Love of Fortune and Steel

Part 1

Adelais woke stiff and sore on the old stone floor of the cathedral, the pre-dawn gloom broken only by the faint glow of an oil lamp a few yards away. Massive carved pillars loomed around her, their capitals bearing faded motifs of angels, while painted icons and gilded mosaics on the walls caught flickers of lamplight. All through the previous night, she had tended to refugees—offering spare blankets, comforting crying children, and praying with grieving families. Partly, she felt genuine compassion for these frightened people caught in the crossfire; partly, it was her best strategy for blending in.

Over and over, she told the same story: she was the daughter of a once-prosperous merchant family, left destitute after war and famine wiped out her immediate family. She had come to Thessaloria with a caravan, hoping to find surviving relatives—so far, to no avail. Consistency was crucial. By carefully weaving this tale into her midnight discussions in the cathedral, she ensured that any curious soul—be they refugee or local—would hear identical details. She knew well how rumors spread during such times. This as to ensure that in the future, in case Bisera or James conducts a background search on her, they will hear consistent stories.

Sometime before dawn, in a stolen moment of quiet, Adelais had knelt at the cathedral's side altar. The mosaic overhead depicted Seraphina in shimmering tesserae, her wings folded as if in gentle benediction, an echo of the cathedral's dedication to the Universal Spirit. Adelais bowed her head, whispering a fervent prayer: for the protection of the innocent, for the Emperor's grand design, and for the resolve she needed to endure her mission. Her eyes lingered on the gilded halos adorning the walls, hoping that her plea might be heard.

When daybreak came, the solemn hush of the cathedral gave way to a city humming with tension. Drawing her shawl tightly over her fiery red hair, Adelais slipped out into the streets. She kept her face half-covered; her beauty is a curse in her current situation.

Outside, Thessaloria looked like a fortress in turmoil. High stone walls encircled a jumble of timber and masonry buildings, many of which bore fresh scorch marks and broken shutters from the night's unrest. Just a year ago, this city—modeled in part on the famed capital of the Gillyrian empire—would have bustled with merchants along the main thoroughfare and fishing boats crowding the harbor. Now, the air reeked of burned wood, and the mood was as taut as a drawn bowstring. Vakerian patrols clanked by, lamellar armor catching the early sunlight, their expressions grim after a grueling night of searching.

Near the city's western gate, a row of bodies dangled from hastily erected gallows. Adelais halted, her stomach twisting. These were some of the men involved in last night's attacks—men who had taken their own lives rather than submit to Vakerian interrogation. The morbid display sent a clear message: any further attempts would be met with merciless force. Around her, passersby averted their eyes and kept moving. Some even hid their children's faces, hurrying them along.

Anger smoldered in her chest. This was the outcome of Nikolaos's reckless ploy—innocent lives snuffed out or brutally dishonored, paving his own path to glory. Not only had he derailed the Emperor's plan for a more measured takeover that spared civilian bloodshed, he'd also forced her into a precarious position. If not for Nikolaos's brazen attack, she might not have suffered that degrading groping by Vakerian soldiers the night before or have to face a more alert and cautious enemy.

She noticed a small vendor's stall still standing—an old woman selling watery lentil porridge. It was one of the cheapest meals one could purchase, a staple in Gillyrian lands. In her current role, this meager portion was all she could believably afford. Adelais paid a few worn copper coins, took out her rough clay cup, and watched as the lentil porridge was ladled into her rough clay cup.

Cradling the steaming cup, she squatted on her haunches beside a half-toppled marble column, adopting the posture of many tired, impoverished travelers she had seen on the road. She kept her shoulders hunched and her hair and face mostly covered; people rarely paid attention to a tired woman sipping porridge in the dirt. If anyone from the crowd or a lurking spy later tried to piece together her story, they would recall only a weary refugee with nothing left to lose.

From this vantage point, she quietly studied the scene. The Vakerians, having lost their garrison commander to Governor Nikolaos's brazen nighttime attack, had intensified their occupation. Overnight, squads of soldiers had kicked in doors, dragged people from their pallets, and interrogated them in the streets. From whispers that passed between locals, she learnt that Vakerian had barely contained sporadic riots that broke out throughout the night among the local Gillyrian population enraged by the rough searches and arbitrary arrests. The city's emergency governance now seemed to be in total upheaval; the usual city watch was relegated to menial tasks as the Vakerians forced their own order onto the battered populace.

Here and there, Adelais caught fragments of conversation— the Vakerians had massacred the rioters and that everyone was on edge, waiting for the next explosion of violence.

