Love of Fortune and Steel

Part 1

The third day of their march dawned with a golden sunrise over the Aegean Sea, casting a warm glow on the coastal road the Vakerian army had chose to take. Bisera's army advanced steadily, the salt-laden breeze rustling banners and cloaks. They had chosen this route deliberately, skirting the foothills of Mount Olympus to avoid the treacherous Vale of Tempe, which Bisera was certain would serve as a perfect location for an ambush by the Gillyrians.

James sat behind the wheel of the military transport truck, its engine humming softly. The wounded soldiers rested in the back, their breaths steady despite the bumps along the uneven road. The truck—a marvel from his world—had become an indispensable asset to their journey.

Velika rode alongside, her brunette hair unmistakable even beneath her helmet. "This contraption still amazes me," she called out with a grin. "Your massive divine wagon handles these roads better than our carts."

James chuckled. "It's called a transport truck. It's meant to carry people and supplies, so it was designed to be as big as possible."

She laughed. "Well, keep those tricks handy. You never know when we'll need them."

Unbeknownst to them, Governor Nikolaos was surveying the terrain from a concealed perch high above the road. Clad in gleaming armor adorned with intricate designs, he cut an impressive figure—tall, with dark hair framing a face of striking features. His handsomeness had been both a blessing and a curse; many dismissed him as a "pretty boy," doubting his capabilities as a military leader. Today, he aimed to prove them wrong.

Beside him stood his lieutenant, a scroll in hand. "Governor, the preparations are complete."

Nikolaos smirked. "So, she avoided the Vale of Tempe. Clever. Had the Emperor not sent word, we might have missed her entirely."

He turned his gaze to the winding road below, where the Vakerian army marched. "Ready the men. We'll greet the Vakerians with the full might of Thessaloria."

He approached a group of soldiers handling large siphon-like devices connected to bronze tubes—specially designed to deploy Gillyrian Fire. Large ceramic pots filled with the volatile liquid were also prepared for launching via catapults and hand-held throwers.

"Prepare the Gillyrian Fire," he ordered. "Unleash it on my signal."

The soldiers nodded, their expressions grim. The secret weapon, called Gillyrian Fire, was a liquid that ignited upon contact and whose flame could not be extinguished even by water. The Gillyrians had perfected its use on land, employing siphons to project jets of flame and pots to create fiery explosions.

Below, as Bisera's forces continued along the winding road, the sea glittered to their right and the imposing slopes of Mount Olympus rose to their left. She rode at the head of the column, ever vigilant. The choice to avoid the Vale of Tempe had been a calculated risk, but she remained wary.

"Any sign of movement?" she asked a nearby scout.

"None so far, General," the scout replied. "All seems quiet."

James glanced in the side mirror of the truck, noting the rugged cliffs above. An uneasy feeling settled in his stomach. "I don't like how those rocks loom over us," he muttered.

"Stay alert," Bisera called back to her troops. "We may have avoided one trap, but that doesn't mean we're safe."

Suddenly, a series of loud whooshing sounds echoed from the cliffs. Bisera's eyes widened as she saw flaming projectiles arcing through the sky.

"Incoming! Take cover!" she shouted.

The projectiles—ceramic pots filled with Gillyrian Fire—shattered upon impact. Liquid fire exploded outward, clinging to armor and shields. The substance burned intensely, defying attempts to extinguish it with water or sand. Soldiers caught in the blast struggled desperately to remove burning equipment.

"Gillyrian Fire!" Bisera yelled. "Spread out! Avoid the flames! Use dirt to smother it!"

Panic rippled through the ranks as soldiers scrambled to evade the fiery onslaught. The road became a maze of burning patches, the heat intense and oppressive. Horses reared and neighed, adding to the chaos.

Nikolaos watched from above, satisfaction gleaming in his eyes. "Now, while they're disoriented—attack!"

Gillyrian soldiers poured down the slopes, their armor reflecting the inferno they had unleashed. Some carried portable siphons—primitive flamethrowers—that projected jets of fire toward the Vakerian lines. Others wielded swords and spears, advancing with disciplined ferocity to split the Vakerian forces.

Bisera drew her sword, its blade catching the fiery glow. "Hold the line! Do not let them break us!" she commanded, her voice steady despite the turmoil.

She turned to James. "Stay in the truck and do NOT come out!"

He nodded reluctantly. "Be careful!"

Velika spurred her horse forward, rallying a group of warriors. "With me! We'll flank them on the left!"

