Love of Fortune and Steel

Part 1

"Who are you?" Bisera demanded, her voice sharp as steel, her sword drawn halfway from its scabbard. The unfamiliar, harsh language sent a new wave of panic through James. He stared at her, wide-eyed, unable to understand a single word, his mind struggling to process the situation.

Bisera, growing more impatient, took a step closer, her sword fully drawn now. "Answer me!" she barked, her tone cold and authoritative.

James, breathing hard, raised his hands in surrender. What is she saying? he thought, his confusion deepening. Where am I? Who is she?

Then, without warning, the same voice from the museum echoed in his mind, calm and businesslike: "Translation service available for $200 per month. Activate now?"

James blinked in shock, recognizing the voice immediately. It was the same strange, detached voice that had spoken to him right before everything went wrong back at the museum. For a fleeting moment, a wild thought crossed his mind—this must be some kind of reality TV show. Translation service? It sounded like something out of a scripted, elaborate setup. Was he being pranked?

The voice repeated, with no hesitation or urgency: "Activate translation service?"

James, still overwhelmed and utterly confused, thought he might as well play along. "Yes," he thought, half expecting the whole thing to unravel into some absurd televised stunt.

Suddenly, Bisera's words snapped into clarity. "What kingdom are you from?" she demanded, her tone unyielding. "You are dressed in strange clothing. Are you a foreign nobleman?"

But before James could answer, Bisera took a quick look at him. His posture was tense and defensive, yet he stood tall—about 183 cm, slightly taller than most men she had encountered. His dark hair, damp and tousled, instantly reminded her of the Gillyrians, known for their dark hair and pale skin tone. However, something about him didn't fit. His face was too delicate, his jaw softer, and his features smoother than those of the rough, battle-worn Gillyrian soldiers she was accustomed to seeing.

As she studied him further, she noticed unmistakable traits of the steppe Vakerians. He bore Asiatic features reminiscent of the steppe Vakerians—the nomads who had swept down from the steppes generations ago, conquering a large part of Balkania and carving out the empire she now fought to protect. The steppe Vakerians, with their sharp features and piercing eyes, had been the backbone of the empire's military strength during its expansion. However, by Bisera's time, pureblood steppe Vakerians were rare, and most of them usually remained in the eight principalities on the Vakerian steppes.

Yet, James' features indicated mixed lineage, which was common in the Vakerian empire. Nonetheless, his features were too soft and too refined, despite his impressive and muscular physique. He lacked the hardened, weathered look of a man who had seen battle. There was a certain cleanliness to his appearance, a delicacy that seemed out of place among both the rugged Gillyrians and the fierce Vakerians.

Bisera's eyes narrowed in suspicion. Who is this man? His strange clothing, soaked and clinging to his body, only added to the mystery. Whatever he was, he wasn't from any place she recognized.

Before he could speak, the unmistakable stench of dried blood hit James. He recoiled slightly, realizing for the first time that the smell of sweat and the faint earthy scent of horse clung to Bisera's armor. It was a visceral reminder that this was no staged scene. There were no hidden cameras. No producers waiting to jump out and reveal the prank. The grim reality of the moment hit him hard—this was real.

"Noble?" James stammered, fear rising in his throat. "No! I... I don't know where I am..." His voice cracked as the absurdity of the words left his mouth. "This can't be real."

A lost foreigner? Bisera's sharp blue eyes flicked over his strange clothing—some sort of smooth, finely tailored fabric, soaked from the water. Whatever this man was, he didn't belong here. He wasn't a soldier, and he didn't fit any mold she knew.

"You are no soldier," she said, her voice steady but wary. "What are you, then?"

James hesitated, unsure how to explain. "I'm... I'm a banker," he finally said, though the words felt inadequate. "I work with money—investments, managing people's wealth."

Bisera's face hardened. The mention of money immediately put her on edge. In Vakeria, moneylenders were despised, seen as nothing more than vultures who profited off the misery of others. The priests of the Universal Spirit had always warned against the greed of such men, and Bisera had taken their words to heart. Moneylenders were not to be trusted. They dealt in deceit and betrayal, always seeking to line their pockets at the expense of others.

"So, you're a moneylender," she said, her tone cold with contempt. "The worst kind of man."

James blinked, taken aback. "No, it's not like that. I work in finance—"

"I know what you do," Bisera interrupted, drawing her sword fully and pointing it at him. "You trade in debt, ruin lives with your greed." Her blue eyes bore into him. "Why should I trust you? Men like you would sell your own mother for a bag of coin."

