Love of Fortune and Steel

Part 1

James awoke to the gentle glow of early morning filtering through the expansive windows. The cityscape of Bortinto stretched out below, a mosaic of lights gradually yielding to the soft hues of dawn. He blinked, momentarily disoriented by the opulence surrounding him, before the events of the previous day settled into place.

He stretched luxuriously, realizing he had just experienced the best sleep he'd had in days—perhaps weeks. The plush mattress and crisp linens of the hotel bed were worlds apart from the straw-filled pallets of medieval fortresses or the cold, unforgiving ground of caves. Glancing at the digital alarm clock on the nightstand, he noted it was 6:00 a.m. Seraphina had set it for 6:30 a.m., granting him a bit more time to savor the tranquility.

Turning his head, James's gaze fell upon the other bed—a spacious queen-size adorned with sumptuous bedding. Bisera lay there, enveloped in the soft blankets. She had somehow wrapped the blanket into a snug roll, hugging it close like a cherished companion. Intriguingly, her sword was nestled within the rolled blanket, the hilt peeking out near her shoulder. Even in sleep, she kept her trusted blade close—a testament to her vigilance and warrior spirit.

One of her legs rested atop the makeshift bolster, the sheet having slipped away during the night. The morning light caressed her bare skin, highlighting the elegant lines of her form. Her leg was long and exquisitely sculpted, the muscle tone revealing both strength and femininity. It reminded him of classical statues he'd seen in museums—artistry captured in marble, yet she was warm and alive. Faint scars adorned her skin, silver lines that spoke of battles fought and survived.

His eyes traced the curve of her hip beneath the robe, the way her golden hair spilled over the pillow like a cascade of sunlight. Her blonde locks framed her face delicately, contrasting with her fair skin and highlighting her delicate yet defined features. Her face, usually marked by determination and focus, was now softened in repose. Long lashes rested against her cheeks, and her lips parted slightly as she breathed deeply. There was a serene vulnerability to her that he found profoundly captivating.

The hotel robe she wore accentuated her figure in ways her armor never did. The soft fabric clung gently to her form, hinting at the graceful curves usually hidden beneath layers of steel and leather. The robe emphasized her tall, athletic build. The way it draped over her shoulders and cinched at the waist highlighted her proportions, and the subtle rise and fall of her full bosom as she slept added to the allure.

James felt a stirring within him, a pull he hadn't experienced in years—not since Alina. He had encountered many beautiful women in his life, but none had held his attention like this. Bisera was different. There was a depth to her—a combination of strength and grace, fierceness and gentleness—that drew him in. Her blue eyes, when open, held a clarity and intensity that captivated him, and even now, closed in slumber, she seemed to radiate a quiet strength.

"Enjoying the view?" Seraphina's teasing voice echoed in his mind, jolting him from his reverie.

He flushed, a surge of warmth creeping up his neck. "I wasn't—it's not what you think," he thought back hastily. "I just happened to look over."

"Of course," Seraphina replied, her tone playfully skeptical. "Merely appreciating the beauty of the morning, are we?"

"Yes, exactly," he insisted internally, though he knew she could sense the truth. "It's a beautiful sunrise."

"Indeed it is," she mused. "But I wonder which masterpiece you find more captivating—the dawn breaking over Bortinto or the enchanting vision beside you?"

James sighed inwardly, knowing it was futile to argue. "Is there a purpose to this conversation?"

She chuckled softly. "Only to observe that it's delightful to see you so... enthralled. It's been a while since someone captured your attention like this, hasn't it?"

He hesitated. "Perhaps."

"There's no shame in it, James. The heart seeks connection."

He ran a hand over his face, trying to compose himself. "I appreciate your concern, but I'd rather not discuss this right now."

"Very well," Seraphina said lightly. "But do consider embracing the possibilities before you."

As her presence faded from his mind, James took a deep breath, attempting to steady his thoughts. His gaze drifted back to Bisera. He couldn't deny the allure she held for him. Her strength, intelligence, and unwavering dedication were qualities he deeply admired. Yet there was also a softness to her, glimpses of vulnerability that made her all the more real.

He rose quietly from his bed, deciding that some fresh air might help clear his head. Moving softly so as not to disturb her, he walked over to the expansive window. The city was slowly coming to life, the sky painted with shades of pink and gold.

A soft rustling drew his attention. He turned to see Bisera shifting slightly, her grip on the rolled blanket—and her sword—loosening. Her eyes fluttered open, long lashes lifting as she adjusted to the light. Her blue eyes, clear as a summer sky, met his.

