Part 1
Bisera's practiced gaze swept across the unfolding deployment with the clinical precision of a commander who had witnessed countless battles. The left wing, composed primarily of troops from Gillyria's southern themes, assumed their position near the frozen Maritsa River, anchoring their flank against its ice-crusted surface. Their officers—men born to imperial purple, crimson cloaks marking them as military aristocracy—directed each unit placement with an ease that spoke of lifetimes dedicated to the golden eagle's service. These were not seasonal levies or hastily assembled conscripts, but professional soldiers who had devoted their lives to mastering the deadly choreography of imperial warfare.
The right wing spread toward the frost-covered hills with equal discipline. Here, the distinctive conical helmets and curved sabers of steppe auxiliaries caught the morning light as their small, swift horses danced beneath riders who had learned warfare from the saddle. These horse-archers had once terrorized Gillyrian borderlands, yet gold and promises of plunder had transformed them into the empire's most feared irregular cavalry. Among their ranks moved units of eastern mounted bowmen, their composite bows—masterworks of horn, sinew, and wood—capable of punching through mail at distances that defied belief.
Yet, it was the center that commanded her attention like iron drawn to lodestone. Here stood the empire's finest—elite regiments whose names alone carried the weight of legend. The Emperor's Immortals, the Palace Shield, the Golden Lions, the Chosen Riders—each unit represented generations of martial tradition distilled into living weapons. They moved with lethal grace, every company flowing into position as though the war god himself had choreographed their movements from birth.
Behind them all, atop a hill commanding an unobstructed view of Podem's ancient defenses, a purple pavilion rose like a jeweled crown against the frost-hardened earth. This was no mere command tent but a portable palace, its silk walls supported by poles of sacred cedar topped with golden eagles whose ruby eyes seemed to track every movement below. As she watched, slaves unloaded carpets that had once graced the imperial palace, furniture of ivory and precious woods, even what appeared to be a throne of white marble inlaid with gold. The message was unmistakable—Alexander had come not as a raider seeking plunder, but as a rightful sovereign reclaiming his patrimony.
The emperor emerged from his retinue and ascended the hill with measured steps that spoke of absolute confidence. Even at this distance, Bisera could observe how every soldier in view turned toward him like flowers following the sun, their devotion as palpable as the morning frost. When he raised his hand—whether holding sword or scepter, she could not discern—thirty thousand voices erupted in perfect unison: "Hail Alexander! Hail the Light-Bearer!"
The sound rolled across the valley like thunder given voice, shaking Podem's ancient stones with primal power. In the streets below, children's cries pierced the morning air, their terror adding sharp counterpoint to the martial display. Dogs howled in response to something that touched their deepest instincts; horses whinnied and stamped in their stables; even veteran soldiers made the sign of the Universal Spirit against whatever dark fate this overwhelming force might herald.
"They mean to break our will," Bisera said, her tactical mind reasserting control over the primal awe such displays inevitably evoked. "A show of overwhelming force designed to shatter morale before the first arrow flies. Alexander has studied his histories well—half of victory is claimed in the mind before bodies ever clash in battle."
She turned to address the sentries who had gathered on the tower, their faces pale with recognition of what they faced. "Sound the bells," she commanded, her voice cutting through their paralysis like a blade through silk. "All of them. Wake the city. Let every soul know the hour of testing has arrived."
As bronze bells began their urgent tolling, their deep voices joining in a cacophony that spoke of danger and defiance in equal measure, Bisera gripped the frost-covered battlements and studied the enemy deployment with methodical attention. Her mind calculated angles of attack, fields of fire, probable assault points. The western gate presented the obvious target—it faced the easiest approach, and its defenses, while formidable, lacked the strength of the eastern fortifications rebuilt after the last siege. But Alexander was too skilled to attempt only the obvious; he would probe, test, seek weakness with a master surgeon's patience.
The strengthening light revealed more disturbing details. The siege train following the main army stretched beyond sight—wooden towers partially assembled on massive wagons, bronze-headed battering rams sheltered beneath iron-reinforced roofs, catapults and mangonels in numbers that spoke of months of careful preparation. But it was the Gillyrian fire siphons, their bronze nozzles wrapped in oiled cloth and marked with ancient warning symbols, that made her truly grasp the emperor's intent. This was no raid for gold or punitive expedition for injured pride. This was the opening movement in a campaign of reconquest that would not cease until Gillyria's borders reached their ancient limits.
