Part 1
They brought her through the camp like a captured dragon.
Bear chains. The kind forged for arena beasts, iron thick as a man's thumb, layer upon layer until the weight threatened to buckle her knees. Four imperial guards—each selected from the largest—held her steady. She tested the bonds once. Just a sharp twist of her shoulders.
The lead guard stumbled backward three steps.
Soldiers abandoned food, repairs, sentry posts—everything—just to watch her pass. Some stared with professional respect, the way veterans assessed dangerous opponents. Others wore that calculating merchant look, appraising valuable goods. Too many looked at her with something else entirely. Hunger. Fascination. The expression men got when they saw something rare, exotic, and beautiful.
Saralta felt their eyes like physical touches. She stood at 175 centimeters without her ornate headdress, with 4 cm of additional height from the riding heels. She was taller than most Gillyrian soldiers. Her mother's eastern heritage showed in her features, softening the harsh steppe warrior lines into something almost ethereal.
"By the Heavens," one young soldier whispered. "That's a beast with a nymph's face—"
"That's a princess, fool." His companion's voice was harsh, but his eyes never left her. "Show respect."
"I am showing respect. Respectful appreciation."
Heat crawled up Saralta's neck. She'd seen this before—countless times, glances directed at her mother Yuying, whose beauty had been legendary on the Vakerian steppe that khans had started wars over her. However, with Saralta, the stares were heavily mixed with feelings of awe and curiosity.
"I have never seen a pure-blooded Vakerian," she heard one soldier mutter nearby. "Look at that build. Healthy as a prize mare."
The irony burned within Saralta. These Gillyrians stared at her as if she embodied pure Vakerian heritage from the endless plains. Her height and warrior's build came from her Vakerian father, yes, but that those striking features, that liquid grace that persisted even in chains? All gifts from her mother, whose people built great empires on the eastern edge of the world. She wasn't pure anything. Just someone with mixed ancestry who did spent her life seeking the very glory she failed to secure just moments earlier.
Behind the chain-holders, Igor walked with casual menace—war mace in hand, the blunt end rather than the killing head. When Saralta's steps faltered, he pressed it gently against her spine. Reminder.
Up close, he was massive enough to make even large men look ordinary. Arms like tree trunks, shoulders that could block out the sun. But his face—that pretty face with its delicate features created a jarring contradiction. Beautiful and brutal. Angel and executioner.
"Keep moving, warrior." His Vakerian carried an accent close to her own, but with Gillyrian formality beneath it. "His Imperial Majesty doesn't like waiting."
They passed through organized chaos. Smithies rang with repairs to siege equipment. Surgeons' tents leaked copper-blood smells mixed with wine-sharp antiseptic. Wagons groaned under supplies that spoke of months-long campaigns.
The memory of her charge crashed over her. That perfect plan—strike Alexander directly, kill him, watch his army crumble like steppe khanates when their khan fell. City-dwellers. Farmers in armor. Surely they'd scatter?
She'd sold two hundred riders on that misguided vision. Two hundred souls who'd followed her into promised chaos.
"How did you know?" The question burned in her throat until she couldn't hold it back. Her voice came out rougher than intended. "How did you know I'd charge from that exact direction? The trap was perfectly positioned—"
Igor glanced back, one scarred eyebrow raised. "We didn't."
"Then how—"
"Standard imperial security doctrine, Princess." Professional pride threaded through his voice. "Any time His Imperial Majesty takes the field, we prepare defensive positions around his command post. Concealed barriers, trenches, obstacles, covering every possible approach vector."
He gestured vaguely toward the siege lines. "You triggered the one that happened to be in your path. Could have been any of them. The point isn't to predict where an attack will come from. The point is to ensure that wherever it comes from, we're ready."
The simplicity of it was elegant. And humiliating.
"There are many more where that came from," Igor continued, his tone hardening slightly. "So I'd advise against anyone being insolent enough to think they can succeed in attacking the emperor."
The words settled over her like a shroud. They hadn't beaten her through luck. They'd beaten her through institutional knowledge, through centuries of professional military development. She had vastly underestimated their potential.
Halfway to the imperial pavilion, Saralta's body made an urgent announcement about biological necessities.
She tried ignoring it. Failed.
"Wait. Stop."
Igor moved to face her, eyebrow raised.
"I need to relieve myself. That battle... took longer than expected."
Igor stared. Then grinned—genuinely amused.
"You want privacy to piss?"
"Is that unreasonable?"