James' heart raced. He had no idea how to explain himself in a way she would understand.

"Someone is chasing me," Bisera continued, her voice low and dangerous. "If they find us, they will kill us. They will shoot us with arrows."

"Arrows?" James felt a shiver run down his spine. "Like... real arrows?"

"Yes," she replied coldly. "Real arrows."

James could feel his pulse quicken as Bisera studied him, her sword still raised and steady. Her words hung heavily in the air, the cold certainty in her voice sending another chill through him. Real arrows. It was as though he had been thrust into a nightmare—a world of medieval warfare, bloodshed, and towering warriors. The woman before him was unlike anyone he had ever met. Fierce, commanding, and dangerous.

She stepped closer, her sword unwavering, her eyes never leaving his. "You will walk in front," she ordered.

"In front?" James asked, confused. "Why?"

Bisera's gaze hardened. "So I can keep an eye on you," she said bluntly. "I don't trust moneylenders. Men like you would betray anyone for the right reward." Her voice was sharp, laced with deep-seated distrust. Her faith, her upbringing, and the teachings of the Universal Spirit had always warned her about such men—men who valued coin over loyalty, who would sell out their fellow countrymen if it meant lining their pockets.

James swallowed hard, his mind racing. He wasn't used to being judged so harshly—especially not for his profession. In Bortinto, being a banker was prestigious, a mark of success. But here, in this strange world, it seemed to carry a far darker connotation.

Without a word, he complied, stepping forward, the underbrush crunching beneath his feet. He felt the weight of her gaze on his back, the tension between them palpable. Every now and then, he glanced back at her, only to be met with her cold, assessing eyes. Bisera, even wounded, was a force to be reckoned with. The dried blood on her armor, the way she held her sword, the sheer height and presence she exuded—it all reminded him that this was no game. This was survival.

They moved through the forest in silence, the sound of their footsteps mingling with the rustle of the leaves in the evening breeze. The once warm air had begun to cool as the sun dipped lower, casting the woods in a dim, golden light. The shadows grew longer, and the soft chirping of birds slowly faded, replaced by the distant call of hidden creatures.

After a while, James couldn't take the tension anymore. He turned slightly, his voice cautious. "So... you're a knight?" he asked, hoping to break the silence.

Bisera's eyes flickered toward him, though she didn't slow her pace. "I was a general, but now I am a fugitive," she replied, her voice flat.

"A general, but now... a fugitive?" James pressed, though he wasn't sure how far he should push.

She didn't respond immediately. For a moment, the only sound between them was the soft crunch of leaves underfoot. When she finally spoke, her voice was tinged with bitterness. "I led men into battle. I fought for my empire. But today, I lost. And in my world, losing means death. My men are gone, and I am all that remains."

James glanced back at her, trying to make sense of her words. He could see the pain in her eyes, the weight she carried. She had been responsible for the lives of her soldiers—men who had followed her into battle—and now, they were gone. It was a heavy burden, one that clearly cut deep.

"I'm sorry," he said softly, though he knew his words would do little to ease her grief.

Bisera didn't reply. She had no time for pity or apologies. She was still a commander, even if she no longer had an army. And her duty—to the empire, to her people—was not over. She couldn't let the Gillyrians take Podem. If they did, the empire would soon fall, and with it, the lives of the families of her men.

As they walked and occasionally chatted, the light began to fade. The sun dipped lower on the horizon, casting the world in a soft twilight glow. The once amber light now gave way to the deepening blue of dusk, and the forest around them seemed to grow more foreboding with every passing minute.

Part 2

James' steps echoed hollowly on the rocky path as he moved ahead of the tall woman. He cast a glance over his shoulder, still unnerved by the figure trailing behind him. She had insisted on walking despite her injuries, her resolve unwavering, but James could see the strain in every step she took.

Now that she had put on her conical helmet, she cut an even more intimidating figure—standing taller than him at 185 cm, with the pointed helm adding an imposing edge. Even though James himself was no small man at 183 cm, he felt almost dwarfed by her presence. Her long blonde hair, which had spilled freely earlier, was now tucked under the gleaming helmet, though a few rebellious strands escaped and fluttered around her pale, determined face. Her blue eyes—sharp and fierce—were visible beneath the brim, and they gleamed with a commanding intensity undimmed by the exhaustion creeping through her.