"Good morning," he said softly.

She looked over at him, a gentle smile curving her lips. "Good morning, James."

"Did you sleep well?" he asked.

She sat up slowly, the blanket draping gracefully around her shoulders. As she moved, the robe shifted, momentarily accentuating her figure before she adjusted it modestly. Her hand rested instinctively on the hilt of her sword, then relaxed as she remembered where she was. Suddenly, realization dawned on her—she was wearing only the robe.

A faint blush spread across her cheeks. "I... I apologize. I'm not properly dressed," she said, drawing the robe tighter around herself.

James turned his gaze away respectfully. "No need to apologize," he assured her. "I should have given you more privacy."

She glanced down, her embarrassment mingling with a hint of self-consciousness. "I'm not accustomed to such attire," she admitted softly. "In my world, modesty is held in high regard."

He nodded, keeping his tone gentle. "I understand. I'll turn my head so you can change."

She looked up, her eyes meeting his with a mix of gratitude and something deeper. "Thank you."

He offered a reassuring smile before turning away and moving toward the window, giving her space.

As she stood, the robe swayed with her movements, highlighting her tall, athletic build. The golden strands of her hair cascaded over her shoulders, and for a moment, she hesitated, watching him. There was a warmth in her gaze, a silent acknowledgment of the connection they shared.

She picked up her tunic and slipped into the bathroom to change. Once inside, she leaned against the door, taking a steadying breath. Her heart was beating faster than usual, and she couldn't quite dismiss the fluttering sensation in her stomach. Being around James stirred feelings she hadn't allowed herself to explore before.

Meanwhile, James stared out at the city, his thoughts a whirlwind. He was acutely aware of the emotions stirring within him—feelings he hadn't confronted in a long time. Bisera was remarkable in so many ways, and the more time he spent with her, the more he found himself drawn to her.

"Well, that was adorably awkward," Seraphina's voice chimed in, laced with amusement. "You two are quite the pair."

"Not now, Seraphina," he thought, a hint of exasperation in his mental tone.

"Oh, but when else would I offer my sage commentary?" she quipped. "Besides, time is of the essence."

"What do you mean?" he asked, a sense of foreboding creeping in.

"Just a friendly reminder that your little interlude is coming to an end," she replied cheerfully. "Duty calls, remember? Worlds to save, loved ones to defend, all that fun stuff."

He sighed. "Can't we have a bit more time?"

"Afraid not," Seraphina said with mock sympathy. "But look on the bright side—you'll have plenty of time to bond during your adventures."

The bathroom door opened, and Bisera emerged, once again clad in her own garments. She had secured her sword at her side, her posture regaining its usual confidence. Yet there was a softness in her expression as she approached.

"Is everything all right?" she asked.

He met her gaze. "Seraphina just reminded me that we need to prepare. She plans to transport us back soon."

Bisera's eyes reflected a mixture of determination and a hint of disappointment. "I see."

"Sorry for the abruptness," he added. "I was hoping we might have more time here."

She offered a small smile. "Our responsibilities await us. It is as it should be."

"Precisely!" Seraphina interjected with a singsong tone. "Now, if you two are done with your heartfelt exchanges, let's get this show on the road."

Bisera glanced around, slightly puzzled by the one-sided conversation she was witnessing. "Seraphina is... eager?"

"That's one word for it," James said wryly.

"Don't keep me waiting," Seraphina chided playfully. "Heroes need to be punctual."

Bisera took a step closer to James. "Thank you for sharing your world with me," she said earnestly. "It has been an honor."

"The honor is mine," he replied, his voice sincere. "I'm glad you could experience it."

She hesitated for a moment, then reached out and lightly touched his hand. "Perhaps one day, we can return."

He felt a warmth at her touch. "I'd like that."

"Aw, touching," Seraphina teased. "But seriously, time's up. Help her with the armor and then go check out of the room before I teleport you two back."

Part 2

The morning sun bathed the steppe in a warm, golden light as Saralta rode toward the military encampment. The vast grasslands stretched endlessly, swaying gently in the cool breeze that carried the scents of horse sweat, fresh earth, and the distant aroma of woodsmoke from the soldiers' fires. Clad in her battle attire—a finely crafted lamellar armor made of overlapping iron plates bound with leather thongs—she embodied both regal authority and martial prowess. Intricate patterns etched into the metal caught the sunlight, reflecting her status and skill. Her long, dark hair was braided tightly, revealing delicate features and eyes that held the fierce determination of a seasoned warrior.

