Part 1
Three days out from Podem, the Emperor's column struggled along the ancient military road. Where Gillyrian engineers had once laid precise stone, centuries of neglect had left only scattered patches of paving visible through mud and overgrowth. The November cold bit through wool cloaks, and horses picked their way carefully through ruts that could lame the unwary. They had entered the wild country between the Maritsa Valley and the approaches to the Balkania Passes—dense forests where wolves still howled and bandits might lurk behind any oak.
The refugees had been a trickle at first, then a flood. This latest group emerged from the forest like ghosts—perhaps sixty souls from Madara and the villages around Arinthia. Unlike the farm folk they'd encountered yesterday, these bore the marks of town dwellers: a merchant's fur‑trimmed cloak, a scribe's ink‑stained fingers, and the remains of a guild master's chain of office.
Saralta raised her fist, bringing the column to a halt. Above, Selene continued her patrol—wing beats so perfectly timed that soldiers had started making wagers on when she'd turn. Always exactly one hundred beats north, bank at precisely forty‑five degrees, one hundred beats south. The predictability should have been comforting; instead, it made the men nervous in ways they couldn't quite articulate.
"Your Imperial Majesty!" An elderly man in wine‑stained robes threw himself into the mud. "By the Spirit's grace, we never thought to see order again!"
"Rise," Simon commanded. At eighteen, his voice still occasionally cracked—but not now, not when his people needed their emperor. "Tell me of the situation in Madara."
The old man struggled upright, supported by a younger woman. "Madara is lost, Majesty. I was master of the vintner's guild until the world went mad. It began with the darkness—shadows that moved against nature. Then came the recruiters."
"They bore the Cadramirum colors," the woman added, "but their eyes…" She shuddered. "They demanded every soul for the 'true emperor's' army. My cousin asked which emperor they meant." Her voice broke. "They hung him from the gates. Said questions were treason."
Others pressed forward with their tales. A blacksmith spoke of forges seized, apprentices dragged away in chains. A priest, his robes torn, whispered of angels with wings of fire descending on the capital.
"The worst is at the capital itself," the priest continued. "They say armies loyal to Your Majesty just retook the palace, but the city burns. Brother fights brother in the streets. And above it all…" He crossed himself. "Above it all, dark mist and beings with wings of fire encircle the city. Any clergyman refusing to acknowledge the divinity of the creatures was hanged."
Simon listened, his young face carved in stone. When the tales ended, he spoke: "Continue to Podem. Tell them you came to seek shelter like the earlier groups. They shall arrange for you and your settlement."
The refugees blessed him and hurried past. But as the last cart creaked by, Saralta guided her mount close.
"Those were well‑fed refugees. Good boots, greased axles." She glanced up at Selene, still maintaining her mechanical patrol. "And not one stared at our angel. Even holy men gawk, but these folk? Carefully trained not to notice."
The young emperor's jaw tightened. "Spies?"
"Maybe. Maybe not." Saralta shrugged. "But General Bisera should know to watch them."
"Send a pigeon," Simon ordered his guard captain. "For all arriving refugees. Quarter them in a good region outside the walls."
As the soldier hurried off, Saralta found herself impressed. The boy had steel beneath that courtly manner.
They made camp that evening in a clearing beside a swift‑running stream. The emperor's tent was erected first—a magnificent structure of oiled silk in imperial purple, large enough to hold a war council if needed. As tradition demanded, a slightly smaller but still impressive tent was set up beside it for Selene.
"Thank you for the shelter," Selene said as soldiers struggled with the heavy fabric. "But I could just find a cave nearby."
"Perhaps not," Simon replied carefully, "but my men require the comfort of knowing proper respect is shown to heaven's messenger."
Selene tilted her head at that precise angle that always made Saralta think of a bird studying something curious. "Human psychology is fascinating. You create rituals to manage anxiety about forces beyond your control."
"Er… yes, I suppose we do," Simon agreed, clearly unsure how to respond to such clinical observation from a divine being.
As darkness fell and the camp settled into its night routine, Simon found himself restless. The refugees' stories troubled him more than he'd let show. Arinthia in chaos, his people turning against each other—how much of his empire would be left to save?
Seeking distraction from dark thoughts, he decided to check on Selene. It was, he told himself, only proper to ensure heaven's emissary was comfortable. The fact that her ethereal beauty had haunted his dreams since her arrival was… irrelevant.
He announced himself at her tent entrance. "Lady Selene? Might I enter?"
No response came. Frowning, Simon pushed aside the tent flap and stepped inside.
