Love of Fortune and Steel

Part 1

Garros's body struck the dirt with a dull, heart-wrenching thud. His lifeblood soaked into the coastal soil as the ragged cries of battle dulled around him. Only moments ago, he had fought valiantly by Velika's side, guiding his cavalry to wheel and charge against the Gillyrian lines. He was one of Bisera's trusted cavalry captain—an ambitious younger son of a count—earnest, lean, with unassuming features and a finely honed physique, and possessed of a quiet determination fueled by dreams of glory. Though he was of average appearance and had kept a relatively low profile, his loyalty and skill had never gone unnoticed by Bisera, who valued his steadfast devotion and competence. He had always hoped the battlefield would set him apart, earning him the respect of his peers, the admiration of his soldiers, and—if the Spirit willing—the love of Velika. He had fought not only for his own honor, but also for Bisera's trust and for the glory of Vakeria. Above all, he had risked everything to protect James, believing the young man crucial to their cause, to Vakeria's future, and most importantly, to Bisera and Velika.

The fight still raged, but in Garros's failing vision, it all became muted—just shapes and light swirling at the edges of his dimming sight. Velika, pinned to the ground just a few strides away, her eyes transfixed on the fallen Garros, her expression twisted in shock and anguish. Garros managed a final glance toward her. This was all he wanted in the end: to see her face one last time.

He remembered when he first saw her, many years before, when she had newly joined Bisera's retinue. Velika had been recently widowed, a mother caring for a young daughter, and Garros had instantly recognized the quiet loneliness beneath her stoic exterior. Tall, voluptuous, strong, and skilled beyond measure, Velika possessed both a fearsome prowess and a gentle resilience that set his heart ablaze. He had loved her from that first encounter: loved her strength, her kindness, and the silent grief she carried like an invisible cloak. Yet he had dared not confess it. He was but the younger son of a domineering count, a man who would never approve of his son courting a widow. What status could he claim to make himself worthy of her notice? What glory could he achieve to soften his father's stern judgment? He had thrown himself into the pursuit of battlefield renown, hoping to rise above anonymity and one day approach Velika openly. If he could earn a name for himself, perhaps he might stand before her with pride and claim her love without shame.

He had imagined this war would bring him glory, that his deeds might make him worthy of her notice, that he might stand apart from the countless younger sons whose dreams scattered like autumn leaves. Instead, he had accomplished nothing of renown. He was dying in the dust of a foreign battlefield, another young man among the countless others who had marched beneath proud banners only to vanish into unmarked graves. This was the truth behind the grand illusions that led so many to war—where hopes of glory were ground into the soil, and all that remained were broken bodies and shattered dreams.

His chest shuddered. He tried to whisper Velika's name, but only blood stained his lips. Velika, her leg still pinned, gasped out his name in return, voice cracking. She stretched her hand as far as she could, but he was just beyond her reach. Pain and fury warred within her as tears spilled down her dusty cheeks. He had always been kind to her—ever near with a quiet word or gentle smile. She had cherished his company even if she never fully understood his feelings. Now, as he slipped away, leaving unconfessed love and unrealized potential behind, she felt her heart twist in agonizing loss. In that last flicker of life, Garros's gaze locked with hers, his silent goodbye tinged with regret. He exhaled softly, and then he was gone.

James, frozen in place by the shock, stared in horror. He had seen wounds before, but never such a sudden and violent end to someone so valiant. Garros had thrown himself into death's path without hesitation—out of loyalty to Bisera, Velika, and James himself. James's mind struggled to grasp it. His heart hammered, his mouth went dry, and for a moment he could barely move. He finally understood what "cutthroat" had truly meant back in the day: the raw brutality that stripped men of their grand aspirations and left nothing but senseless tragedy.

Bisera, too, was stunned. The Vakerian general—who had risen to prominence by consistently outmaneuvering her foes and caring for her subordinates like a fierce matron—had just narrowly escaped a mana-infused arrow by hurling herself aside. Dazed and dusty from her fall, forced off her horse by that desperate dodge, she found herself surrounded by Gillyrian infantry. Soldiers encased in lamellar klivanion armor pressed forward, their stout spears, round shields, and spathion swords forming a disciplined tide. Garros's death and Velika's predicament hammered at her heart. She had cherished them both—treasured Velika's loyalty and admired Garros' courage. They have both grown to be close companions, comrades whose safety she felt responsible for, as though she were a stern but caring mother hen guarding her flock. Now she wanted to roar her fury at the Gillyrians for this injustice.

It was then that something unexpected stirred within her—a deep reservoir of inner strength that she had tried time and again to reach before. Bisera had trained herself hard, striving to master the art of mana-channeling. However, until now, her efforts had led only to incremental bursts—brief boosts of speed and a slight edge in agility. Never had she felt this kind of raw energy truly harmonize with her body. But at this dire moment, with Velika trapped, Garros dead, and James suddenly in danger as Nikolaos—a deadly Gillyrian commander—took aim at him again, the floodgates burst wide open.