As she approached the assembly ground, a formidable sight greeted her. One thousand cavalrymen stood beside their horses, armor gleaming and weapons at their sides. Five hundred were her loyal veterans, men who had ridden under her command across countless miles of the steppe. The other five hundred were newcomers, warriors who had served under other generals and been called upon for this critical campaign.

Conversations hushed as Saralta rode along the front line, her gaze sweeping over the assembled troops. The men straightened, their expressions respectful. Her own riders met her eyes with confidence and familiarity, while the newcomers regarded her with a mixture of curiosity and cautious appraisal. She could sense the subtle tension—the unspoken questions about her leadership and capability.

Halting her horse at the center of the line, she turned to face them, her voice clear and commanding as it carried across the field. "Warriors of Rosagar," she began, her tone steady, "we ride not merely to defend a fortress, but to protect the very heart of our empire. The Gillyrian threat looms, and it is our duty to meet it with unwavering courage."

A murmur of agreement rippled through the ranks. She continued, "Some of you have ridden with me before. You know that I demand much, but I give more. To those who are new to my command, I welcome you. Together, we will forge a force the enemy will come to fear."

Among the newcomers, a few warriors exchanged glances. One stepped forward—a tall, lean man with chiseled features and a scar tracing a line across his cheek. His dark hair was pulled back, revealing sharp eyes that spoke of keen intelligence. His armor bore the markings of the White Falcon clan, a prominent and respected lineage.

"Lady Saralta," he called out respectfully, his voice deep and resonant. "I am Orlan of the White Falcon clan. We have heard tales of your prowess. It is our tradition to witness the strength of our leader firsthand. We place our lives in your hands and would be honored to test your mettle."

A chorus of assent came from several others. Saralta recognized this as the customary challenge—a ritual meant not to undermine authority but to build trust through shared martial respect.

She inclined her head gracefully. "I accept your challenge, Orlan. Who else will stand?"

Another warrior stepped forward. This one was powerfully built, with broad shoulders and a solid frame that suggested immense strength. His sandy blond hair framed a face marked by laughter lines and a perpetual smile. "I am Borislav of the Stone Bear clan," he announced with a hearty grin. "I'd like to test your skill with the axe, if you permit."

A third emerged from the ranks—a younger man with a lean, athletic build and piercing green eyes. His reddish hair caught the sunlight like flame. "I am Darius of the Iron Wolf clan," he said with a respectful nod. "I seek to challenge you on foot, with the sword."

Saralta surveyed them, her eyes shining with a mix of seriousness and subtle excitement. "Very well. Let us begin with horseback combat, Orlan. Fetch your mount and prepare."

The soldiers formed a wide circle, the ground marked by countless hooves. Saralta and Orlan readied themselves, each mounting their horses with practiced ease. They chose blunt-tipped lances—safer for training yet formidable enough to test skill and reflexes.

A hush fell over the crowd as the two faced each other. Orlan's horse, a sleek grey stallion, pawed at the ground eagerly. Saralta's mare, a spirited black, stood poised and ready. They locked eyes, a mutual respect passing between them.

Without warning, Orlan spurred his horse into a swift charge, his lance held steady. His movements were fluid, the product of years spent in the saddle. Saralta remained still for a heartbeat, then urged her mare forward, matching his speed.

As they closed in, Orlan angled his lance toward her chest. Saralta leaned subtly to the side, her armor glinting as she moved. She felt the familiar surge within—a controlled release of mana that flowed through her muscles like liquid fire. A warm breeze emanated from her, unnoticed by herself but felt by those nearby as a sudden gust.

Time seemed to slow. She guided her horse with effortless grace, sidestepping Orlan's thrust by a hair's breadth. In a seamless motion, she pivoted in the saddle, using the momentum to bring her lance around. With a precise yet gentle strike, she tapped Orlan's shoulder.

The impact, though light, carried an unexpected force. Orlan felt a sudden shift, his balance compromised. His eyes widened as he began to topple sideways. Years of training kicked in as he released his feet from the stirrups, tucking his body to roll upon hitting the ground. He executed a controlled fall, rolling across his shoulder and back to disperse the impact—a technique well-practiced among horsemen to prevent injury.

The crowd gasped, then erupted into cheers and applause. Orlan sprang to his feet with agile ease, a broad grin spreading across his face. His eyes shone with genuine admiration. "Well met, Lady Saralta!" he called out. "Your reputation is well deserved."