It was then that James found her.
She heard his approach before seeing him—those strange modern boots of his, still foreign in this medieval world, taking the tower steps two at a time. The frost made them treacherous, but he climbed with the desperate urgency of a man seeking someone precious. Even before he burst through the doorway, she knew it was him. Something deep within her chest—that part she'd thought armor and duty had killed—suddenly blazed to life like coals given breath.
He emerged onto the tower's peak, steam rising from his exertion in the frigid air, his dark eyes already seeking hers with an intensity that stole her breath. Whatever words he'd prepared died unspoken as he took in the sight filling the valley below.
"Holy heavens," he breathed, the modern oath sounding strange yet fitting in this moment of awe.
"Thirty thousand," Bisera said quietly, her voice steady despite the storm raging within her chest. "Perhaps more."
She'd faced similar odds before—at Sparklestar River, where fate had first thrown them together; where he'd appeared like something from legend itself, fumbling with that ridiculous electric fence in a cave while she lay dying from her wounds. The memory struck with unexpected force: even then, delirious with fever and pain, some part of her had recognized the otherworldly kindness radiating from him.
"At Sparklestar, I commanded veteran troops," she continued, forcing herself to focus on tactics rather than the way the morning light caught in his hair. "Most of our men now are green—raw recruits who've never seen true battle. The walls are strong, but…"
But now, standing beside James, she felt something she'd never experienced in all her years of warfare. The realization struck her with the force of one of Nikolaos's mana-enhanced arrows, stealing her breath more effectively than the frigid mountain air.
She wanted to live.
Before James, death had held no terror for her. She'd always believed it infinitely better to die gloriously on the battlefield than to wither away in peaceful obscurity. But now, for the first time in her life, Bisera—the Lioness of Vakeria—felt a desperate, selfish desire to survive. Not for duty, not for empire, not for glory, but for the simple chance to spend a lifetime beside this impossible man from another world.
"You're afraid," James said softly. It wasn't accusation but observation tinged with wonder. Through all their trials together—the desperate retreat from Sparklestar River, the political dangers in Podem, through nights when death seemed certain with the dawn—he'd never seen fear touch her.
"Yes," she admitted, the word escaping like a confession torn from her soul. "But not of them." She gestured dismissively toward the enemy host. "I've faced worse odds and emerged victorious. At the Battle of Korin Falls, I held a bridge with two hundred men against three thousand. At Halomere, I broke a siege that had lasted six months. Those are merely tactics—problems to be solved with steel and strategy."
She turned from the enemy host, fixing her gaze on him instead. In the morning light, she could see threads of premature silver in his dark hair—had they been there when they met? Or had this brutal world aged him as it had aged her?
"I'm afraid," she continued, her voice rough with emotions she'd never learned proper names for, "of not seeing this through. Of dying on these walls and never—" She stopped, the words too large for her throat, too precious to release into the cold air where they might shatter like ice.
"Never what?" His voice was gentle, patient—the voice of a man who'd learned that the most important truths often came wrapped in silence.
"Never knowing what it's like," the words tumbled out in a rush, freed by his patience. "To wake without first checking for assassins. To eat a meal without wondering if it's poisoned. To spend each and every day with you." Her voice cracked on the last words.
The admission hung between them like a blade suspended on silk thread. She saw his face change, understanding dawning in those impossibly kind eyes.
She reached out, her calloused fingers finding his. "I never wanted any of that before you came. Duty was enough—it was everything. Glory was my lover, victory my only child. The empire was my entire world, and I was content to die for it without ever having truly lived. But now…"
The bells continued their frantic tolling as the city awakened to its peril. Already, she could hear captains bellowing orders in the courtyards below, the clash of arms as soldiers rushed to their posts.
James took her face in his hands, thumbs brushing away tears that had begun to freeze on her cheeks. His touch was warm against her cold skin, and she leaned into it like a flower seeking sun.
"We will survive this," he said fiercely, with all the conviction of a man who'd crossed worlds and would cross them again if needed. "After all, we have Seraphina." Though it felt strange invoking the wise-cracking angel, her name carried an odd comfort in this desperate moment—a comfort he knew Bisera desperately needed right now.