She plunged into battle, her sword a whirlwind as she engaged the enemy. Her movements were swift and precise, each strike disabling an opponent. One after another, Gillyrian soldiers fell before her, but more kept coming.

James gripped the steering wheel, his knuckles white. The truck was parked off the main road, shielded by a rocky outcrop. He could hear the clash of weapons and the cries of the wounded. Every instinct urged him to join the fight, but he remembered Bisera's command. Protecting the wounded in the truck was his duty now.

Nikolaos observed the battlefield, his gaze settling on Bisera. Even amid chaos, she commanded her troops with unwavering authority. She moved through the ranks, issuing orders and bolstering morale. A grudging admiration stirred within him.

"She's as formidable a lioness as they say," he murmured.

He unslung his ornate longbow, nocking an arrow and aimed at Bisera. With practiced ease, he drew the bowstring back, his muscles taut. At the very moment of release, Nikolaos channeled his mana—a surge of inner energy—into the arrow.

The moment the arrow was released, it flew with incredible velocity toward Bisera.

Bisera's instincts screamed a warning. She caught sight of the arrow streaking toward her—a blur against the fiery backdrop. She threw herself sideways, the arrow whistling past her shoulder. The sudden movement caused her to lose balance, and she tumbled from her horse, landing hard on the ground.

The arrow struck the earth near her, penetrating deep into the soil with such force that only the fletching remained visible. Bisera glanced back, realizing that had she not moved, the arrow would have gone straight through her armor.

Nikolaos frowned, impressed but undeterred. Before he could nock another arrow at Bisera, a sudden movement caught his eye. Velika was carving through his soldiers with fierce determination. She led a small group of elite Vakerian horse riders, weaving in and out of the Gillyrian lines, disrupting their formations.

"She's disrupting our flanks," Nikolaos noted. "Time to clip her wings."

Drawing the bowstring, he focused intently on Velika. The arrow glowed brighter than the last, crackling with energy. At the moment of release, he channeled more mana into it, propelling it forward so that it streaked through the air with blinding speed.

James saw the imminent danger. From his vantage point, he could see the glowing projectile headed straight for Velika. Without thinking, he leaped from the truck, shouting at the top of his lungs, "Velika! Behind you!"

She turned her head just as the arrow struck her horse. The powerful impact sent the animal reeling, a pained scream escaping its lips as it collapsed to the ground. Thrown from her saddle, Velika hit the ground hard but managed to roll to lessen the impact.

Dazed and disoriented, she tried to stand. Suddenly, a searing pain erupted in her left leg. Another mana-infused arrow from Nikolaos had pierced her greave, the metal offering little resistance. The arrow drove through her lower leg, penetrating muscle and bone, and embedded itself deep into the earth beneath her. She gasped, pain coursing through her as she realized her leg was pinned.

"Velika!" James sprinted toward her, his heart pounding.

Nikolaos raised an eyebrow, intrigued. "Interesting," he mused. Nocking another mana-infused arrow, he directed his focus toward James, who was now exposed on the battlefield.

As the glowing arrow sped toward him, James felt a surge of fear. Time seemed to slow. He saw the arrow approaching—a harbinger of death.

"Look out!" a voice shouted.

Captain Garros, one of Bisera's most trusted lieutenants, spurred his horse forward. Positioning himself between James and the incoming arrow, he raised his shield in a desperate attempt to block it. The arrow struck with tremendous force, piercing the shield as if it were parchment. The mana-charged tip drove into Garros's throat, tearing through flesh and bone.

Garros's eyes widened in shock as blood spurted from the wound in rhythmic pulses. He gasped for air, a gurgling sound emanating as he struggled to breathe through his damaged windpipe. His gaze met James's for a fleeting moment before he toppled from his horse, collapsing onto the blood-soaked ground.

"Noooo!" James screamed, his voice raw with anguish.

Part 2

"In the heart of the Gillyrian capital—a city of marble palaces, soaring spires, and gilded domes that shimmered under the sun's embrace—stood the Imperial Convent of Gillyria. Within its ancient walls, lush gardens flourished with vibrant flora gathered from every corner of the empire. White stone pathways wound through olive groves and fragrant beds of jasmine, leading to secluded alcoves perfect for contemplation and, in theory, spiritual purity.

It was dawn, and Irene, the abbess of this revered sanctuary, stood along one of these pathways, attempting her daily ritual of serene meditation. She was supposed to be radiating spiritual devotion, her heart filled only with divine focus. The setting couldn't have been more picturesque: archways glinting in the gentle light, a soft breeze carrying distant hymns. Yet here she was, trying—really, really trying—not to think about the muscular physique of Alexander.