She inclined her head modestly, her mare circling back to him. "You ride with great skill, Orlan. It was an honor."

He nodded appreciatively, retrieving his horse with a pat to its neck. The onlookers murmured among themselves, clearly impressed by both the display and Orlan's adept handling of the fall.

Next was Borislav's turn. The burly warrior hefted a massive training axe, its wooden heft almost as imposing as a real weapon. Saralta dismounted, meeting him in the center of the circle.

"Are you certain you wish to face me with that?" she asked lightly, eyeing the axe.

He chuckled. "Strength against strength, Lady Saralta. Let us see whose will prevails."

She nodded, accepting a matching practice axe. The weight was substantial, but she handled it with ease. They squared off, Borislav towering over her with his broad frame. Despite the difference in their builds, Saralta stood firm, her posture confident.

He moved first, swinging the axe in a wide arc. Saralta sidestepped smoothly, feeling the rush of air as the axe passed close. She retaliated with a swift strike aimed at his side. He blocked it just in time, their weapons clashing with a solid thud.

Borislav pressed forward, using his size to try and overpower her. Saralta held her ground, channeling a burst of mana that surged through her arms. With a sudden display of strength that belied her stature, she locked his axe in place and pushed him back several steps.

Gasps echoed among the onlookers as Borislav stumbled, surprise evident on his face. Regaining his footing, he laughed heartily. "Impressive!"

She seized the moment, spinning gracefully to deliver a light tap to his shoulder before stepping back. He lowered his axe, bowing his head. "I yield, Lady Saralta. Your strength is remarkable."

"Thank you for the match, Borislav," she replied with a hint of a smile.

Finally, she faced Darius. The young warrior approached with a respectful nod, his green eyes focused and intent. They each took up wooden swords, the balance mimicking that of their real blades.

They began to circle each other. Darius moved with the agile confidence of youth, his footwork light and precise. He struck first, a series of quick slashes aimed at testing her defenses. Saralta parried effortlessly, her movements economical and controlled.

She observed his technique—the fluidity of his strikes, the slight hesitations that hinted at his next move. As he launched into a more aggressive assault, she timed her response. Channeling another pulse of mana, warmth radiated subtly from her, unnoticed except for a faint stirring of the air.

With lightning speed, she sidestepped his thrust and closed the distance between them. In a single, graceful motion, she tapped his wrist, causing his grip to falter, then lightly touched the tip of her sword to his chest.

Darius froze, eyes wide. He stepped back and bowed deeply. "I yield, Lady Saralta. Your skill surpasses all I've seen."

The assembled warriors broke into applause, some pounding their shields rhythmically. One by one, more challengers stepped forward—each eager to test themselves against her. There was Nikolai, a lean warrior with a strategist's mind; Pavel, a stout man whose strength was evident in his solid frame; and Mikhail, whose wiry build concealed surprising agility.

Each bout showcased different styles and techniques. Against Nikolai, Saralta navigated a battle of wits as much as skill, anticipating his feints and countering with deft precision. With Pavel, she met raw power with strategic maneuvering, using his momentum against him. Mikhail's speed was matched by her own, their movements a blur to the onlookers.

In every encounter, Saralta's fighting style shone—graceful and fluid, punctuated by sudden bursts of astonishing strength. The warmth that accompanied her mana release spread like a gentle breeze, unnoticed by her but felt by those nearby as a momentary rise in temperature.

When the final challenger had been bested, Saralta addressed the troops once more. Her voice carried a note of pride tempered with humility. "Let there be no doubt—we stand as one force. Your courage and skill are evident. Together, we will forge a path to victory that will echo for centuries."

A thunderous cheer erupted. "For Rosagar! For Vakeria! For Lady Saralta!"

As the men dispersed to tend to their preparations, Saralta noticed the lingering glances cast her way. In many eyes, she saw respect deepened into admiration, and in some, a spark of something more. She acknowledged them with a composed nod, maintaining the dignity befitting her station.

Her lieutenant, Malik, approached with a satisfied grin. A seasoned warrior with a lean build and graying hair, his eyes held the wisdom of years on the battlefield. "Lady Saralta, you've won their hearts and their loyalty. They will follow you without hesitation."

She offered a modest smile. "Their faith in my abilities is our greatest strength."

He chuckled softly. "And your leadership is what unites them. It's not every day they meet someone who can best them so handily."

"Let us ensure we are all worthy of the challenges ahead," she replied. "See to it that the men are prepared to ride at first light."

"At once, my lady," Malik said with a respectful bow before moving to carry out her orders.