Still crouched beside the column, she downed a few sips of the lentil porridge. It was bland, tasting mostly of boiled water and a pinch of salt. Perfect for her cover—no one of means would choose a meal this thin if they had a choice. Yet as she swallowed, she felt a pang of remorse. Many of the refugees she had consoled overnight would not even have this meager meal today.

She raised her gaze again to the gallows, the bodies swinging in the morning breeze. Her lip curled in silent contempt for the Vakerians. To her, they were barbarians through and through. Only Gillyria is the beacon of civilization. It was its divine duty to reclaim lost lands and bring the light of civilization and order back to the Mediterranean. This renewed her resolve: all lost Gillyrian lands must be reclaimed, no matter the means. James, whoever he was, cannot possibly be a true divine emissary. Why would an entity be representing order itself side with the barbaric Vakerians.

Adelais gazed warily at the strung-up bodies again. They cast dark silhouettes against the smoky morning sky. Down the street, a troop of Vakerian infantry shouted at a cluster of ragged men. Everyone seemed fearful—yet also resentful. One spark in this tinderbox could erupt into another wave of brutality.

She took another meager spoonful of porridge, carefully turning her head so that the shawl hid most of her features. The last thing she needed was some soldier recognizing her from the previous night's humiliations in the cathedral—or seeing in her a beauty that could serve as entertainment.

Steeling herself, Adelais rose slowly. She carefully packed her empty clay cup and quietly slipped away from the open square.

Part 2

An early curfew hung over Thessaloria like a shroud. By order of the Vakerians, the city's taverns, shops, and workshops had shuttered their doors well before nightfall. Lanterns burned low along the main thoroughfares, casting flickering pools of light on weathered stone walls. Adelais, blending in as another weary refugee, took shelter in a cramped side chapel within the cathedral. She sensed the tension in the air—like a bowstring pulled tight, ready to snap.

She had hoped for a night of uneasy quiet. Instead, shortly after the curfew bell, shouts echoed through the narrow streets. At first, they were distant, urgent cries muffled by stone. As moments passed, the din intensified: clattering steel, hurried footsteps, and the unmistakable whoosh of arrows slicing through the darkness.

Oh no! Nikolaos must be proceeding with the next step of his plan, Adelais realized in shock.

Peeking from the cathedral's vestibule, she saw a Vakerian patrol sprinting across the plaza, torchlight dancing on their lamellar armor. Overhead, the moon was hidden by heavy clouds, leaving the city in a dim half-light that magnified every flicker of fire. Shouts of "Find them! They've burned the granary!" and "Secure the gates!" ricocheted off stone facades. Whispers among the refugees huddled near Adelais confirmed her fears: Nikolaos had sent a new wave of infiltrators to sabotage the city from within.

Leaving the cathedral unseen, Adelais slipped into a shadowed alley. The smell of smoke drifted on the cool breeze. In the distance, a building crackled as flames took hold. She navigated the twisting lanes, careful to avoid roving squads of Vakerian soldiers. They hammered on doors, demanding entry, or dragged men from their homes to question them about hidden Gillyrian agents.

High above the city walls, she glimpsed the glow of siege fires. The repeated thumps and creaks that followed sent a chill through her blood: it must be catapults lobbing projectiles at the battlements. The heavy thunk of a stone crashing into a tower reverberated through the streets.

Her pulse pounded. Nikolaos had evidently planned more than a covert attack on the gates—he was staging a full-scale night siege. As the hours wore on, the tension escalated. Gillyrian assassins raced through back streets, setting fires or rallying loyalists inside Thessaloria. Rumors spread that they intended to open the city gates from within. Groups of citizens, emboldened by talk of a massive relief force, rose in rebellion—some brandishing makeshift weapons. They scrawled Gillyrian symbols on walls, clashed with Vakerian patrols, and tried to sabotage guard posts.

Adelais pressed herself against the cold stone of an ancient colonnade as a pair of Vakerian soldiers ran by, panting for breath. One spat, "They want us to surrender in exchange for safe passage? Even if they have five thousand men, we'll die in service to Vakeria." The other nodded, voice hoarse. "Better to die fighting than abandon General Bisera." Their loyalty to Bisera and Vakeria was genuine; it made Adelais all the more curious about what kind of woman could inspire such respect among her troops. For now, though, she needed them to hold the city successfully so her mission could continue.