It began as a tingling in her legs, then a rush of heat behind her eyes, more intense than anything she had known. She barely had a moment to understand this new sensation. A ring of Gillyrian spearmen closed in, brandishing their spears. They lunged in unison, a deadly hedge of iron points converging on her. Bisera did not hesitate. For the first time, mana energy not only surged inside her but also poured out, collaborating seamlessly with every fiber of her being. It wasn't just speed this time—it was fluid grace, strength, balance, awareness. Her entire body and spirit worked as one, enhanced, perfected, as though the mana were an extension of herself.

As two Gillyrian spears thrust toward her midsection, Bisera quickly grasped them, one on each hand, and clamped her hands atop their shafts. Muscles and mana combined in perfect harmony as she pressed down sharply, using the spears like springboards. Before the astonished soldiers could react, she vaulted upward, armor rattling, flipping backward above their heads. The next rank of men gawked as she landed lightly—first on the crossing spears of another line, then stepping atop a shield rim, then onto a shoulder. She moved with impossible speed and precision, as if she were dancing on the very edges of blades. What had been scenes in tales from distance lands now came alive: a warrior so swift and surefooted that she could run across the heads of her enemies.

She leapt from helmet crest to helmet crest, each time pushing off with mana-fueled force. The Gillyrians cursed and staggered, trying to strike at her feet or grasp her ankles, but she was already gone. It was as if she trod on reeds in a quiet pond rather than on an armed mass of soldiers. The battlefield around them crackled with disbelief as Bisera—clad in her reddish-brown armor that caught the light with every movement, her wavy blonde hair framing a face both fierce and radiant—defied all logic, a beautiful, terrible figure of valor, desperation, and newly awakened power.

Soon Bisera was beyond the encirclement, racing toward Garros's fallen form. Her heart thundered with a mixture of grief and burning resolve. She would not let the enemy claim another life so easily. She would not lose James as she had lost Garros. She would not abandon Velika. The bonds of camaraderie, love, and loyalty stirred something deep within her, propelling her forward like a blazing comet cutting through a dark sky. Velika watched, injured and amazed, tears in her eyes, while James stood transfixed, half forgetting the arrows and fire raging around them. In Bisera's desperate fury and grief, she was breathtaking—radiant, fearsome, yet heartbreakingly human.

But Nikolaos, high above on his vantage point, had not relented. The Gillyrian commander drew another arrow and took aim at James once more. The young man stood exposed, shocked speechless by Garros's sacrifice and Bisera's acrobatics. This was the fateful moment that Bisera had feared. She could not lose James, not after all they had been through. She would save him as Garros had tried to, as Velika would have done, as a leader, comrade, and protector, for Bisera had come to care for James deeply.

Nikolaos exhaled and released the bowstring as he channelled mana into the arrow. Bisera, still suffused with mana, felt the energy surge again, this time flooding her arms. Her eyes sparked clearer than ever. She had no bow, no time to intercept the arrow by ordinary means. Instead, she hurled her sword. The blade flashed through the smoky air, a streak of steel propelled by newfound, perfectly harmonized power. Its tip met the arrowhead mid-flight, a sharp, ringing impact that deflected the deadly missile. The arrow spun away harmlessly, and the sword clattered to the ground below.

Without pause, Bisera snatched a fallen spear from the churned earth. All around her was chaos—men screaming, horses panicking, the stench of burning flesh, and spreading fire. She hurled the spear with all the might and mana-infused skill at her command. It soared across the battlefield with incredible speed over ranks of struggling combatants and steaming patches of flame. Nikolaos, still on his perch, caught a glint of metal in the corner of his eye and threw himself aside at the last instant.

He was fast, but not fast enough. The spear's iron point raked along his left shoulder, slicing through mail and flesh. He hissed and staggered backward, pain and surprise etched on his handsome features. Had he hesitated an instant longer, the spear would have skewered him clean through.

The battlefield seemed to hold its breath at this exchange—an impossible feat of valor and precision. Vakerian troops, battered by flame and steel, looked anew upon their general, Bisera, with awe and renewed hope. She had always been respected for her cunning and leadership, but now she had shown them something beyond mortal ken. The Gillyrian soldiers faltered, shaken by the blow dealt to their commander and by the realization that they faced an enemy who was every bit as invincible as her reputation suggested. High above, Nikolaos glared down, his shoulder throbbing. He had gained what he could this day—tested the Vakerians' mettle, inflicted losses, and sown confusion. Around him, acrid smoke veiled the battlefield. With a curt, emotionless signal, he ordered the retreat. The Gillyrians, disciplined to their core, withdrew in neat formations. They had no need for senseless sacrifice. Strategy, not passion, ruled their hearts, and having bloodied their foes and seen Bisera's awakening, they melted into the haze, leaving the Vakerians in stunned disarray.