Part 2
Below them, the Gillyrian deployment continued with terrible precision. Work parties had begun cutting the frozen earth for the first parallel—that initial trench that would eventually strangle Podem like a noose. Behind them, engineers assembled siege engines with movements so practiced they seemed choreographed, while protective mantlets rose to shelter those who would soon begin the patient work of undermining ancient walls.
It was almost beautiful in its awful efficiency. Alexander commanded his forces like a master conductor drawing music from destruction itself, every movement purposeful, every action flowing seamlessly into the next. Centuries of military tradition had been refined into this deadly art.
"Look," Vesmir said, approaching and pointing toward the valley. A horn sounded—not the harsh blast that preceded assault, but the melodious call of parley. "They want to talk."
Even as he spoke, a delegation separated from the main force. At its head rode a herald in scarlet, marking him as the emperor's voice made manifest. But behind him, mounted on a destrier so white it seemed carved from winter itself, came Alexander.
"He comes in person?" James's surprise was evident. "Isn't that dangerous?"
"Not under parley," Bisera replied, already moving toward the stairs. "And Alexander knows I honor the conventions of war. He counts on it—using honor itself as another weapon." She paused, her hand tightening on his. "Come. We must hear what he offers."
They descended swiftly, her armor ringing against stone like funeral bells. By the time they reached the main gate's tower, crowds had gathered—soldiers abandoning their posts, officials emerging from warm halls, even civilians climbing precarious perches to glimpse the enemy emperor. Bisera pushed through them with James and her weapon bearer close behind until they stood directly above the gate.
The imperial delegation had halted just beyond arrow range, but close enough that every detail was visible. Alexander had a face carved by ancient sculptors' dreams. Youth still clung to him, but his bearing held nothing of youth's uncertainty. This was a man who had been groomed from birth to restore an empire's faded glory.
When he spoke, his voice carried with perfect clarity, pitched to reach not just Bisera but every soul gathered on Podem's walls. He began in formal Gillyrian, then repeated each phrase in accented but clear Vakerian—a courtesy that also served as a reminder that he had studied his enemies thoroughly.
"General Bisera of Vakeria," he inclined his head with what seemed genuine respect. "Your reputation precedes you like dawn before the sun. The Lioness of Vakeria, they call you—the invincible general before the battle of Sparklestar River." His smile held warmth tinged with melancholy. "Had your emperor heeded your counsel at Sparklestar River, perhaps I would not stand here today. But young Simon preferred courtiers' whispers to his greatest general's wisdom."
He gestured toward his vast army with studied grace. "I come not as conqueror but as liberator. Your empire tears itself apart even as we speak. Arinthia has fallen—not to mortal hands but to demonic corruption. Your emperor marches north against abominations that defile your very capital, while you prepare to spill believers' blood defending a city against fellow believers."
The words struck like calculated blows. Around her, Bisera felt her soldiers' unease ripple outward. The fall of Arinthia had been kept from common soldiers, but Alexander had just proclaimed it to all. Already, whispers spread like wildfire—if the capital had fallen to demons, what hope remained for Podem?
"I offer you this, Bisera of Vakeria." His voice took on an almost hypnotic cadence. "Surrender Podem to its rightful sovereign—for these lands were Gillyrian for a thousand years before your steppe ancestors arrived—and I swear by the Spirit we both revere that every soul within shall be treated as my own subjects. More—you yourself shall have honored place in my armies. No longer will talent be dismissed for foreign birth or gender. My mother once ruled as regent with wisdom that shames most men. My sister now rules in my absence. But most importantly, you will have a place in the new order with that Great Mage of yours."
He leaned forward, and despite the distance, Bisera felt the full force of his personality—youth and authority combined with something that might have been genuine admiration.
"You pray to the same Spirit. Why defend an empire built on oppression and infested by demons? Join me. Help bring peace to these lands. Let history remember you not as the inflexible general who died blocking fellow believers from liberating a demon-ravaged land, but as one who chose wisdom over stubborn pride."
Silence fell like snow. Bisera felt every eye upon her—soldiers wondering what their general's decision would be; civilians trembling at their fate. Then there was James beside her, his presence both anchor and reminder of all she now had to lose.
The offer was more tempting than Alexander could know. Not for glory or position—she had long since learned the hollow taste of such rewards—but for the life it offered: a life with James, in peace. For the chance to wake beside James without death hovering like a patient vulture. For the possibility of tomorrows with a family of her own that she had never dared imagine until he crashed into her world.