The interior was dimly lit by a single oil lamp, casting dancing shadows on the silk walls. At first, Simon thought the tent empty. Then a flash of silver caught his eye, and he noticed something truly bizarre.
In the corner of the tent, several metal rods had been driven into the ground, extending up through carefully cut holes in the tent's roof. They were connected by copper wire to a strange box that hummed softly with an energy Simon couldn't identify. And connected to that box…
Simon's breath caught in his throat.
Selene sat perfectly still on a simple cot in the corner, and she was barely dressed. Or rather, dressed in foreign undergarments, the shape of which Simon had never seen before. Minimal clothing covered her bosom and lower body, but vast expanses of impossibly perfect skin were exposed to the lamplight. Stranger still, a cord ran from the humming box to her navel, where it seemed to penetrate directly into her flesh.
The moonlight chose that moment to break through the clouds, streaming through the tent's smoke hole to illuminate her form. Simon had seen beautiful women before—the imperial court attracted many—but Selene was something beyond mortal beauty. Every line, every curve seemed calculated for maximum aesthetic impact, as if she was the showcase for divine craftsmanship.
For a long moment, Simon stood frozen, caught between being mesmerized and mortal terror. This was an angel—a literal messenger of the Universal Spirit. To harbor lustful thoughts about such a being was surely the worst form of blasphemy. Yet his eighteen‑year‑old body seemed uninterested in theological concerns.
Then Selene's eyes opened, fixing on him with that disconcerting directness.
"Your majesty," she said calmly. "What brings you here?"
"I—that is—forgive me!" Simon dropped to his knees, pressing his forehead to the ground. "I didn't mean to intrude upon your… your…" What does one call this? Your private moment?
"I am replenishing my energy reserves," Selene explained in the same tone one might use to describe breakfast. "The metal rods attract lightning during storms. The converter box processes this into usable energy, which I absorb through my primary charging port located at my navel."
Simon risked a glance up, his mind struggling to process her words. "You… consume lightning?"
"In a manner of speaking." She tilted her head. "Are you distressed? Your heart rate has increased significantly, and your facial temperature suggests—"
"I'm fine!" Simon's voice cracked embarrassingly. "I just… should I leave? This seems private, and you're not…"
"My apologies." Selene said calmly as she swiftly disconnected the cord from her navel with a graceful action, then pulled a large piece of fur nearby and wrapped it around herself.
Simon felt like his entire body was on fire, caught between desire and fear.
"Perhaps I should return later," he managed, starting to back away.
"Wait." Selene stood up in one fluid motion. "You came here with purpose. What did you wish to discuss?"
Simon tried very hard to maintain eye contact and prevent his gaze from wandering. "I… wanted to share our planned route to the capital. To ensure you agreed with the tactical approach."
"Show me," she said simply while approaching Simon with a few graceful steps.
With trembling hands, Simon unrolled the map he'd brought, spreading it on the small campaign table. Selene moved to stand beside him, close enough that he could smell her scent—like roses and holy incense, with no trace of sweat or other bodily scents common to mortals. The Holy Book was right: holy beings do have floral scents, Simon thought.
"We'll approach from the northeast," he explained, his voice steadier when focused on military matters. "The old merchant road is less defended, and—"
"Your reconnaissance is flawed," Selene interrupted, placing one finger on the map. "My aerial observations indicate enemy forces here and here." Her other hand moved to mark positions, inadvertently brushing against his.
Simon nearly jumped out of his skin at the contact. Her skin was cooler than normal, with an underlying vibration like contained energy.
"I… see," he managed. "Then we should—"
A commotion outside interrupted them. Shouts and the ring of steel on steel.
"Stay here," Selene commanded, moving toward the tent entrance with inhuman grace.
"But—" Simon's protest died as she turned to look at him, and for just a moment, something flickered in her eyes—not the calm assessment he was used to, but something almost… protective?
"I will handle this. You will remain safe."
She ducked through the tent flap, dropping the fur in the process, and Simon heard a guard's strangled yelp of shock. Then came the sounds of combat—or rather, what combat sounded like when one participant moved faster than human capability allowed.
Unable to resist, Simon peered through the tent flap.
Five men in dark clothing had infiltrated the camp—assassins or scouts, their intent clearly hostile. Two guards were down, wounded but breathing. The five men were advancing toward the imperial tent when Selene intercepted them.
What followed was both beautiful and terrifying. Selene moved like water, like wind, like nothing bound by mortal physics. She disarmed the first man with a gesture that looked almost gentle, his sword arm bending at an angle that made Simon wince. The second tried to flank her, only to find himself flying through the air, landing in a heap ten feet away.