Bisera, having crossed a human sea of spears and shoulders in an astonishing display of mana-powered agility to save James, now stood trembling. Her heart hammered, and her limbs felt both light and unbearably heavy. Just now, under the crushing weight of loss and desperation, her power had finally exploded forth, enhancing every aspect of her body and mind in perfect unison. It had allowed her to perform a feat no one could have imagined. Yet the toll was great. As the last Gillyrian helmets vanished into the smoky veil, Bisera's knees buckled. Exhaustion claimed her, and she pitched forward, utterly spent.

James, still shaken by Garros's death and awed by Bisera's valor, rushed forward to catch her. She slumped into his arms, her head lolling onto his broad shoulder, her body trembling with exhaustion, yet still beautiful in her courage and heartbreak. He felt her heartbeat against his chest, faint and fast. In that suspended moment, time seemed to falter. The world fell silent but for the distant crackle of flames, the sobs of wounded men, and the quiet, desperate breaths of those who remained.

Part 2

The wind over the steppe carried a lighter timbre this morning, as though the heavens themselves acknowledged Saralta's altered station. The rolling grasslands of Rosagar, once so familiar, now stretched before her like a threshold she must cross—first north to the frontier of the Vakerian Empire, then southward toward Podem. Beneath her, a sturdy chestnut mare pawed the earth, sensing the tension in her rider's posture. Behind them trailed a column of a thousand Rosagarian cavalry, their lamellar armor gleaming in the sunlight. These men and their mounts were now under her command, and the weight of it settled on her shoulders like a heavy cloak.

At twenty-six, Saralta was no stranger to raids or detachments. She knew the saddle, the bow, and the lance intimately. Yet never before had she led so large a force across foreign lands, following the Emperor's orders to deliver her cavalry to Podem. There, she would join with Vakerian armies arrayed against the Gillyrians under the legendary Emperor Alexander. Perhaps she would serve under General Bisera, a devout follower of the monotheistic Universal Spirit, or possibly even under the Emperor himself. This promised both opportunity and risk.

Though her lineage and training commanded respect, Saralta felt the burden of command keenly. Ahead lay fortresses and border towns loyal to unfamiliar crowns and creeds. In her saddlebag lay an imperial travel document, sealed with the Emperor's signet, intended to secure provisions and safe passage. Without it, her men might be mistaken for marauders. Yet beyond these practical concerns, another worry gnawed at her: Would a zealous Vakerian commander impose harsh religious strictures on her steppe-born cavalry? Would they be viewed as pagans, suspected, or denied their familiar comforts like wine? How would her proud warriors fare beneath suspicious gazes?

As the morning advanced, the column followed a gently rolling track worn by traders and herders. Near noon, Saralta signaled a halt. The men dismounted, and quartermasters distributed dried meat, onions, and barley. Resourceful riders gathered wild herbs from nearby brush. Soon, small cooking fires dotted the camp, sending up fragrant curls of steam. A hearty stew of salted mutton, barley, onions, wild garlic, and a handful of root vegetables from their saddlebags would sustain them, just as it had sustained Rosagarian riders for generations. A few men chuckled softly over cups of fermented mare's milk, savoring a sliver of calm.

Saralta nudged her mare up a slight rise overlooking the encampment. Her standard-bearer and a few guards kept a respectful distance as she gazed south, toward Podem and her uncertain future. Inevitably, her thoughts drifted to the conversation she'd shared with her mother, Yuying, only days ago—before she had set out, before she fully understood the precarious balance between ambition and survival. Saralta closed her eyes and allowed memory to carry her back across the plains, to that quiet afternoon when her mother's true face emerged from behind the courtly mask.

They had ridden far that day, seeking a solitude untroubled by palace ears. By the time Yuying halted atop a gentle rise, the palace was no more than a distant notion. Here, amid whispering grasses and the slanting late-afternoon sun, no courtiers could eavesdrop, no guards could judge. As Yuying dismounted, the mild, submissive consort fell away. In her place stood a seasoned warrior, her posture straight and sure, as though she wore armor instead of fine cloth. Saralta had long suspected this truth about her mother, and now, at last, she would hear it voiced.

Yuying drew a steady breath, eyes drifting over the horizon. "First and foremost, Saralta, I want you to prioritize your safety above all else."

Saralta arched an eyebrow. "Mother, you know I can handle myself."

"I do," Yuying replied softly. "But the world is unpredictable, and war even more so. Valor and glory are tempting—they can make you blind to risk."

Saralta weighed her mother's words. "Father taught me that honor is worth any danger."