She stepped forward, allowing herself to be fully visible. The morning light caught her golden hair—that foreign marking that had followed her through every triumph, every victory that was never quite enough to make her truly Vakerian. At nearly six feet, she towered above most around her, her athletic frame evident even through armor. She knew what picture she presented to Vakerian nobles—the outsider who had risen too high, the foreign woman who commanded where tradition said she should obey.
But as she prepared to speak, she felt James's hand brush hers—a touch so light others might miss it, but to her it was anchor and strength and reminder all at once. She had just confessed her desire to live, had just admitted for the first time that glory was no longer enough. And here was Alexander, offering her exactly that—life and position with James and the chance to be valued for her abilities rather than despite her birth.
Yet how could she face the Spirit if she broke her oath? How could she wake beside James knowing she had traded honor for breath? What worth was life if purchased with the blood of those who trusted her?
"Your Imperial Majesty," she began, her voice carrying the authority of countless winters spent in war's embrace. "Your words are as famed as your victories, and both are deserved. You speak truth, and your offer was most tempting."
She drew herself to full height, letting them all see what she was—foreign, female, forever different. "But you speak also of faith, and it is faith that binds me. I swore before the Universal Spirit to defend this city. Emperor Simon, young though he may be, gave me his absolute trust. How could I face the Spirit in prayer if I broke that sacred vow at the first testing?"
Her voice hardened, carrying now to every listener. "You speak of your ancestors' claim to these lands. Tell me—when they first came to these shores, were they welcomed as liberators? Or did they come with sword and fire, claiming these lands for mortal ambition?" She gestured toward the smoke still rising from distant villages. "I need only look there to see how Gillyrian mercy manifests. Yes, those farmers likely resisted. By war's laws, their destruction was just. But those were not soldiers in those smokes. Is that the unity you offer?"
She let her hand rest on her sword's pommel—not threat but reminder. "The people of Podem are not merely Vakerian or Gillyrian. They are bakers who rise before dawn, smiths whose hammers ring out life's rhythm, mothers who sing their children to sleep in languages your empire has forgotten. I cannot gamble their lives on golden words."
In one fluid motion born of decades' practice, she took her great bow—that massive steppe recurve that few could even draw—from her arms bearer beside her. The crowd gasped as she nocked an arrow, and the Gillyrian delegation tensed. But Alexander raised a hand to still them, curiosity lighting his dark eyes.
"So let this be my answer," Bisera declared, "delivered with all respect due to Alexander the Wise, heir to Constantine, beloved of the Spirit."
She drew the bow in a single smooth motion, muscles rippling with effort. The arrow she chose was her finest—fletched with eagle feathers, its head forged from star-iron. She aimed not at any man but at the imperial standard flying from the purple pavilion—an impossible shot at this distance.
For a heartbeat, she held the draw, aware of everything—James beside her, his faith in her almost tangible; the watching crowds who would remember this moment in song; Alexander below, something like admiration in his eyes; and most of all, the certainty that filled her: she wanted to live, yes, but she would live as herself.
She released.
The arrow flew like a prayer given wings, rising impossibly high against the pale sky. Two armies watched its flight, breath held, as it reached its peak and began to fall, guided by twenty years of training and perhaps something more.
With a crack audible even at this distance, it struck dead center in the purple banner, piercing the golden eagle's heart.
For a moment, perfect silence. Then a roar erupted from Podem's walls—joy and defiance and desperate hope made voice. "Bi-se-ra! Bi-se-ra! Bi-se-ra!"
Alexander stared at the distant banner, then back at her. When he spoke, all oratorical flourish had vanished. "Remarkable. The tales did not exaggerate."
He replaced his helmet with deliberate grace. "I regret what must follow. When this ends—however it ends—I shall ensure you are remembered with honor. The empire needs generals like you, even if it must break them first."
He turned his destrier, pausing for one last word. "You speak of mothers and children. So be it. Three days to reconsider, to evacuate any who wish to leave. After that…" The siege engines spoke their own language.
As the delegation withdrew, Bisera felt James's hand find hers properly now, hidden from view by the battlements. She gripped it fiercely, drawing strength from his touch.
"That was insane," he whispered. "Also magnificent."