Meanwhile, distant towers groaned under the strain of catapult strikes. Above the ramparts, archers traded volleys by moonlight, their arrows glinting momentarily before vanishing into the gloom. Occasionally, a flaming arrow soared overhead, trailing sparks, landing somewhere in the labyrinth of timber rooftops. More fires ignited, and the city—already tense from the day's unrest—erupted into full-blown violence and fear.

As Adelais stealthily traveled the chaotic streets, she caught glimpses of gangs of rioters clashing with Vakerian soldiers, and behind some groups stood hooded figures giving orders in Gillyrian. Adelais immediately realized they were likely agents of Nikolaos, intentionally inciting riots across the city to draw Vakerian troops away from the walls. Fear and excitement mingled on the rioters' faces. She slipped past them, her heart pounding with a complicated mixture of exasperation and fascination at how effectively Nikolaos sowed chaos.

When she reached the city walls, a Gillyrian catapult stone smashed into a section of the outer rampart with a reverberating crash, sending dust and fragments of masonry raining onto the streets below. Vakerian soldiers barked orders from the battlements as a few waved flags by torchlight, directing reinforcements. Shuttered windows and doors rattled as terrified families huddled inside.

Adelais ducked into a narrow alley near a half-burnt stable. The acrid smell of smoke and scorched wood filled her nostrils, and the stench of charred flesh lingered where Gillyrian infiltrators had ambushed a patrol. Unbidden, her mind flashed to the humiliations she had endured the previous night at the cathedral, courtesy of the Vakerians' brutal searches. She was no friend to the occupiers—yet seeing the devastation, she felt a bitter pang for the many innocents caught in the crossfire.

Just then, a breathless shout cut through the thick night air: "A large number of reinforcements just joined the existing Gillyrian force out there!" She could almost taste the dread in the man's voice. Nikolaos's ruse of lighting more torches than there were troops was working. Torchlight dotted the horizon beyond the city walls, thousands of pinpricks of flame suggesting a massive Gillyrian force. In truth, Adelais knew the numbers were smaller, but the illusion of countless torch-bearers was a cunning tactic, magnifying the defenders' fear. On the ramparts, Vakerian horns sounded the alarm.

Despite their flagging morale, the Vakerians refused to yield. The battered gates still held. Archers, though weary, manned their posts. Officers dashed between squads, urging them to hold fast. Siege ladders crashed against the walls, only to be toppled by defenders plunging spears down from above. Gillyrian foot soldiers, carrying tower shields, ventured near the gates under cover of darkness but were forced to retreat when a hail of arrows thwarted their attempts at sabotage.

Within the city, the riots erupted into chaotic street battles. Fighting flared in marketplaces and squares, with half-armed civilians led by infiltrators clashing against Vakerian soldiers. Buildings collapsed under the combined assault of fire and violence. The clang of steel on steel echoed off the cobblestones. As Adelais retreated further into the city, she saw a mob of young men wielding pitchforks and stolen swords charge at a group of Vakerian soldiers. The soldiers rallied, cutting them down with savage efficiency; blood streamed through the gutters, forming dark rivulets in the moonlight.

Somewhere in the mayhem, Adelais found shelter behind a crumbling arch from an ancient aqueduct. Sooner or later, the gates might fall, she thought. Should I prepare to move on to the next Vakerian-held city and await James there?

As Adelais slipped deeper into the winding back streets, she heard muffled cries coming from a dingy alley not far ahead. The sound of blows landing and a child's whimper cut through the smoky gloom.

She crept closer and saw four grim-faced Gillyrian rioters kicking and shouting at a blond-haired boy who looked no older than twelve. Instantly, Adelais moved between the men and the child, shielding him with her body. Relief washed over her when she recognized the men's Gillyrian accents—surely they wouldn't hurt one of their own people too gravely.

"Stop this!" Adelais urged, raising her hands in a placating gesture. "He's just a child!"

"Out of our way," one of the rioters snarled. "This brat's clearly Vakerian, look at his hair."

Cowering behind Adelais's legs, the boy pleaded, "My parents are retired imperial guards—they lost everything in the war, so we came here to seek refuge. I am Gillyrian! Please, don't hurt me!"

Adelais glanced over her shoulder at the boy. "Did you hear him? He's Gillyrian by birth or adoption, it doesn't matter—just let him go."

After a tense pause, the men relented. "Fine. Get lost, kid," one grumbled, shoving the boy away. The boy scrambled to his feet, stammering thanks to Adelais before racing off into the night. A shaky smile tugged at Adelais's lips. Gillyrians are a civilized people, after all, she thought, feeling a ripple of relief.

