Love of Fortune and Steel

Part 1

Bisera stirred just before dawn, eyelids heavy and muscles sore beneath the sculpted plates of her armor. She still wore her magnificent gilded set—breastplate, pauldrons, vambraces, and gauntlets that now pinched slightly at her wrists. Renowned across countless battles, her armor symbolized noble blood and legendary valor. Yet this morning, an unfamiliar warmth fluttered inside her, a feeling unconnected to steel or conquest.

In the faint glow of dying torchlight and the soft gleam of James's conjured LED lamps—blessings from Seraphina, as Bisera understood them—she spotted him resting nearby. He lay atop a folded cloak, slack in posture, face peaceful in sleep. The previous night he had proven himself more than an odd stranger. He had saved her life many times. He came from another Earth, another cosmos, guided—at least to her eyes—by the Archangel of Hope, Seraphina. Even now, the scope of that truth baffled her. She was a child of a medieval world, raised on fealty, piety, and solidarity. Yet she found herself drawn to a man from a realm of peace, order, and liberty, and beneath her armor, a silent, unacknowledged attraction sparked.

Bisera propped herself up, moving carefully so as not to make her armor clink too loudly. All around her, other soldiers lay scattered throughout the makeshift infirmary, dozing fitfully or whispering softly to one another. Far at the edge of the encampment, a few dozen men stood watch with their spears at the ready, backs turned outward to face the night's dangers. Their vigil ensured no threat approached unseen, but they were distant enough that Bisera and James's quiet corner remained private. Secure in this knowledge, Bisera dared to inch closer. Yesterday, she had led warriors against impossible odds; today, in James's presence, a softness unfurled within her. He had brought forth "elixirs" and "bandages" that healed as if by divine grace, carried lights without flame, and awakened hope where despair hovered. Surrounded by wounded comrades, she marveled that amid the stench of blood and ash, one man's kindness could feel like a gentle balm.

She watched him now—his relaxed features, the quiet rise and fall of his chest. His attire, stitched and woven in styles foreign to her land, fascinated her. No mere curiosity anymore, he mattered to her. Reverence and tenderness swirled inside her, and something more profound: a quiet longing that stirred beneath layers of steel and padding.

Bisera rolled one shoulder to ease its stiffness, her armor catching dull reflections of flickering light. A faint, absurd wish crossed her mind: that she had bathed or braided her hair before collapsing into exhaustion. How foolish! She had led armies without pausing for vanity. Yet for him—the man guided by Seraphina's will—she wondered if he would prefer her hair unbound, her face cleaner, her eyes less tired. She had remained single for so long, warding off the courtship of countless scions from many powerful noble clans in order to maintain the independence needed to fulfil her fealty to her emperor. But now, all those concerns seemed distant. She wanted James, not for empire or duty, but for herself.

Carefully, Bisera reached out, gauntlet plates catching a faint gleam. She hesitated, then brushed a speck of dried mud from his sleeve. It was a ghost of a touch, yet it made her heart flutter. In her world, a noble lady might offer delicate tokens or whispered encouragement to show interest. With James, a foreigner from another age, she wasn't sure how to convey affection. Too much was at stake: the blessings he brought, the healing supplies they so desperately needed. She couldn't risk offense. Her mind flashed to that earlier misunderstanding—the hand-kiss in the cave—and her cheeks grew hot. She had acted out of reverence, and he might have misread it. Now, in this shared silence, she dared not be too bold.

James shifted slightly, sighing in his sleep. Bisera froze, then relaxed when he settled again. A tender smile curved her lips. He needed his rest, having worked wonders last night. His skill and Seraphina's influence must have drained his mana and strength. She wanted to ease his burdens, show gratitude not merely as a commander praising a comrade, but as a woman who admired and respected him deeply.

With utmost care, she adjusted the blanket over him, as if tucking in a beloved companion. It was a small, gentle act that felt as daring as any cavalry charge. She half-expected him to wake, to catch her in this vulnerable moment, but he slept on, breathing steadily, unaware of her silent devotion.