Her armor, intricately detailed and battered by battle, still caught the fading light, the golden engravings on the breastplate reflecting a soft glow. The suit hugged her frame, emphasizing an athletic form shaped by years of combat. Each piece, from the embossed shoulder plates to the heavy greaves on her legs, told a story of war and resilience. Despite the weight of her steel and chainmail, she moved with a warrior's grace, though her steps were increasingly uneven as blood continued to seep from the wound on her side.

Breaking the silence that had settled between them, James mustered the courage to speak. "I don't think we've been properly introduced," he said, glancing back at her. "I'm James."

She met his gaze briefly, her eyes flickering with a mix of caution and fatigue. "Bisera," she replied tersely, her voice echoing slightly within her helmet.

"Bisera," he repeated, nodding. "Look, I can see you're struggling. We need to stop. You're bleeding through your armor."

Her only response was a low grunt of defiance, but James could hear her breath faltering. He knew she was nearing the edge of her strength. Even from where he was walking, he could detect the shallow, labored breathing beneath her helmet, and each clink of her armor seemed heavier than the last.

He turned, almost halting in his tracks, as he saw her slow down, her tall frame leaning slightly, her steps faltering. "Bisera—" he started, but before he could finish, her legs buckled.

James moved quickly, darting back to her side. The crimson stain across her side had deepened, the blood seeping through the leather straps and chainmail beneath her breastplate. Her gauntlet-covered hand clutched at the wound, trying to stem the flow, but her pale face, now partially shadowed by the brim of her conical helmet, revealed her failing battle with the pain.

"You're going to die if we don't stop," James muttered through clenched teeth, his fear and frustration rising. He grasped her arm, feeling the cold steel of her armor under his fingers, and tried to steady her, guiding her toward the nearest shelter—a small cave in the mountainside. She leaned heavily on him, her towering frame forcing him to exert all his strength to keep her upright. Together, they stumbled into the cave's shadowy embrace.

Once inside, James lowered her onto a rough stone slab, his arms aching from the effort. She slumped down, her armored figure seeming to collapse in on itself as the last reserves of her strength drained away. Her hand fell away from the wound, revealing the extent of the injury. The skin beneath her armor was red and inflamed, the blood thick and dark—a grim sign of infection setting in.

He looked up at her; even seated, with her strength rapidly fading, she looked every inch the commander she was. Her breath rattled inside the helmet, and James could see the feverish sweat beading on her forehead as she finally allowed herself to rest.

"Stay with me," he whispered, feeling the pressure of her survival on his shoulders. The reality that her life depended on him hit him harder than ever. The smell of blood and the acrid tang of infection filled the air around them, making James' stomach churn. But there was no time for nausea, no time for hesitation.

Part 3

His hands hovered helplessly over her, trembling. He wasn't a medic. Hell, he wasn't even good with basic first aid. He had no idea how to handle this. But if he didn't do something fast, she was going to die. The realization hit him hard, making his stomach churn.

Suddenly, the voice from before echoed in his mind, calm and emotionless: "Her wound is infected. She is febrile. You must treat her immediately. Would you like to purchase antibiotics, antipyretics, suturing equipment, antiseptics, and essential medical supplies? Cost: $149.99. Proceed?"

James grimaced at the sudden charge. Even in the middle of a life-and-death crisis, the voice was trying to sell him something. But he didn't have time to argue. "Yes, proceed," he thought, trying to steady his nerves. Whatever this is, I'll figure it out later. Right now, I need to save her.

A package appeared beside him as if by magic, filled with medical supplies—antiseptics, suturing kits, an IV kit, antibiotics, saline solution, bandages, clean water, and a few other essentials. He didn't care how absurd it looked; if it saved her, it was worth every cent.

"Remove her bracers and gauntlets first to ensure full access," the voice instructed smoothly, keeping him on task.

James swallowed hard and set to work, his hands trembling. He moved to her arms, carefully unbuckling the leather bracers and sliding off the steel gauntlets. Her forearms were strong, crisscrossed with minor cuts and bruises from countless battles.

"Now, remove her breastplate," the voice continued.

He began unfastening the buckles of her steel breastplate. The metal, still slick with blood and grime from battle, finally loosened and fell away with a dull thud. The smell hit him immediately—hot, rank infection mixed with sweat and blood. It was overwhelming, and James had to pause, turning his head slightly to avoid gagging. God, why don't they ever mention the smells in those fairy tales?

"Proceed to the greaves and boots," the voice instructed.