She turned to leave, only to find the four men blocking her path. "That was terribly rude, interfering like that," the tallest one said, his gaze raking over her. "How do you plan to make it up to us?"

She dipped her head apologetically. "I didn't mean to offend you. I have only a few coins—take them if you will. I just want no trouble." Fishing in her cloak, she produced the meager change she had left from her infiltration funds. A wiry fellow, possibly in his late twenties, slapped her hand aside and grabbed her wrist. "We don't need coins," he growled. Next, he yanked her into an embrace from behind. His hot breath grazed her ear.

"Don't be stupid. We don't need your money," he whispered. "We want a different kind of…repayment."

Adelais twisted herself free, stumbling back in alarm. Her pulse hammered; she clutched her cloak around herself. "No, please! We're all Gillyrians. We've all lost so much in this war. Have pity on me, please."

"That hair's not Gillyrian," spat another man, who had thin, unkempt facial hair and a voice that shook with aggression. He stepped close, seized her headcovering, and tore it away, revealing a cascade of fiery red locks. "You are a lying Vakerian filth."

Adelais's insides coiled with rage and sadness. "I'm not—I am Vakerian by adoption."

"Enough!" barked the eldest, perhaps in his mid-thirties, his face twisted with disgust. He drew a short sword and leveled it at her chest. "Strip or die."

Adelais eyed the blade. She was cornered, her back against cold stone walls. "If you force me, I'll scream," she warned, making her voice quiver just enough to seem helpless.

They shared a cruel laugh. The short, barrel-chested man leered at her. "Scream all you want. This city's a battlefield—nobody's coming."

A flicker of anger blazed in her hazel eyes. She took a slow breath, her expression shifted from fear to disappointment. "So how are you people any different from the Vakerian barbarians you claim to hate?"

"Civility is for the civilized. Not animals like you Vakerians," the ringleader sneered.

Adelais lowered her gaze. "I see. Then I guess I have no choice." She allowed her shoulders to droop, as though resigning herself to their demands. The men smirked, stepping in closer, ready to enjoy what came next.

Before they could react, Adelais whipped out a small glass vial from within her cloak. She uncorked it in one fluid motion and flung its contents across their faces. The moment the pungent liquid touched their skin, she channeled a massive burst of mana into it. The massive energy boost catalyzed the reaction, and a sizzling sound accompanied the rapid dissolution of their heads. Within seconds, what remained of their bodies slumped to the cobblestones.

Adelais sighed and picked up a discarded sword with ease. "Clean-up time," she murmured, steeling herself.

Part 3

A gray sky pressed low over the rolling hills around Thessaloria, draping the land in a murky hush. Bisera rode at the head of her forces, her steel armor dulled by road dust, a threadbare cloak gathered about her shoulders. Just behind her, James drove the transport truck, its hushed hum an odd counterpoint to the heavier clank of cavalry and the shuffle of infantry.

They had expected to find signs of life—traders, farmers, or refugees. Instead, Thessaloria's walls rose stark against the ashen sky, a silent bastion offering neither greeting nor warning. The empty fields outside the ramparts lay strewn with charred beams and broken fences, grim evidence of some recent, violent upheaval. Tendrils of blackish smoke still curled into the stagnant air. Atop the battlements, scattered figures peered down, but from this distance, it was impossible to tell if they were Vakerian, a surviving local militia, or even something else entirely. Their posture conveyed one thing for certain: wariness.

Bisera's throat tightened. Over the past few days, her scouts had returned with troubling reports: the gates remained closed, and the walls showed scars of a fierce siege. Yet no one knew who had prevailed inside, or under whose authority the city now stood. The watchers on the ramparts displayed no banner, making it impossible to identify which side still held power—if anyone did. The gates remained resolutely sealed, as though daring any approach.

Long streaks of soot scarred the outer walls, matching the scorch marks where siege ladders or incendiaries had likely struck. James scanned the parapets, counting only a handful of figures. Some appeared to have bandaged limbs, or to be leaning heavily against the battlements. Exhausted or not, they continued to stare down at Bisera's army with an unmistakable vigilance.

Bisera raised a hand, and her column drew to a halt. The formation spread out in a cautious arc just within sight of the city—close enough to be seen, but not so near as to spark immediate conflict. A hush descended, broken only by the ragged breathing of wounded men and the occasional creak of worn leather saddles. Bisera's mind churned. Who controls this place—and how will they respond?

Suddenly, a soft, melodic voice echoed in James's mind—Seraphina's unmistakable tone. "Would you like some binoculars for $150?"