As Saralta made her way back toward the command tent, a young servant approached hesitantly. She was slight of build, with earnest eyes that darted nervously. "Lady Saralta," she said quietly, bowing low. "Your mother, Lady Yuying, requests your presence in her quarters."

She raised an eyebrow, curiosity piqued. "Thank you. I will attend to her shortly."

Part 3

The palace corridors were quiet as Saralta walked, her footsteps echoing softly against the polished stone floors. Despite the day's events, her thoughts drifted to her mother. Yuying's subtle signals during the council meeting had not gone unnoticed, and Saralta wondered what counsel or revelation awaited her.

Upon reaching Yuying's chambers in the east wing, the guards stationed outside stepped aside with deep bows. She entered to find her mother seated by the window, still adorned in her elegant attire. Yuying's head was delicately bowed, her movements so gentle that the air itself seemed undisturbed. Her braided hair shimmered softly in the fading afternoon light as she lifted her gaze to meet Saralta's.

"Mother, you wished to see me?" Saralta asked, her tone respectful yet inquisitive.

Yuying offered a faint, fragile smile. She rose slowly, her voice soft as a whisper. "Saralta, my dearest," she began, embodying the role of the delicate consort. "I've been feeling restless... and thought perhaps a ride outside the palace might soothe my spirit."

Saralta immediately recognized the familiar rhythm of her mother's act—the careful portrayal of vulnerability. It signaled that they were being observed or overheard. "A ride?" she repeated thoughtfully. "Now?"

Yuying nodded gently. "Yes... just a short ride. I would feel much safer with you accompanying me."

Before Saralta could respond, the guards at the door, overhearing their conversation, stepped forward with concern. The senior guard bowed deeply. "Lady Yuying, forgive me, but Prince Tugor has instructed us to ensure your safety for the winter as the seasonal increase in migrant population strains societal safety. It may not be advisable to leave the palace grounds without a proper escort."

Yuying turned to the guard, her eyes wide with feigned innocence. "I understand your diligence," she said softly. "But it's just a brief outing. I wouldn't want to trouble you further."

The guards exchanged uneasy glances. Her gentle plea placed them in a difficult position—balancing their duty with the risk of offending Tugor's favored consort.

Saralta intervened smoothly. "I will personally ensure my mother's safety," she asserted, her tone leaving no room for argument. "You may rest assured."

The guards hesitated but ultimately acquiesced. "As you wish, Lady Saralta," the senior guard replied, stepping back.

Once outside the palace walls, mother and daughter rode side by side into the open plains. The transformation in Yuying was subtle but unmistakable. She sat taller in the saddle, her movements shedding the affectations of frailty. The mask of the demure consort slipped away, revealing the confident woman beneath.

Saralta couldn't help but glance at her mother. Yuying's every movement had been deliberate, gentle—as if she were made of porcelain. Her control over her facade was flawless; she wore it like a second skin. In moments like this, Saralta sometimes wondered if her mother had played the role for so long that she had forgotten who she really is.

But as they left the city behind and rode into the vast expanse of the steppe, something shifted. The bustling sounds of East Vaker faded, replaced by the whispering wind and the rustle of tall grasses. Yuying's posture changed; she straightened in her saddle, her movements becoming fluid and natural. The delicate mask began to slip away, piece by piece. Her hands, which had gripped the reins softly before, now tightened with confidence. Her body moved in perfect harmony with the powerful animal beneath her.

They rode for nearly an hour, the wind sweeping through the grasslands around them. The palace was now a distant silhouette against the horizon, and no one else was in sight—just open grassland stretching out in all directions.

At last, Yuying guided her horse to a halt atop a gentle slope. She dismounted with a swift, graceful motion, and as her feet touched the ground, all traces of the fragile consort vanished. What remained was a warrior—a woman who had once commanded armies, who had struck fear into the hearts of her enemies. She moved with ease, as though her body had been born for combat and freedom, not for the confines of the palace.

Saralta followed suit, her curiosity intensifying. She watched her mother with quiet admiration. This was the woman she had always sensed beneath the surface, hidden from the world. The transformation never failed to amaze her, even though she had seen it before.

For a long moment, they stood together in silence, the wind whispering through the tall grass. The sky stretched overhead, vast and unbroken, mirroring the endless possibilities before them.

Yuying turned to her daughter, her eyes gleaming with a mixture of wisdom and concern. A hint of a smile played on her lips. "Always perceptive. Yes, there are things we must discuss—matters of importance before you depart."