Soon, dawn's call would drag her back to reality—reorganizing defenses, forging new strategies, mustering courage for future battles. For now, she savored this private reprieve. The few dozen watchful soldiers remained at their distant post, backs to the camp, while nearby wounded comrades remained lost in their uneasy slumber. Bisera studied James's strange garments, his curious tools, and foreign manner. She admired the kindness that radiated from him, and the sense of purpose he carried like a well-tempered blade. To her, he was chosen by Seraphina—an emissary of Hope sent across eons to stand by her side.

For all the gulf between their worlds, something profound had taken root in her heart—reverence, care, and yes, a hint of longing. As the first pale light of dawn shimmered on her armor, Bisera smiled softly, cherishing this delicate moment of connection with the man who, impossibly, brought miracles and hope from another cosmos.

Part 2

Adelais slipped into Thessaloria just as the Sun began its languid descent. She had chosen her moment well: the city's gates were busiest during the late afternoon, as merchant caravans negotiated with watchful Vakerian guards. Disguised as part of a modest Gillyrian merchant convoy, Adelais knew exactly how to present herself—neither too bold nor too timid, and certainly not too alluring at this stage. She needed to pass as a harmless, slightly anxious refugee-merchant's helper, not a skilled operative of the Gillyrian Empire's special reconnaissance corps.

Clad in a simple linen tunic of earthy brown and a woolen mantle dyed a muted blue, she carried a small bundle strapped across her torso, just enough to hint at trade goods. She had bound her fiery red hair beneath a plain kerchief, allowing only a few wisps to escape. Her figure, naturally voluptuous and perfectly proportioned—a slender waist, generous bosom, and shapely hips and buttocks—was no less present, but the loose garments and layered shawl helped subdue its impact. She knew full well that in this time and place, a woman's beauty could draw dangerous attention, especially under foreign occupation. The early medieval world was no gentle era, and while the Gillyrians prided themselves on refined culture, the Vakerian occupiers were pragmatic and suspicious. She would allow her attractiveness to surface strategically when it mattered—like when she needed to intrigue a certain mysterious mage named James.

The heavy oak gates and fortified towers loomed overhead as the caravan rolled forward. Vakerian guards—broad-shouldered men with short, practical tunics over mail shirts—watched from their posts. The Vakerians, who had seized Thessaloria some months earlier, had the rugged appearance of a frontier people: some had trimmed beards, others thick mustaches, and most bore weapons openly. Their eyes followed every newcomer, their posture rigid with tension.

"Name your business," barked a guard as the merchant leading Adelais's group halted before him. The merchant, a middle-aged Gillyrian man who knew better than to provoke the conquerors, presented a sealed letter from a local authority verifying his trade permit. The guard eyed the document, grunted, and swept his gaze over the wagon's occupants.

Adelais lowered her eyes, feigning nervousness. Her posture showed no challenge. Just a humble assistant—hands calloused from toil, shoulders slightly stooped as if carrying burdens day after day. One of the guards paused near her side, checking her face. She mustered a hesitant smile, letting a hint of unease flicker in her gaze. Perhaps her large brown eyes and gentle nod would register as harmless. He lingered a moment longer than necessary, then moved on. Good. She had drawn a glimmer of interest but not enough to cause trouble.

After a few tense minutes, the caravan was allowed inside. The city streets—once bustling with Gillyrian prosperity—were subdued. Thessaloria was famed for its markets, its mosaic-adorned churches, and strategic port. Now, however, foreign soldiers patrolled cobblestone lanes, eyeing traders and citizens alike. Rumor had spread that Gillyria's imperial force—some 30,000 strong—was advancing after a catastrophic Vakerian defeat at Sparklestar River. Bisera, the renowned Gillyrian general, had survived with the help of a mysterious mage named James. The Vakerians in Thessaloria, a mere thousand in number, were on edge, uncertain how long they could hold the city if Emperor Alexander's army drew near.

Adelais needed that tension. She thrived in the uneasy gaps where information slipped through. She was trained to use cunning disguises, subtle charms, and a blend of local knowledge to infiltrate enemy lines. She was trained to gather intel quietly. She had a mission: learn all she could about James, the so-called "divine emissary" or "great mage." Verify his authenticity, learn how he operated, and determine the limits of his abilities. And if possible, find hints about Bisera's movements or any high-ranking Vakerians. Each piece of information she gathered could shift the balance in the coming confrontation.