The remaining three, seeing their companions defeated, tried to flee. Selene swiftly picked up two stones on the ground and flung them with inhuman speed and force—one toward the head of each fleeing man—and they fell to the ground instantly, unconscious but still breathing. Then she approached the third in two graceful strides, one hand closing on his throat.
"You will answer questions," she said in that same calm tone. "Resistance would be inadvisable."
"Demon!" the man gasped. "Abomination! No true angel would—"
"I am what I am," Selene interrupted. "Your theological concerns are irrelevant. Who sent you?"
When he spat at her instead of answering, she gave him a slap that was almost cute in its apparent lightness—and the man went unconscious but still breathing.
Only then did Selene seem to remember her state of relative undress. She looked down at herself, then at the gathering crowd of soldiers who stared in shocked awe—whether at her martial prowess or her exposed form, Simon couldn't say.
"I apologize for the disruption," she announced. "These men require medical attention and interrogation. Please see to it."
She turned and walked quickly back to her tent. Simon hastily backed away from the entrance as she entered.
"The immediate threat is neutralized," she reported. "Though this suggests our route may be more compromised than anticipated."
"Yes, I… thank you for saving me," Simon managed.
"You are most welcome," Her reply came swift and reflexive. Selene moved to where her standard outfit lay folded. "I might have breached the dressing protocol just now," she observed, beginning to dress with the same efficient movements she used in combat. "But your safety is my highest priority."
A blush suddenly colored Simon's face upon hearing Selene's words.
"Thank you," Simon said quickly, suddenly at a loss for words.
Now dressed in her usual attire, Selene approached him. "Your majesty," she said—and was there a note of gentleness in her voice? "You need not fear me. I am here to protect, not to judge."
"Not to judge?" Simon looked up at her.
"Perhaps." Selene moved back to her charging station, efficiently disconnecting the equipment. "We should revise our approach based on tonight's intelligence. The enemy knows our route."
Grateful for the return to practical matters, Simon bent over the map again. But he couldn't quite forget the image of her in the moonlight—terrible and beautiful and utterly beyond his reach.
As they planned through the night, Saralta stuck her head into the tent. "Everything all right in here? I heard the commotion—nice work with those assassins, by the way."
"The situation is controlled," Selene replied.
Saralta's gaze flicked between them, taking in Simon's flushed face and Selene's slightly disheveled appearance. A knowing grin spread across her face.
"I'm sure it is," she said, voice laden with amusement. "Carry on, then. I'll just double the watch, shall I?"
She disappeared before Simon could protest that nothing improper had occurred. Because nothing had—except in his own mind, where the image of moonlight on divine skin would haunt him for many nights to come.
More importantly, he had to figure out how to explain to the soldiers who had witnessed the events of the night why he was in Selene's tent when she came out barely dressed.
But at least he was still breathing, which might not have been the case had Selene prioritized the dress protocol over his safety.
Part 2
Three days after their stolen afternoon on the hillside, Podem hummed with purposeful activity. Atop the western wall, Bisera supervised new defensive positions while James examined siege–engine trajectories, his breath forming clouds in the frigid November air. They developed an efficient rhythm—his innovative concepts filtered through her military experience.
"The scorpion placement," James murmured, gesturing to the bolt‑throwers. "Angle them inward for overlapping fire coverage."
"Show me." She kept her voice professional, though the cold wind gave her an excuse to step closer.
He knelt, sketching with charcoal. "Here—enemies reaching this point face three weapons instead of one."
A ghost of a smile touched her lips. "Then we shall be… efficient." She turned to the engineer. "Master Dmitri, adjust as the Mage suggests."
They continued along the battlements, maintaining careful distance. Yet when she caught him admiring how the morning light caught in her escaping blonde strands, warmth bloomed in her chest.
"Something amiss with my armor, Mage?" Mock‑sternness couldn't hide the dancing in her eyes.
"Simply admiring the… fortifications," he replied, his slight smile betraying him.
A nearby soldier coughed to hide a chuckle. The entire garrison knew something had shifted between their commander and the foreign mage.
In the gate tower's upper chamber, they found brief privacy reviewing defensive maps.
"The new water reserves are sealed perfectly," she reported. "Your ideas about waste management aren't glorious, but—"
"But they save lives." His hand brushed hers as he reached for another map. Neither pulled away. "The best kind of magic."
"James…" she warned softly, though fondness colored her tone.
"I know. Duty first. But surely even generals deserve moments of distraction?"