He shifted to her lower body, his fingers fumbling with the buckles of the leather greaves, slick with sweat. With effort, they came loose, and he set them aside, revealing her padded chausses beneath. He noticed several minor wounds—scratches and shallow cuts—along her legs.

"Lift the chainmail over her head," the voice directed.

James gripped the hauberk, lifting it carefully to avoid snagging. The chainmail made a metallic clatter as it piled on the cave floor, revealing the gambeson beneath. This thick, quilted jacket, molded to Bisera's form, bore dark stains of dried blood and sweat from years of battle.

"Next, the gambeson," the voice directed. Knife in hand, James hesitated, his heart pounding—not just from the effort but from the gravity of what he was doing. Bisera was dying. He carefully cut through the laces of the gambeson, the fabric parting to reveal the woolen tunic beneath, soaked with sweat and stained with blood.

"You must now carefully remove the tunic," the voice prompted, cutting into his thoughts.

James nodded, more to steady his own nerves than anything else. As he peeled back the woolen tunic, he was acutely aware of her vulnerability and his responsibility. He carefully cut away only the part soaked with blood, mindful not to expose her unnecessarily. The gash was severe, deep along her ribs, inflamed and oozing dark blood. The area was swollen, radiating heat, and emitted a sharp, foul odor, indicative of bacteria rapidly multiplying in the wound.

"Apply direct pressure to stop the bleeding," the voice instructed.

He grabbed a clean cloth from the kit and pressed it firmly against the wound. Blood seeped through the cloth, but after a few tense moments, the bleeding began to slow.

"Now, don the sterile gloves and clean the wound thoroughly with the antiseptic solution," the voice guided.

James quickly put on the sterile gloves, his hands now steadying as he focused on the task at hand. He opened the antiseptic bottle, soaking a fresh piece of gauze. He gently cleaned the wound, wiping away the dirt and grime to prevent the infection from spreading further. The strong smell of antiseptic filled the air, mingling with the metallic scent of blood.

As the cool antiseptic touched her skin, Bisera stirred, her lips parting in a weak groan. Her eyes fluttered open, glazed and feverish. "What... what is that?" she whispered, barely audible.

"It's medicine to clean your wound," James reassured her, trying to sound comforting. "I need to treat you to stop the infection. You'll be okay."

She gazed at him for a moment, confusion and pain clouding her eyes, then nodded weakly before slipping back into unconsciousness. James continued his work, his hands now steady as he focused on the task at hand.

"Prepare to close the wound," the voice instructed. "Use the suturing kit to stitch the gash. This will promote healing and reduce the risk of further infection."

James swallowed hard. Suturing a wound was far beyond anything he'd ever done. "I don't know how," he whispered.

"Follow the step-by-step instructions provided," the voice said, an image appearing in his mind, detailing the process.

He took a deep breath and opened the suturing kit. Carefully, he aligned the edges of the wound. Using the needle and thread, he began stitching, his movements slow but precise. Each stitch pulled the wound closed, reducing the gap that had been seeping blood.

Minutes felt like hours, but finally, the wound was closed. He tied off the thread and cut the excess, relieved to see that the bleeding had nearly stopped.

"Well done," the voice commended. "Now, administer the antibiotics to combat the infection."

James retrieved a vial of antibiotics from the kit. The voice chimed in, "Inject the antibiotics intramuscularly. It's faster and more effective in severe infections like this, ensuring the medicine is rapidly absorbed into the bloodstream."

He hesitated, the syringe in his hand. Giving an injection felt far too personal, invasive in a way that bandaging a wound did not. But the urgency in the voice reminded him of the stakes.

Her legs weren't what he'd expected. They were long, lean, and strong, but not overly muscular—more like the legs of a high jumper or track athlete. He supposed it made sense; Bisera was a horse rider. Her strength came from control and endurance, not brute force. Even now, in this vulnerable state, her body reflected years of disciplined training.

James paused, realizing how much of her body he was seeing. He flushed, the realization hitting him hard. She was exposed in front of him in a way he hadn't expected, and it made him uncomfortable. He was really worried that once Bisera woke up and realized what he had seen... she might kill him.

But there was no time for that. He needed to focus on the task at hand. Carefully, he removed the padded chausses, relieved to find she was wearing short braies underneath. After finding a clear spot on her thigh—the muscle defined, shaped by years of riding—he prepared to inject the antibiotics.