The grin faded. "It is not. But with you, Princess, it's about risk." He gestured at the chains. "You killed fifty-seven men by yourself this morning. Came within a blade's length of His Imperial Majesty. You've got inhuman stamina and strength and you're shrewd as a fox."
He leaned closer. "Anyone else? We'd loosen the chains for dignity. But you? The second we give you a finger's width of freedom, you'd break free. Kill half of us before we brought you down."
Strange pride flickered through her.
"However," Igor continued, "we'll dose you with water after. Clean you off so you don't stink before His Imperial Majesty. Can't have you offending the emperor's nose." His expression turned calculating. "But here's the thing—if you survive your audience, if you impress him with proper... deference... you will have your proper bath afterwards. Hot water, soap, privacy. But if you don't survive..." He shrugged. "Well. Dead people don't need washing."
The implications hit like a fist.
They were preparing her to meet Alexander. Making sure she was presentable, clean enough not to offend. And if she pleased him—if her appearance, her bearing, her submission was acceptable—then she'd be granted bathing privileges.
They were preparing her like a prize to be inspected.
Igor's expression softened slightly with something like professional courtesy. "His Majesty is known for generosity toward worthy opponents. But you did try to kill him. What happens next... it's hard to guess."
Her mouth went dry.
"Fine." The word came through gritted teeth.
What followed was mercifully brief. Guards mostly looked away. Cold water doused her after, running off in streams that couldn't quite wash away the humiliation or the growing dread.
"There. Now you're presentable. Remember, Princess—proper respect might earn you that bath tonight. Disrespect..." He didn't finish, but the implication was clear.
Each step toward that purple pavilion felt like walking toward an executioner's block. Or worse.
The pavilion's interior shocked her despite her dread. Not an austere command post but a mobile palace. Rich carpets spoke of years of craftsmanship. Bronze braziers burned sweet-smelling wood. Maps covered a table, weighted with carved military pieces that looked more like art than tools.
And there, studying those maps with scholarly intensity, stood Emperor Alexander himself.
Closer, he was... impressive.
Saralta had expected a man with eyes radiating brutality like the khans of the steppes. Instead, she found something far more captivating. Tall, lean-muscled like a lifelong warrior. But that face belonged on ancient marble statues—classical beauty, perfectly symmetrical, almost unreal. Dark wavy hair fell in loose curls that caught brazier-light. When he looked up, those dark eyes met hers, she found herself cataloging escape routes purely to avoid admitting he'd made her breath catch.
She forced herself to meet his gaze directly, refusing to look away even though something in those eyes made her pulse quicken. Not fear—she'd faced death too many times to fear one man. But awareness. Recognition that this wasn't some brutish conqueror, but an intelligent, attractive, dangerous opponent who could destroy her with either a sword or a sentence.
She's beautiful, the thought raced through Alexander's mind. Not in Irene's refined courtly way, but with the wild elegance of a hunting falcon—dangerous and free and utterly compelling.
He crushed the thought viciously. Irene was his past, present, and future. Everyone else was just... scenery.
"Princess Saralta of Rosagar." His Vakerian flawless despite a slight Gillyrian accent. His voice was cultured and refined. Smooth, controlled, carrying authority without shouting. "Welcome. I trust Igor has treated you with appropriate... consideration?"
Behind her, Igor cleared his throat meaningfully.
She forced steel into her voice. "Your commander has been the picture of Gillyrian hospitality." Sarcasm dripped from every word.
Alexander smiled—not a victor's grin but something almost rueful. "Yes, I imagine the journey was less comfortable than preferred. Unfortunately, reports of your prowess demanded precautions." He gestured at the chains. "Fifty-seven of my men die in your charge alone. Quite impressive."
The compliment confused her more than threats would have. This wasn't how captured warriors were usually treated. Where was the gloating? The assertion of dominance?
He moved around the table with feline grace. Purple silk caught light. Confident economy in every movement. When he stopped, he was close enough she could see faint lines around his eyes—marks of years planning battles, making decisions that cost lives.
"Younger than expected," he said thoughtfully. "Twenty-six, according to intelligence. Quite young for such a fearsome reputation."
"Old enough to have killed more men than you'd like."
He laughed—genuinely, the sound warm and unforced. "Indeed. Old enough, skilled enough, bold enough to charge a thirty-thousand-strong army with just two hundred riders." His expression turned serious, curious. "Tell me—what was your plan? What did you hope to achieve?"
Not accusation. Genuine curiosity.
"I planned to kill you. Obviously." She met his eyes directly. "One strike through your command, then escape in the chaos."
"The chaos." Something flickered across his face. Understanding? Sadness? "You expected chaos when I fell?"