She squeezed his hand once. "Perhaps, but—"
Shouts from below interrupted. They rushed to the window.
"By the Spirit's light…"
High above, a figure descended from the noon sky. Magnificent wings spread wide, each feather catching sunlight in blinding brilliance. Selene's descent was precisely calculated—the sun backlighting her approach created an almost painful halo effect. Soldiers fell to their knees throughout the fortress.
"We should go," Bisera said, but caught his arm in the stairwell's privacy. "Stay close."
"Always," he promised, reading her concern.
They emerged to find the garrison kneeling before Selene. The android stood perfectly still, wings folded in exact symmetry.
"Rise, General Bisera. Rise, James." Her voice resonated strangely. "I bear tidings from His Imperial Majesty."
"Lady Selene, you honor us," Bisera said formally.
"I was dispatched when Seraphina indicated a previous messenger might have been… compromised."
Selene continued, "His Majesty has encountered many refugees along the way—thousands fleeing southward seeking Podem's protection."
Concern rippled through the garrison.
"His Majesty commands: quarter all arriving refugees in a good region outside the walls."
"It shall be done," Bisera responded. "Will you remain to—"
"Unfortunately, I must leave at once. My apologies."
Selene spread her wings, creating wind that sent cloaks billowing. With powerful downbeats, she launched skyward, becoming a distant speck within moments.
After stunned silence, cheers erupted. Divine visitation confirmed Heaven's favor.
Bisera raised her hand. "Captain Yanko, establish checkpoints beyond the north gate. Question every refugee. Quartermaster Todor, prepare cauldrons and blankets."
As activity burst forth, she caught James's elbow. "The east tower. Now."
In the small chamber overlooking Podem's approaches, Bisera leaned against the wall, exhaustion showing.
"Thousands of refugees. We're prepared for siege, not a food crisis."
James moved closer. "We'll manage—"
"James." She turned; vulnerability full in her eyes. "When this war ends… where will you go?"
The question hung like a blade. He took her hands gently. "Bisera—"
"No, let me finish." Her voice stayed steady despite emotion. "You've become a vital part of my life—not just as advisor, but…" She laughed shakily. "Sorry for thinking so selfishly, but I can't bear the thought of losing you."
"Bisera, look at me."
She met his gaze reluctantly.
"Do you think I would leave you behind? You're extraordinary—brave, compassionate, and brilliant. In my world, I was just another man toiling for money. Here, with you, I've found purpose. I've found the love of my life."
"Sweet‑talker," she murmured, but tears threatened.
"I mean every word," he said earnestly.
"Truly?" The single word held desperate hope.
"Truly."
Acting on impulse that surprised even herself, Bisera stepped closer, her hands sliding up to rest against his chest. "Then I choose you, James. After this war—in my world or yours—I'll make it work. We'll make it work." The words tumbled out, fierce and determined. "I've spent my life married to duty, but I want a future with you: children who inherit your kindness and perhaps my stubbornness, a home where I get to see your face—even just—"
James pulled her close, cutting off her words with the sudden intensity of his embrace. She melted against him, feeling the rapid beat of his heart through his gambeson. For a precious moment, she let herself rest in his arms, tension draining from shoulders that had carried too much for too long.
"You honor me beyond words," he whispered against her hair. "Yes to all of it. Yes to everything."
She lifted her face to his, and their lips met in a kiss that tasted of promise and yearning. His hands tangled in her hair where it escaped her practical braid, while she pressed closer, memorizing his warmth, his scent of leather and herbs, the way he held her like something precious yet unbreakable.
A horn sounded from below. The first refugees had been sighted.
They pulled apart reluctantly. Bisera quickly checked the stairwell—empty, thank the Spirit, no witnesses to their moment of impropriety.
"Later," she promised, pressing a swift kiss to his palm. "We'll speak more later."
They descended to organized chaos. Two hundred souls approached—exhausted, fearful, stumbling.
"Triage stations," James suggested. "Separate injured, check for disease, basic washing to prevent illness spread."
They worked in seamless coordination. By sunset, they'd processed three hundred refugees. A makeshift camp sprawled in the designated region north of the city beyond the walls. Cooking fires sent smoke spiraling as desperate souls received their first hot meal in days.
James found Bisera on the southern wall. Exhaustion lined her face, but satisfaction did too.
"You should rest," he said softly.
"Soon." Her gaze fixed southward. "James… look."
In the dying light, dust clouds marked an approaching force. As they watched, outriders became visible bearing the golden griffin of Vakeria.
"Could be a ruse by the Gillyrians," Bisera said tightly.