Love of Fortune and Steel

Part 1

A sudden uproar shattered the cathedral's hush. Adelais, who had been trying to rest inconspicuously among the refugees, opened her eyes and looked toward the great wooden doors. Vakerian soldiers flooded inside, boots thudding heavily against old stone, their lamellar armor glinting dully in the dim lamplight. Drawn swords reflected the wavering glow of oil lamps. Outside, a faint orange flicker pressed against the stained glass, and a bitter tang of smoke drifted in through the open portal.

Until now, Adelais had expected only cautious patrols and guarded whispers. She knew Thessaloria bristled with suspicion under foreign occupation. Yet this sudden, violent incursion seemed beyond the usual tensions. The soldiers' voices shook with panic and fury. Something had gone terribly wrong. She saw them shove aside a stooped priest who pleaded in vain for respect in the house of the Spirit. They ignored his pleas, their gauntleted hands sending him stumbling against a carved pillar. The air, once perfumed by incense, now reeked of sweat, fear, and anger.

Refugees scrambled away, pressing themselves against the walls and columns, as if trying to blend into the ancient masonry. Adelais pulled her coarse mantle tighter, bowing her head, trying to look as meager and frightened as the others. She was no fool: her posture was too straight, her form too healthy. Her fiery red hair, half-hidden beneath the drab cloth, was a rarity here, and her height exceeded that of many soldiers. She had been sent to gather information, to await a certain James who might hold divine favor or unusual influence. Her orders came from the Emperor himself: infiltration, observation, subtlety. Now, instead of quiet vigilance, she faced chaos and danger.

Snatches of furious shouts sharpened her senses. "They've killed the captain!" one soldier roared, his voice cracking. Another hissed, "I am sure some of the assassins ran in here. Search every corner!" Baskets and sacks were overturned. Lentils pattered across the marble floor as curses and accusations flew. Adelais listened carefully, piecing together the truth. The garrison's commanding officer had been murdered. In addition, the assailants had set fires to military installations, which was emphasized by the distant flames dancing outside. Word passed between soldiers that the city's Vakerian strongpoints were under attack. Confusion reigned, and this band of Vakerian warriors was tasked with pursuing the assailants.

Suddenly, it dawned on Adelais. The attacks must have been coordinated by Governor Nikolaos, whose ambition outstripped his patience. He must have unleashed his agents to strike now to sow chaos in the Vakerian occupied city and hoping to incite a riot through the ensuing Vakerian reprisal. Then, he would march to storm the city during the internal struggles. Then, he must have planned to trap the approaching Vakerian force under Bisera between a Gillyrian-occupied Thessaloria and his troops surrounding her from afar. If he succeeds, it will catapult him to fame and glory. However, in doing so, he risked everything: her mission, the Emperor's grand design, and the lives of innocent civilians. A surge of anger rose within her. She had wanted to remain hidden, to greet James on neutral ground, not amid a blood-soaked riot.

Suddenly, a hulking soldier with a dented helm paused in front of Adelais and pointed his sword at her chest. "You!" he snarled. "Stand up—hands where I can see them." The crowd around her shrank back. She rose slowly, head bowed, letting her mantle fall open just enough to show empty palms. Her voice shook as she begged for mercy, affecting a convincing quaver of terror. The soldiers eyed her suspiciously. She was too healthy, too tall, her skin too smooth. These people were worn thin by hunger and fear; she was not. Suspicions hardened, and the soldiers pressed closer.

One reached out and gripped her arm, his iron gauntlet chafing the delicate skin beneath her woolen sleeve. "Lift your shawl," he ordered, voice rough with suspicion. Another soldier leaned in, stinking of sour beer and stale bread. "Check her waist," he urged, impatient for proof of a hidden blade. To them, she was no longer a mere refugee but a potential assassin—something to be thoroughly examined.

At first, the pat-downs were brusque yet perfunctory: calloused hands ran down her sleeves, along the edge of her mantle, pressing into the folds of fabric to ensure no slender blade lay concealed. She felt the scrape of cracked nails against her woolen garments, the rasp of coarse fingertips against her hem. Then their confidence grew. One soldier knelt, his hands slowly sliding up her shapely legs—higher than any innocent inspection should have allowed. She inhaled sharply, forced a whimper from her throat, and let tears brim in her eyes. She trembled as if terrified, her voice cracking with sobs. In truth, her muscles tensed, fists clenched beneath the folds of her mantle. She could shatter this man's wrist, spin him into another soldier, and break their ranks in heartbeats. But that would unmask her, derail all of her planning, and ruin the Emperor's plan.