Yuying nodded, her tone respectful but firm. "Your father taught you well as a warrior, and I respect that. But I've seen the cost of war—lives spent cheaply, families left in ruins, all for the ambitions of distant rulers who may hold their subjects' worth lightly. No amount of glory is worth your life."

Yuying paused, her gaze sharpening. "I know you might see this as cowardice. Let me share something from my past, and perhaps you'll understand."

Saralta listened as Yuying recounted her youth in the Dragon Realm, where her family served as military commanders guarding the northern frontier against steppe raiders. When Yuying was fifteen, a nomadic force of 30,000 invaded. The defenders numbered 50,000, mostly infantry. They had only one contingent of 1,000 cavalry, entrusted to Yuying by her brother. Deprived of cavalry strength, victory demanded a bold stroke: a pre-dawn raid on the enemy camp to sow panic before the main army encircled them.

Yuying's eyes gleamed with old memories. "We struck just before dawn, plunging into the enemy camp. They never expected a thousand riders in their midst at that hour. Chaos followed. Their commander fell in the melee, and as our main force completed the encirclement, I led my riders out. The enemy collapsed in disarray."

Saralta's heart quickened at the image: her mother, only a girl, but leading a fearless charge. "You were victorious," she said softly.

Yuying nodded, though her expression turned grim. "Yes. The Emperor hailed me as a hero. But it came at a cost." She traced a line along her side, her voice growing quiet. "I suffered a wound that should have killed me. Only advanced medicinal techniques and my mastery of mana channeling saved me. It left a scar—one your father calls an imperfection, but to me it's a reminder that victory can ring hollow."

Saralta noticed her mother's subtle bitterness. "A reminder of what?"

"That victory means nothing in the end," Yuying replied, her voice cooling. "My family's influence frightened the imperial court. My victory actually hastened our downfall. And now, decades later, I learn from traveling merchants that the Dragon Realm itself has fragmented into warring states. The mighty empire my family desparately protected is gone. The position of Guardian of the Northern Gate, once held by my clan for generations, which has command over 200,000 of the empire's most elite troops, is now awarded to a former steppe chieftain as a part of a compromise for peace. But the greatest irony is that in the end, the people who treated me with more civility and kindness than the imperial court ever did turned out to be the very "barbarian" that I risked my life fighting against."

Saralta's eyes widened. She struggled to fathom the enormity of it. An army of tens of thousands is already grand to her, but 200,000 elite troops? "It's… unbelievable," she whispered.

Yuying inclined her head sadly. "And yet, as grand as the Dragon Realm was, it is but a droplet in the river of eternity."

"So, my point," Yuying repeated, "is that empires rise and fall, Saralta, but you only live once."

Though her words were light, sadness lay beneath them. Saralta, who had always believed in her father's power and the might of the Vakerian Empire, now saw these structures as fragile, transient. Her mind reeled at the sheer scale of what her mother had endured.

Yuying turned to her daughter, voice softening. "This is why I brought you here, away from prying eyes. I want you to remember that the empire you serve belongs to the Emperor. Any victory you win will be his. But your life... your life belongs to you and your family. Don't gamble it away for empty honors."

Saralta hesitated, torn between the warrior code she cherished and this unsettling perspective. "But how can I ignore duty and valor? Isn't that our people's way?"

Yuying's lips curved into a mischievous grin. "Once I focused on encircling nomad incursions and ensuring they never dared invade again. Now I focus on encircling your father's incursions and keeping him ever eager to invade again." She laughed softly at Saralta's shocked look, the innuendo settling in.

"Mother!" Saralta exclaimed, cheeks flushing despite the gravity of the moment.

Yuying's laughter softened into affectionate seriousness. "What? It's true. One day, you'll understand there's more to life than battlefields. I've known war's ugly truths. Valor and glory fade, but the scars remain. I'm happier now than I ever was riding into combat. Why create widows and orphans for the whims of distant rulers, especially when truth and civility may lie in unexpected places?"

Saralta struggled to reconcile this with everything she had learned. "You're asking me to abandon what I've been taught."

"No," Yuying said gently. "I'm asking you to rethink it. We call the Gillyrians savages, but we know so little about them. The imperial court even adopted their god. If everything can change—positions of power, entire empires—are we so different? Before you risk your life for a cause, understand it. Because if it all crumbles, what will you have left?"

Saralta fell silent, her heart heavier with questions than ever before.

Yuying studied her daughter's face. "If you promise not to take unnecessary risks—if you survive and return safely, and who knows, maybe find a worthy man—then I will teach you cultivation arts, perhaps even the techniques that have allowed me to maintain my youth."

Saralta caught her breath. Such knowledge was priceless. Her mother wasn't just offering power; she was offering survival, an alternative to glory's hollow shine. "I... I promise," Saralta said at last.

Yuying smiled, her gaze warm with understanding. "Good."