At thirty-five, Irene's beauty had matured like fine wine. Her dark hair, now threaded gracefully with silver, was braided meticulously and draped over a shoulder. Her face, once celebrated for its youthful allure, now bore faint lines at the corners of her eyes—trophies of laughter, sorrow, and the passage of time. Dressed in robes of deep indigo, her figure remained voluptuous and supple, and ironically, the years of vigorous manual labor—tending gardens, hauling water, moving heavy items, cradling orphans—only made her legs shapelier. However, unbeknownst to many, the physical labor was the only way she could suppress her carnal longings for Alexander.

She was still hopelessly, incorrigibly in love with Alexander. Not just love—it was love, longing, lust, and nostalgia all mixed together. Even after nine long years in the convent, Irene still could not completely banish the flashbacks from their loving ten years of marriage. It was a decade of perfect bliss—ten years of laughter, intellectual debates, tireless work for Gillyria's sake, and nights of passion that still made her cheeks flame. Alexander was the perfect husband in every way. He had everything that Gillyrian women coveted—loving, intelligent, faithful, pious, powerful, rich, and most importantly, handsome. Alexander had been the perfect specimen of masculine grace: dark hair framing a face that could've been sculpted by the finest artisans of antiquity, an athletic build that was lean yet defined, every muscle eloquently pronounced without tipping into brutishness. His figure would have put most statues to shame.

They had been engaged since the tender age of ten. They grew up together; their friendship blossomed into a love that wove together their intellects, their ideals, and yes, their bodies. Irene remembered standing in the palace courtyard, watching him spar. The sweat glistening on his skin, the poised swordsmanship, the way he would glance her way as if silently asking, "Are you watching, my love?" She always was. How could she not?

But now, she was Abbess Irene, the woman who had given it all up for the sake of Gillyria. Yet after that fateful discovery nine years ago, Irene had decided that she had to separate from him for the sake of Gillyria and their souls. Convinced that continuing their marriage would certainly bring about divine wrath, Irene made the painful decision to break off their marriage. That year, they were both twenty-six, yet they had on their shoulders the weight of an ancient empire that once ruled the entire known world. It had always been their dream since childhood to make Gillyria great again, to restore it to the rightful place it deserved, the first among all nations. Yet such lofty goals would certainly require divine backing, and for that, they could not afford to incur the Universal Spirit's wrath.

She remembered Alexander's voice, trembling as he pleaded for her to stay: "You mean more to me than the throne." She had gently but firmly reminded him that it was his lifelong dream to restore Gillyria to the glory it once had; she could not be selfish enough to deny him that dream. If the lack of heirs and subtle portents hinted at divine displeasure, then, Irene deduced, their separation—her withdrawing into the life of a nun—would certainly appease the Spirit. She made the final decision. Alexander had told her that he would wait for her. She had tearfully told him he should consider marrying again, to give Gillyria the empress it needed, but he had firmly refused. "I will never marry again, Irene. You're the only wife that I will have in this life," he had said. The memory still pressed painfully against her heart, like a cherished wound that never fully healed. She had thought his words to be from the heat of the moment, yet his action of officially making his nephew the crown prince effectively proclaimed to the empire his decision. Yet the more devoted he was to her, the harder it was for Irene to get over the loss.

As Irene moved about the convent, her gaze landed on the distant city below the convent walls. She took in the merchants calling their wares, children laughing, worshippers singing. Gillyria thrived under Alexander's wise rule, a rule she hoped their sacrifice had helped secure. Still, her mind, mischievous as ever, refused to leave her in peace. Throughout her years in the convent, flashbacks of intimate moments kept resurfacing during the long nights. The more she tried to push them aside, the more they came.

As Irene strolled along the courtyard garden of the grand convent, a memory of Alexander and Igor training shirtless in the palace courtyard burst into her mind. It was when they were twenty and Alexander had just formally promoted Igor to captain of the praetorian guard and given him Anna's hand in marriage. That day, Alexander, elegant and lean, was like a living sculpture—graceful lines and perfectly balanced musculature. Igor, towering and blond, was a contrast of a breathtakingly beautiful face and a powerhouse of sheer muscle. Comparing the two, Alexander had resembled a masterpiece of subtle refinement, while Igor was raw power incarnate. Irene remembered how Anna, with her own curvaceous figure and golden locks, had cheered Igor on, while Irene proudly rooted for Alexander. The memory of their friendly rivalry now sent a strange sensation through her body, and she stomped her foot lightly, annoyed at herself.