"Step aside," growled another soldier, shoving the first man away. "You're not searching her properly." The displaced soldier cursed but retreated, still eyeing her hungrily. The newcomer slid one hand around her waist with agonizing slowness, fingers pressing insistently through the fabric. She felt him trace the curve of her hips, then creep upward along her torso until his hands were fully groping the contours of her bosom. There was no disguising his true intent now—this was no mere search for weapons. She forced out a pitiful sob, arching her shoulders inward as if trying to shrink. To any onlooker, she was helpless, petrified. Inside, fury and shame vied for dominance.

In the midst of this torment, Adelais clung to the memory of Emperor Alexander. It was that memory that kept her from snapping the soldier's neck. For Emperor Alexander's sake, she would endure this indignity. She would bear the groping hands, the leers and chuckles, the vile insinuations. She would bend without breaking, because she carried within her a greater purpose—one that transcended these cruel minutes.

All around, more soldiers tore through the crowd. A grandmother cried as her bundle was ripped open. A man with a lame daughter was knocked about until he let them search every scrap he owned. A nun's habit was yanked at, provoking weeping prayers. Meanwhile, Adelais became the center of an ugly tension. Men jostled each other to get closer, whispering crude remarks, weighing whether they could take further liberties. Their discipline frayed with each passing second, faces flushed from frustration and lust. She tried to remain still, tears pooling in her eyes as she pretended to crumble beneath their power. It was an act she despised, but she had to endure it.

Suddenly, an officer strode over. Hawk-nosed and wiry, he wore a surcoat bearing the Vakerian crest. He smacked his sword against a bench. The crack of steel on wood cut through the murmur of groping hands and muffled cries. "Enough!" he barked. "We're here to find murderers, not to shame ourselves. Search her properly and move on!"

Chastised, the soldiers backed off slightly, their faces dark with thwarted impulses. One man checked her quickly again—this time more businesslike—finding nothing. Adelais remained silent, as meek as possible. She sensed the officer's urgency. He had no desire to enrage the local populace more than necessary. Moreover, the rumour of Seraphina's recent miracles reminded him just how real the divine are. Better to avoid blasphemy and needless cruelty in a cathedral whose patron angel is Seraphina.

"Captain!" someone shouted from across the nave. "We found bloodstains!" With that, the knot of soldiers around Adelais loosened. They surged toward the new lead, leaving her shaken but free. She sank to her knees, shoulders trembling, hiding her anger beneath a veil of relief. She had survived the ordeal without giving herself away, but she understood the scale of the disaster around her. Nikolaos's men had murdered the city's garrison commander, torched the military posts, and sparked a fury that would scorch Thessaloria.

The search spread through the cathedral—refugees stripped of dignity as soldiers rummaged in their meager belongings. Fury and fear radiated from the armed men, still unable to find their elusive prey. Their voices rose, echoing under painted icons and gilded mosaics. Eventually, the officer gave the order to withdraw. "They're not here! Move out and search the alleys!" The men retreated, slamming the doors and leaving behind only scattered straw, spilled lentils, weeping nuns, and bruised refugees.

Adelais drew a ragged breath. She had learned enough: the commanding officer was dead, installations burned, and panic seethed in the streets. Now the Vakerians were enraged. James would be harder to approach, and the Emperor's careful plans might unravel.

Despite the knot of humiliation and anger twisting in her gut, Adelais's cover held. The soldiers who had groped and sneered at her saw only a frightened refugee woman who had survived their scrutiny. Others in the cathedral were too broken by terror to suspect her true purpose. She could still lurk here, melt into the crowd, and wait for the right moment.

But as she watched a shaken priest mutter prayers and a nun gather spilled lentils with trembling hands, a cold fury settled in her mind. Nikolaos had risked everything on a reckless gamble. She silently cursed him for turning a subtle infiltration into a raging firestorm. Now she would have to find a way through the chaos he had sown. Her mission—understanding James, uncovering his nature—must go on, even if it meant enduring more indignities.

Part 2

After another long day of marching, Bisera drifted fitfully into sleep. Her body still throbbed from recent battles, yet true rest eluded her. Somewhere in that blurred space between exhaustion and dreams, her guarded heart yielded to something it had long kept hidden.

She found herself seated in a wide, sunlit chamber much like the ones at home. Sunlight filtered softly through small, arched windows fitted with translucent horn panels. Heavy wooden furnishings, carved with intricate geometric patterns and adorned with vibrant embroidered cloths, surrounded her. The air smelled of beeswax and dried herbs, a comforting balm against the smoky, earthen scents of her waking world.