"Of course. You're the emperor. Your army's held together by your command. Kill you, they scatter—back to farms, cities. That's how it works with settled peoples."
He stared at her for a long moment. Then understanding dawned with something like genuine sadness. "You thought my soldiers were conscripts. Farmers in armor, held together by nothing but coercion."
"Aren't they?"
"No, Princess. They're professional soldiers. Men trained for years, loyal not just to me but to the empire, their units, their brothers-in-arms. Kill me, and my generals would continue the campaign. Perhaps not as effectively—I'd like to think I bring some value—but they wouldn't scatter like autumn leaves."
The words settled over her like cold water. "Then my riders never had a chance."
"No," he said quietly, and there was genuine regret in his voice. "But they died well. With courage to be remembered and respected."
Before she could process that—this enemy emperor speaking respectfully of her fallen warriors—movement at the entrance drew her attention.
Three guards entered, dragging prisoners. Vakerian cavalry, bound and beaten but alive. She counted quickly—three of them. Faces she recognized. Men who'd followed her into battle.
Alive. They kept them alive.
"One hundred twenty prisoners," Alexander said, his voice hardening slightly. "From your charge. Your people, Princess."
Hope and dread warred in her chest.
"I'm giving you a choice. A competition. You and I, one-on-one. Honorable combat, witnessed by my army and your men."
"And if I refuse?"
Something cold entered those dark eyes. "If you refuse, those one hundred twenty men get tied to my siege engines for future assaults. Human shields. Your warriors, bound to machines that will bring down the walls they've been defending." His voice was matter-of-fact, making the horror worse. "And you will be chained and brought to the battlefield so that you can watch the consequence of your choices."
Air left her lungs.
"And if I accept?"
"If you accept and lose, you serve me for this war's duration. Your skills, your loyalty, transferred to Gillyria."
"As a slave."
"As a warrior in my service. With appropriate honors." His tone made the distinction clear.
"And if I win?"
"Then you go free. Completely. Horse, supplies, safe passage back to Vakerian lines." He paused. "And the other prisoners will be kept as prisoners of war—fed, housed, treated honorably. When prisoner exchanges can be arranged, they'll be returned. Unharmed."
Prisoner exchanges. He was planning for a long war.
"And if we tie?"
His lips curved in something that might have been approval. "Interesting that you consider that possibility. If we tie, you remain as my guest—not prisoner—until you escape on your own means. The prisoners will still be treated as if you'd won. And you swear an oath never to attempt another suicide charge against my position for this conflict's remainder."
A trap. Brilliant, giving her the illusion of choice while backing her into a corner. But with one hundred twenty lives hanging there...
"I'll compete." She straightened despite the chains. "But I have conditions."
"Let's hear it."
"Before the competition starts, agreeing to terms. Before witnesses, binding both of us."
He studied her for a long moment. Finally nodded. "Agreed. We'll both swear. Before the Universal Spirit, and before the god you hold sacred."
Something in his voice, in those steady dark eyes, made her believe him. Which was dangerous in itself.
"Then I agree. I'll compete. I'll swear your oath."
Within minutes, they were before the open gaze of the Gillyrian troops. Igor adjusted Saralta's chains so she could kneel properly. As she lowered herself across from Alexander, the weight of what was happening settled over her. This was real. Binding. The kind of oath that couldn't be broken without consequences transcending mere mortal punishment.
Alexander began speaking, voice steady and clear. "I, Alexander, Emperor of Gillyria, Commander of Armies, Lord of the Purple, swear upon the Sky Father watching all, upon the Universal Spirit governing all creation, and upon my honor as a warrior..."
His eyes locked with hers. "That if Princess Saralta of Rosagar accepts this competition and emerges victorious, she will be granted immediate freedom. She will receive a horse, supplies, and safe passage to Vakerian lines. No pursuit will be ordered. No retribution taken."
Steel entered his voice. "Further, the one hundred twenty Vakerian prisoners currently held will be treated according to honorable warfare conventions. Fed, housed, cared for, held for eventual exchange or release at war's end. No harm will come to them regardless of competition outcome."
He leaned forward. "And if the competition results in a tie, the prisoners will still be protected, and Princess Saralta will remain as an honored guest until she manages escape by her own means or the war concludes. I swear this upon all I hold sacred, upon my name and honor, upon my ancestors' legacy and my empire's future. Let the Universal Spirit itself bear witness and strike me down if I break faith."
The words hung heavy in the air. Saralta felt something shift in the space between them—not physical, but real nonetheless.