She parted ways with the caravan at a small square near the city's center. The merchants moved on to secure lodging and attempt small trades. She politely claimed she needed to find a relative rumored to have taken refuge here—an excuse that no one questioned, as many displaced Gillyrians sought lost kin in these troubled times.

The street was lined with simple stone buildings, arched doorways, and wooden balconies from which residents sometimes lowered baskets to trade small goods. Worn frescoes on certain walls hinted at a prouder past. The occupation left its mark: fewer children played outside, and townsfolk negotiated prices quietly, glancing over their shoulders. A pair of Vakerian soldiers stood at the edge of the square, helmets catching the fading light, hands resting on their swords.

Adelais pretended to browse a stall selling dried figs and rough cloth. She conversed quietly with the stall owner, a thin woman with anxious eyes. All the while, Adelais listened for snippets of conversation: mentions of James, Bisera, the armies. She caught fragments:

"…I heard the Great Mage has the ability to heal the wounded with the help of Seraphina's blessings…" "…if the Gillyrians come, what will become of us?" "…but healing power alone isn't going to save us against the Gillyrian forces…"

Nothing concrete yet. Adelais bought a length of plain linen—extra cover for her figure—and thanked the owner. She must blend in, spend a few days, gradually navigating the city's streets, seeking out places where a man like James might appear: a church, a library, or the fortress.

As night approached, lamps were lit, and curfew-like conditions began to set in. The Vakerians enforced early closures of taverns and workshops, wary of spies and saboteurs. Adelais needed shelter. The city's inns were fewer now, and many lodgings were reserved for Vakerian officers or merchants allied with them. Others were crowded with refugees from the conflict zones.

A plan formed in her mind: she would pass herself off as a displaced Gillyrian, recently arrived and seeking refuge in a cathedral or church, as many devout and desperate folk did. The occupying forces sometimes allowed war-displaced families to shelter in larger religious buildings, if only to keep them contained and supervised.

With her gaze fixed on the distant cathedral spire, Adelais slipped deeper into the warren of winding alleys. Though her stride was steady, she carried herself like a weary traveler forced along by fate, not choice. She kept her face lowered, shoulders slightly hunched, as if burdened by long roads and little rest.

Suddenly, three Vakerian soldiers emerged from the gloom of a side street. They moved with the wary confidence of men who knew this city was theirs to torment. Adelais halted at once, letting her posture sag further, appearing diminished and unthreatening. Her heart thrummed in her chest, but she schooled her expression into meek humility.

The soldiers paused, eyeing her as one might a stray animal—uncertain whether to kick it aside or ignore it. The tallest among them, a brute with a coarse beard and a deep scar along his jaw, stepped forward. He demanded in rough Gillyrian, "You, girl. State your business."

Adelais bowed her head, voice low and submissive. "I seek refuge, sir. I traveled with a caravan, but the wars scattered us. I heard the cathedral's halls give shelter to refugees."

The man's eyes swept over her, lingering with crude interest on her figure. Then, as if confirming her helplessness, he moved closer. Without warning, he gave her left buttock a sharp, dismissive squeeze, a small cruelty so out of place for the piety of the looming cathedral's shadow. Adelais startled, her body stiffening. Anger churned in her stomach, yet she managed to fake a trembling attempt to shrink away, as if too frightened to protest. She had a mission to complete; she couldn't afford any unnecessary confrontations.

"Another refugee," the soldier sneered. "The city's swollen with your lot. Cause no trouble, understand?"

Before Adelais could answer, a second soldier—leaner, with intelligent eyes—grabbed the first man's arm and hissed in their Vakerian, "Easy, you fool. We don't need a riot on our hands. The war's gone poorly enough. Harm the wrong wench, and we'll have the whole quarter up in arms." His glare was severe, as if he were warning a careless brother not to stir a nest of hornets.

The bearded soldier's face twisted in annoyance, but he stepped aside. "Go, then," he growled in Gillyrian through gritted teeth. "Pray. Hide. Whatever you do. Just keep your head down, girl."