Glancing down, she caught her breath. Her armor—the familiar weight that proclaimed her both warrior and leader—was gone. In its place draped a shorter version of the white robe she had worn in James's strange realm. It was impossibly soft, gleaming like fresh-fallen snow. Its foreign luxury unsettled her, but not as much as the way it clung to her body. The sash cinched only loosely at her narrow waist, allowing the robe's front to gap slightly, exposing her collarbones and the swell of her upper breasts. Blushing, she tugged at the fabric, trying to cover herself.

Her hands faltered. She knew her own strength and form—she had carried swords, borne armor, commanded armies—but this robe revealed too much. She felt vulnerable in a way no battlefield had ever made her feel. Her powerful legs, bare beneath the short hem, shifted uneasily. The loose sleeves slipped down her broad shoulders, revealing skin usually shielded by mail and leather. Her blonde hair, now cascading freely, only heightened her sense of exposure, as though she were some ornament rather than a seasoned warrior.

With a sharp exhale, Bisera tightened the sash in a bid for modesty. Her piercing blue eyes flicked warily around the chamber, half expecting silent judgment to materialize at any moment. She fumbled with the hem, attempting to tug it lower over her upper legs, when a voice spoke from behind her.

"Why hide from me?"

Bisera twisted her torso sharply to look over her shoulder. Her breath caught as James approached. His eyes held a warm, unspoken longing, and his loose, unlaced shirt revealed the sculpted line of his chest—smooth, unscarred skin that gleamed faintly in the golden light. Though not hardened by war like hers, his physique was strong and well-formed, and his every movement spoke of quiet, deliberate purpose.

"You… you shouldn't see me like this," she whispered. Despite her embarrassment, she remained seated, unable to stand in the face of such disarming intimacy.

Then, to her shock, his hands reached out and caressed her legs. He began at the robe's hem, his touch feather-light, sliding over her muscled thighs as if memorizing every contour. Her breath hitched; she expected him to recoil at the raised scars crisscrossing her flesh, but he did not flinch. Instead, he traced them with reverence, as though they were sacred marks of valor.

"James…" Her voice trembled, poised between retreat and surrender.

"You are breathtaking tonight," he murmured, lifting his gaze to hers.

Her heart thundered. Unlike so many men who had leered or jeered, his eyes held no judgment, no mockery—only awe, desire, and a tenderness that threatened to unmake her.

She swallowed hard, words spilling from her lips before she could tame them. "Why?"

James rose slightly, shifting his hands to her waist. The movement was smooth and natural, confirming his balance as he held her gaze. "Because you are the most beautiful and kind-hearted lady I have ever known."

Bisera's cheeks burned, her heart pounding so fiercely it nearly drowned out all other sound. She lowered her gaze, voice barely audible. "I appreciate your words, but… men like you—handsome, rich, from places I can't fathom—couldn't possibly desire women like me."

She paused, her voice thick with unease. "I'm too tall, too strong. I'm nothing like those delicate courtly ladies. I have nothing to offer but my strength." Then, as if fearing that her words would convince James to leave her, her voice faded. Her hands trembled slightly. "But… I can use my strength and connection to help you leave your mark on history. After all, isn't that what all men wanted?"

James waited a moment, then he leaned forward and gently placed a finger against her lips to silence her. "Ssshh," he whispered, the simple sound unraveling her fears. "I don't care about power or wealth. All I want… is you."

Her heart stumbled, the world tilting beneath her. Could he mean it? He had been blessed by Seraphina, had seen wonders beyond her comprehension. Yet here he knelt, body warm and real before her, claiming she was all he desired.

Before her doubts could root, James closed the remaining gap between them. His body pressed gently to hers, warmth enveloping her.

"Right…" she managed softly, doubts trembling on the edge of her thoughts. Before they could settle, James closed the remaining gap between them. His body pressed gently to hers, warmth enveloping her. With one hand remained gently resting against her thigh, its warmth reassuring and steady, his other hand slipped beneath her chin, guiding it upward with tender insistence. As he leaned in, she caught the warmth of his breath against her skin, each breath a gentle, intimate whisper that drew her gaze to his. In that charged quiet, the distance between their hearts vanished.

"Bisera," James said softly, his voice unwavering, "you are everything to me. You are all that I desire."

Time seemed to stop. Bisera felt his words sink deep, deeper than any blade had ever struck. Her pulse roared in her ears as heat flooded through her, every nerve alight with sensation. She felt the blood race through her veins, pooling low in her belly, a primal ache building as his thumb brushed over her lips. Her body betrayed her completely. A tremor rolled through her thighs, and she clenched them instinctively as warmth and wetness blossomed between them—a feeling she hadn't allowed herself to acknowledge in years. It was terrifying and exhilarating all at once.