"Stop it," she hissed under her breath. She was an abbess now, a pious figure who was supposed to have transcended such earthly distractions. Due to these constant memories, Alexander and she had agreed to avoid seeing each other because they feared they wouldn't be able to control their raging passions.

She clenched her fists, feeling the muscle flex beneath her robes. All that manual labor, all that hauling and scrubbing, was partly a spiritual practice—at least that's what she told everyone. Truthfully, it was also a desperate attempt to exhaust herself into pious numbness, to keep her from daydreaming about Alexander's gentle touch or the warmth of his embrace. When desire stirred uninvited, she would find a new set of chores to distract herself. Monastic life was supposed to elevate her above mortal cravings. Instead, it had simply taught her to manage them like a busy innkeeper shooing away unruly guests.

Another absurd thought danced through her mind: If one day, in the afterlife, she and Alexander met again in paradise—assuming both earned the Spirit's mercy—would he still be that achingly handsome? Would heavenly beings be just as well-built? The image of angelic beings flexing their muscles was so ridiculous that she slapped herself lightly on the cheek, horrified by her own imagination.

From a distance, the young nun Sister Miriam witnessed the abbess's self-inflicted tap. The poor girl gasped out of confusion, but soon she convinced herself that the abbess must be performing some holy ritual that is beyond the understanding of a novice like her.

Irene sighed, shaking her head. "One day at a time," she whispered. She would carry these secret longings quietly. The Spirit knew her heart, knew that despite her best efforts, she could not fully extinguish her love and yearning. She prayed for Alexander's safety and success, striving to believe that their sacrifice was not in vain.

"Irene?" a gentle voice called. Sister Miriam approached, bright-eyed and respectful. Irene turned, carefully arranging her features into a serene mask of divine tranquility.

"Abbess," Miriam said softly, "the council awaits your guidance on the Autumn Repentance Festival preparations."

"Thank you, Sister Miriam. I will join them shortly," Irene replied, her voice calm and wise, as expected of a holy figure.

As she made her way to the monastery's main hall, Irene tried to focus on her responsibilities: souls to comfort, faith to nurture, and a grand festival to prepare that would uplift countless hearts.

In the council chamber, clergy and lay leaders discussed decorations, hymns, and sermons. Irene offered suggestions with composed assurance.

"Your wisdom is invaluable, Abbess," Father Matthias remarked. "The people will find great comfort in your guidance."

"We all contribute to the strength of the faith," Irene said modestly. "Together, we illuminate the path forward."

Partway through, a messenger arrived with urgent news from the northern front. Irene's heart fluttered—any mention of Alexander's campaigns did that. "Emperor Alexander has secured a decisive victory against the Vakerians," the messenger said. "Their forces are in full retreat."

Relief and gratitude washed over her, a genuine smile lighting her face. "Blessed be the Universal Spirit," she proclaimed. The council members shared her delight. Gillyria was safe, at least for now, and Alexander continued to prove his worth as a leader.

After the meeting, Irene retreated to the convent's library, its shelves lined with ancient texts and illuminated manuscripts. Here, in the hush of old parchment and flickering lamplight, she found a brief refuge. From within her robes, she retrieved a small, leather-bound journal—her confidant, a place to spill the secrets she dared not speak aloud.

"Dearest Alexander," she wrote once, "Though our paths have diverged, my thoughts return to you. I rejoice in your victories and pray for your safety. The love we once shared—intense, passionate, filled with laughter and whispered dreams—continues to guide me. I remember the warmth of your embrace, how your presence filled my world. Our decision was made for the greater good, but the heart does not easily forget. I wonder if you've found solace, if someone else now stands by your side. The thought unsettles me, yet I cannot begrudge you happiness. May the Universal Spirit watch over you, and may you feel the echo of my support in every challenge you face."

She closed the journal, pressing it against her heart. The memory of his hands on her waist, his breath against her ear, his laughter rumbling low in his chest—these were impressions time could not erase.

Stepping onto a balcony, Irene gazed at the bustling city below. Merchants, children, worshippers—all thriving under the order she and Alexander had striven to maintain. "Together, even apart, we have made a difference," she whispered. "Our love fuels our purpose."

A small, wry smile tugged at her lips. She even recalled that silly vision of divine abs and angelic biceps. She could laugh at herself—an abbess still tormented by thoughts of toned torsos and warm embraces. But humor, in its own way, was healing. It reminded her that no matter how lofty her station, she was profoundly human—full of contradictions and longings.

"Perhaps one day," she murmured softly, "our paths will cross again in a world where duty and love need not be at odds.""