Adelais nodded vigorously. "Of course, sir. I only wish to pray and find shelter."

He grunted and stepped aside. "Go, then. But mind your tongue. We tolerate your kind only so far."

Adelais continued on, forcing a trembling sigh for effect. Once past them, she straightened slightly. That encounter was a reminder of the fragile balance she danced upon. The Vakerians weren't fools, and desperation might make them cruel.

The cathedral soon loomed at the end of a broader thoroughfare. Its large wooden doors, carved with intricate religious motifs, stood open to the displaced souls seeking sanctuary. Inside, lamplight flickered on mosaic floors, and the soft murmurs of frightened families and solitary wanderers filled the air.

Within, the structure revealed a broad, square nave crowned by a single great dome set upon massive piers. Tall columns with carved capitals bearing delicate floral and geometric motifs supported arched galleries above. Softly glowing oil lamps cast their light across veined marble floors, and mosaics of gold and colored glass glimmered high in the dome's recesses. In the eastern apse, a magnificent mosaic depicted Archangel Seraphina, her visage concealed beneath a hood, for legend claimed her beauty was too perfect to be captured by human hands. The artisans had chosen to show only the gentle drape of her garments and the subtle radiance emanating from the hood's edges, hinting at the divine presence they dared not define.

Adelais stepped inside, blending into a group of weary-looking Gillyrian refugees. They wore patched garments and carried bundles of meager possessions. She tried to appear equally burdened—adjusting the shawl over her shoulders, letting her posture reflect fatigue and sorrow. Her natural allure was still there—no amount of drab clothing could completely hide her curvaceous figure and fine features—but she hoped the candlelit gloom, the general anxiety, and her subdued manner would keep her from standing out too conspicuously.

A priest and a nun tended to the newcomers, offering cups of watered wine, small loaves of bread, and comforting words. The atmosphere here was subdued but not hostile. The Vakerians allowed this humanitarian refuge, perhaps to avoid unrest or to maintain a semblance of moral order.

Adelais murmured thanks to the priest who approached her, explaining softly that she had come seeking shelter after losing contact with her family. He nodded sympathetically, directing her to a spot near one of the side chapels where a few straw mats lay ready for new arrivals. She thanked him, her voice trembling just enough.

As she settled onto the mat, the tension in her shoulders eased slightly. This was a good vantage point. Here, she could listen to whispered conversations, glean local rumors, and perhaps overhear chatter about James. If he were as important as Emperor Alexander suspected, some mention might surface. Or maybe James would arrive in the cathedral at some point, trying to do some superficial good deeds to win over the Gillyrians, thus lowering the cost of governance for the occupying Vakerians.

The cathedral's high vaults caught the last embers of daylight. Adelais watched flickers of lamplight dance across mosaics depicting saints and holy figures. She reminded herself of her mission: to arrange a "chance" encounter with James. To lure him into conversation, show just enough helplessness or curiosity to engage his trust. Later, when the moment was ripe, she could reveal a hint of her beauty or subtlety to win a spot among his attendants.

A distant rattling of armor outside signaled a Vakerian patrol passing by, their boots echoing in the quiet street. She wondered how long this delicate charade would last. The Gillyrian army was approaching, so everyone said. The Vakerians grew more anxious with each passing day, more suspicious, more prone to lash out. Danger hung in the air like incense, heady and heavy.

Adelais closed her eyes, feigning rest, while pricking her ears to the murmurs around her. She caught fragments of fearful speculation, prayers for deliverance, and occasional references to a mysterious mage or emissary rumored to be involved in the recent events. Nothing concrete—yet.

As the lamplight dimmed and the cathedral settled into a hush, Adelais forced herself to relax. She had infiltrated the city undetected, passed through suspicious guards, and now found a plausible refuge among innocent refugees. The stage was set, the tension palpable.

But just as her mind began to drift into careful plotting of tomorrow's steps, a faint commotion at the cathedral's entrance caught her attention. She tensed, ready to react if needed. Was it another group of newcomers? A Vakerian officer demanding to inspect the refugees?