He injected the antibiotics as carefully as he could. Bisera flinched, her face twisting in pain even in her unconscious state. Her hand twitched again, instinctively reaching for the sword that wasn't there. James withdrew the needle, his task complete, feeling a mix of relief and urgency. The antibiotics would help, but Bisera was not out of danger yet.

"Administer the antipyretic to reduce her fever," the voice instructed.

He prepared another syringe with the antipyretic medication and injected it carefully into her other thigh. Her breathing seemed to ease slightly, the flush in her cheeks lessening.

"Now, provide intravenous fluids. Her body needs hydration to prevent shock," the voice continued.

James grabbed the IV kit from the package, following the instructions provided. He located a suitable vein in her arm, grateful for the clarity of the voice's guidance. The needle slid into Bisera's arm easily, and he secured it with tape. He hung the saline bag from a protruding rock above, allowing gravity to aid the flow of fluids into her bloodstream.

He sat back for a moment, watching the saline solution drip steadily. The tension in his chest began to ease slightly—at least she was stable for now.

"But you're not done yet," the voice reminded him. "Bandage the wounds to prevent further contamination."

He nodded, grabbing the sterile bandages. He applied an antibiotic ointment over the stitched wound, then covered it with a sterile dressing, securing it firmly but gently around her torso. He was extra careful around the deep gash, making sure not to put too much pressure on the area.

The arrow grazes on her arms and legs were easier to handle. He cleaned each minor wound with antiseptic, applied ointment, and bandaged them quickly but thoroughly, ensuring that no more blood would be lost and reducing the risk of infection.

"Monitor her vital signs," the voice instructed. "Check her pulse, breathing rate, and temperature regularly."

James felt for her pulse at her wrist—steady but weak. He counted her breaths; they were shallow but rhythmic. He placed the back of his hand on her forehead—still warm, but the antipyretic seemed to be helping.

"Elevate her legs slightly to improve blood flow to vital organs," the voice suggested.

He rolled up her gambeson and gently lifted her legs to place it underneath. Hopefully, this would help prevent shock.

When he finished, he sat back and sighed, glancing at Bisera. She looked peaceful now, her breathing more regular, though still shallow. He had done everything he could for the moment, but something gnawed at him.

He realized the cave floor was cold and far from clean. "I need to keep her warm and protect her from the ground," he thought.

"Would you like to purchase a thermal blanket and a sleeping mat? Total cost: $89.99," the voice offered.

"Yes, proceed," he agreed without hesitation.

A thermal blanket and a compact sleeping mat appeared beside him. He carefully slid the mat under Bisera to insulate her from the cold ground. Then he covered her with the thermal blanket, tucking it around her to conserve body heat.

"Maintain a clean environment to prevent further infection," the voice advised.

James looked around the cave. It wasn't exactly a sterile hospital room, but he could at least tidy up their immediate surroundings. He gathered the discarded armor and soiled clothing, placing them in a corner away from Bisera. He spread out the packaging materials from the supplies on the cave floor to minimize dust and dirt.

As he worked, he kept talking to her in a soothing voice. "You're going to be okay, Bisera. I've cleaned and stitched your wound. Just rest and heal."

He checked her vital signs again—her pulse was a bit stronger, and her breathing steadier. Relief washed over him.

"Administer pain management," the voice suggested. "It will aid in her comfort and recovery."

He found a packet of pain relief medication in the kit. Since she was unconscious, he opted for an injectable form, carefully administering it as per the instructions.

Finally, he allowed himself to sit down, exhaustion catching up with him. He pulled off the sterile gloves, disposing of them properly. His hands were shaking—not from fear now, but from the adrenaline wearing off.

He glanced at Bisera once more. Even in this state, she exuded a strength and resilience that awed him.

It was then, as the adrenaline began to fade, that the full weight of what he had done hit him. He had undressed her—stripped her of her armor, layer by layer. He flushed again, realizing how exposed she had been in front of him.

He could already imagine her reaction when she woke up—furious, probably. Maybe even deadly. She'd look at him with those piercing blue eyes, cold as steel, and draw her sword before he could even explain himself. The thought made his heart race. What was he going to say? "I had to save your life, so I accidentally saw... well, more than I should have"? Yeah, that'll go over well.

He shook his head, trying to push the thought aside. I only removed what I had to. Not an inch more.

But even as he tried to convince himself, he couldn't shake the unease. Bisera was a warrior—proud and strong. If she felt that he had dishonored her in some way, there would be hell to pay.