"James…" she whispered, his name a breathless plea on her lips.

But then the dream began to shatter. His touch began to fade, the chamber unraveling into mist. She gasped, reaching for him, desperate to hold onto the warmth, the tenderness. Bisera jolted awake, her breath ragged, her body flushed and damp beneath the thin sleeping tunic.

The dim light of dawn filtered into the tent, casting long shadows over her. For a moment, she lay still, her mind struggling to process what had been a dream—so vivid, so real. Her heart pounded, her body humming with remnants of that aching, desperate desire. Heat pooled low in her abdomen, a stark reminder of what she had felt in that dream.

Then realization struck her. Her breath caught as she shifted slightly, the telltale dampness and faint discomfort between her legs confirming what she suspected.

Her menstrual cycle had arrived.

She groaned softly, pressing her hands to her face as embarrassment mingled with lingering longing. "Spirit above…" she whispered.

As the camp began to stir outside, Bisera lay there for a moment longer, the ghost of James's touch still lingering on her skin, his words etched into her heart.

"You are everything to me."

Part 3

Bisera sat up on her makeshift cot, cheeks still burning from the remnants of that forbidden, lingering dream. Moments ago, her body had hummed with secret warmth; now it ached with the familiar discomfort of her monthly bleeding. She swallowed, dread twisting through her. Without the women who once discreetly handled such matters—without even Velika's able help—this would be awkward and humiliating. Her only companion now was Velika, her childhood friend and loyal guard, who lay propped against bedding with her injured leg immobilized by something James called a "cast." The arrow that had pinned Velika weeks earlier would have cost her the leg, were it not for James's strange healing methods. Now she endured pain and confinement, yet she still managed a wry half-smile whenever Bisera's gaze drifted her way.

Bisera pressed a hand to her abdomen, wincing at the dull cramps. She tried not to let frustration or sadness show. Velika had enough burdens of her own. As Bisera fumbled in her small pack for a fresh linen cloth, a familiar voice sounded outside.

"Bisera? Velika?" James called, his tone careful and polite. "I'm coming in to check on Velika."

Bisera stiffened, her heart stuttering. The memory of that dream—James's hands on her legs, his voice whispering warm, tender words—flooded her senses. Her cheeks turned crimson, her body thrumming with equal parts shame and something else she dared not name. How could she face him like this, especially now, with her monthly flow and no easy way to tend to it?

Velika's keen eyes caught Bisera's flushed cheeks. Even in pain, she found a spark of humor. "You're turning red as a ripe berry," she teased softly, as though trying to bring some normalcy into their battered world.

Bisera forced a shaky smile. "Velika, please," she said gently, not wanting to snap at her friend. She swallowed hard, struggling for composure. "Just… give me a moment." Her voice emerged higher than intended.

Outside, James paused, uncertainty creeping into his tone. "Uh… can I come in, or should I wait?"

Before Bisera could respond, another voice chimed in—one James alone could hear. Seraphina, the archangel, purred into his mind with wry amusement. "James, darling, don't you think it's time you shelled out that twenty-three dollars and got some tampons for the lady? Or will you remain cheap?"

James scowled inwardly. "I'm not being cheap, Seraphina," he muttered under his breath. "I just… didn't realize you were serious." He sighed, resigned. With a quiet act of will, he conjured a bright, modern-looking box of tampons. It materialized out of thin air, packaged neatly along with a folded sheet of paper. The price tag—$23—was printed boldly on the side, making him roll his eyes. Here he was, in a medieval war camp, about to introduce a completely foreign product to Bisera. Well, nothing for it now.

In the tent, Bisera tried to steady herself. Just then, James called, "Uh, Bisera? I'm—uh—leaving something here from Seraphina for you." His voice sounded uncertain, as though he knew this would be awkward. He slid the box and its folded paper under the tent flap.

Bisera frowned, exchanging a puzzled look with Velika. "What? What is it?" She retrieved the box, startled by its strange, brightly colored packaging and unknown script. Velika peered over her shoulder, wincing as she shifted on the cot. "Some sort of…clothing?" her friend mused, confusion clear in her voice.

Bisera opened the folded paper and found unfamiliar words—James's language, which she could not read—and detailed sketches. Her eyes widened in alarm. The images showed something being inserted into a woman's lower body. Without context, it looked less like a matter of hygiene and more like an indecent suggestion. Heat rushed to Bisera's face. She dropped the paper as if it were aflame.

Her stomach twisted. Her cheeks burned so hot they might have set the canvas ablaze. "What… is this? Is this… a warning?" Bisera choked out, horrified. Seraphina must know. The archangel guided James, oversaw his miracles, and surely looked into their hearts. She must have sensed Bisera's shameful, lustful thoughts—the dream that haunted her. Was this Seraphina's subtle condemnation, a warning to rein in forbidden desires?

