her thoughts never drifted far from Nviom. She couldn't stay here long. The Gillyrians were still out there, hunting survivors. She had to keep moving.

Before she rose to her feet, Bisera bowed her head, whispering a prayer to the Universal Spirit, the guiding force of her people. "Guide me," she murmured. "Let me live, not for myself, but for those who depend on me. Let me return to Podem and defend the empire." Her faith in the Spirit had never wavered, not even in the darkest moments of battle. The priests of the Church of Universal Spirit had always blessed her campaigns, but Bisera's connection to the Spirit was personal. She didn't need a priest's blessing to feel its presence guiding her.

Just as she was about to stand, a loud splash shattered the stillness. Instantly, her hand flew to the hilt of her sword, and she leapt to her feet, ignoring the sharp pain in her side. Her eyes narrowed, scanning the pond, and then she saw it—a man emerging from the water, drenched and gasping for air. His dark hair clung to his face, his expression a mix of confusion and fear.

Bisera's eyes narrowed.