"It's because of the dream," Bisera whispered to herself, throat tight. She remembered James's phantom touch, his tender voice in that imaginary moment, and now this indecipherable text and scandalous illustration. Some unknown object, its usage depicted with shocking intimacy, as though mocking Bisera's hidden longing. It looked more like a carnal act than anything else. Was Seraphina telling her to curb her lust?

Velika, half-dozing, stirred slightly but did not understand Bisera's panic. Bisera clenched the paper in trembling fingers, struggling to maintain composure. She could not let Velika see how deeply this disturbed her.

"James!" she hissed through the tent flap, voice barely steady. "What… what is this thing you gave me?"

Outside, James flinched at her tone. He had expected confusion, maybe embarrassment, but this sounded like genuine alarm. "Uh… it's a hygiene product," he called back, trying not to sound too awkward. "I thought it might help."

"Hygiene?" Bisera's voice rose, anger and mortification blending. "Then why…" She hesitated, cheeks flaming. How to describe what she had seen? "Why are there images like… like that? I can't read your script! It looks… obscene!"

James realized his mistake too late. He could read and understand every language here due to Seraphina's translation service, but Bisera could not read his world's writing. The illustrations, stripped of explanatory text, must appear terrifyingly mysterious—suggestive of acts Bisera would find deeply scandalous. He groaned inwardly. "I—I can explain!" he called, his voice pitching higher. "Can I come in?"

A tense silence followed. Bisera's pride and shame warred with her need for answers. Finally, she forced the words out. "Fine. Just—come in quickly."

The tent flap rustled, and James stepped inside, holding the box as though it were a precious relic. He kept his posture low and unthreatening, moving slowly until he knelt beside her cot. Bisera crossed her arms over her chest, trying to hide how unsteady she felt.

James took in the scene: Bisera's flushed cheeks, the crumpled instructions in her hands, the wary, wounded look in her eyes. Understanding dawned. "You think it's something bad?" he asked softly.

Bisera shot him a quick, defensive glare. "What else am I to think?" Her voice quivered. "I can't read your language, James! All I see are drawings that look… indecent. Something inserted…" She swallowed, mortified. "Why would Seraphina send such a thing if not to warn me against sinful thoughts?"

James's confusion cleared, replaced by gentle sympathy. "Bisera… it's not a warning. It's called a tampon. It's for managing menstrual flow," he explained quietly. "In my world, it's common. Everyone knows what it is and how it's used. It's not… obscene," he added carefully, keenly aware of her embarrassment. "It's for hygiene."

Bisera blinked, utterly thrown off-balance. The word "menstrual" from his lips, spoken without shame or hesitation, astonished her. No man in her world would ever utter that so casually. She looked down at the box again, her thoughts whirling. This was a tool, not a punishment. James was not mocking her, and Seraphina was not condemning her lust. Instead, they were trying to help her with a private need that she couldn't easily meet under these circumstances.

She raised her eyes, still pink-cheeked. "You know of menstrual flows?" she asked, voice quieter now.

James managed a faint smile, rubbing the back of his neck. "Where I come from, men and women learn these things. It's normal. I'm sorry I forgot that you couldn't read my language. If I had known, I would have explained first." He hesitated, then offered, "I can go through it with you, just explain what the words say, not… show you physically. That's entirely your choice."

Velika stirred at this, her curiosity piqued despite her injuries. She raised a brow and shot James a wry look. "Yes, please," she said, her voice still strained but carrying a teasing note. "Enlighten us, James."

He shot Velika an exasperated but fond glance, then focused on Bisera. His voice was low and kind, guiding her through the instructions as best he could without causing further discomfort. Bisera listened, still blushing, but now understanding that this was simply a tool to help her. James was not judging her, not laughing at her confusion, and not exposing her secret desires to scorn.

As James finished explaining, Bisera nodded slowly, cradling the box against her chest. "Thank you," she murmured, her voice soft. Gratitude and lingering embarrassment mingled, but also a sense of relief. Her heart still fluttered at the memory of that dream, but the fear that Seraphina had exposed and condemned her private longing ebbed away. James was here, helping her in his strange, gentle way. Perhaps that was blessing enough.

In the quiet that followed, Velika's eyes glistened faintly as James's gentleness brought back memories of moments of tenderness—some with her late husband and some with Garros—before she hid the emotion behind a lopsided grin. She turned her gaze to James, amused despite everything. "Now, James… you really redefine "jack of all trades," don't you?"