Her turn.
She straightened, lifting her chin. "I, Saralta, Princess of Rosagar, Daughter of Tugor of the Vakerian Steppes. I swear upon the Sky Father watching all, upon the Universal Spirit flowing through every living thing, upon my mother's honor and the memory of the warriors who fell under my command..."
Her voice caught slightly. She pushed through. "That if I accept this competition and am defeated, I will serve Emperor Alexander of Gillyria with loyalty and skill for this war's duration. I will fight for his cause as I would have fought for my own, holding nothing back save my ultimate allegiance to my homeland Rosagar."
She took a breath. "If the competition ends in a tie, I will remain as his guest until I can effect escape through my own means or the war concludes. And in either case, whether I lose or tie, I swear never to attempt another charge against his person for this conflict's remainder."
She leaned forward, matching his posture. Only the thin sacred earth line separated them now. Close enough to see gold flecks in his dark eyes, close enough to feel the body heat radiating from him.
"I swear this upon the Sky Father, upon the Universal Spirit, upon my honor as a warrior and princess of the Vakerian people. Let the elements strike me down if I break faith. Let the Universal Spirit condemn my soul if I prove false."
The air between them crystallized, heavy with two powerful oaths binding two powerful people.
Then Alexander smiled—not the imperial mask, not the warrior's confidence, but something softer. "Well sworn, Princess. I've never heard an oath quite so thoroughly binding."
"I wanted to be clear. If I'm risking everything on this insanity, I want us both equally committed."
"We are. More committed than most people manage in a lifetime."
He stood, offering his hand. She stared at it—this enemy emperor, this devastatingly handsome man she'd tried killing hours ago, offering to help her up like they were old friends.
Then she took it.
Warm. Strong. Callused from sword work despite those refined features. When he pulled her to her feet, the chains rattled but held, and she found herself standing closer than intended.
She stepped back quickly, disturbed by her own reaction.
"Igor," Alexander said, "remove the Princess's chains. All of them."
Absolute silence.
"Your Majesty?" Igor's voice carried genuine concern. "Are you certain—"
"She's given her word. Before the her god and mine. That's binding enough."
She felt Igor move behind her, heard the clink of keys, felt the massive weight of chains beginning to fall away. Layer after layer of iron dropped with heavy thuds. The pressure on her torso eased. Arms came free. Legs. Finally, even the collar around her neck.
For the first time in hours, she could move freely. Breathe fully. Could—if she wanted—reach for the sword at Alexander's hip and try killing him right now.
The thought must have shown on her face, because Alexander's smile turned slightly challenging. "Wondering if you should try?"
"The thought crossed my mind."
"I'd advise against it. You've sworn not to attempt another charge against me. And besides..." His smile widened. "If I didn't have the martial skill to defend myself against a freed opponent, I'd be a fool to challenge you to combat in the first place."
The audacity struck like a physical blow. He'd freed her completely, trusting in nothing but her oath and his own ability to fight her off if necessary.
"You are insane."
"Perhaps. But it's an honest kind of insanity." He stepped back, giving her space. "The competition begins in one hour. That gives you time to prepare—stretch, test your movements without chains, center yourself. Igor will bring the horse and the weapons for the competition."
He turned to his maps, then paused and looked back. "And Princess? Thank you for keeping your word. It speaks well of the steppes that an oath sworn is an oath kept."
Before she could respond, he'd already turned away, dismissing her as casually as if she was just some visiting friend.
Igor cleared his throat. "Come, Princess. Let's get you properly equipped."
As she followed Igor, she glanced back once and found Alexander already absorbed in his maps, confident and unconcerned that she was walking freely through his camp.
The man was either the bravest fool she'd ever met or the most dangerously competent warrior alive.
She suspected it was both.
Part 2
They set up the course in a clearing—far enough from the main army to avoid interference, close enough that everyone could watch. And watch they did. Word spread like wildfire: their emperor was competing against the captured barbarian princess. One-on-one. Honorable combat.
Within an hour, thousands lined the makeshift arena, placing bets, arguing odds.
Saralta stood at one end, finally free of chains. They'd given her a magnificent chestnut gelding with spirit in its eyes. The animal responded beautifully to her touch, already sensing her natural horsemanship. Beside her—bow and quiver, weapons gleaming in afternoon sun.
She rolled her shoulders, feeling the phantom weight of chains. Her body sang with freedom. Mana pooled instinctively in her muscles, responding to excitement and readiness. Raw power thrummed beneath her skin like caged lightning.
At the opposite end, Alexander mounted his white stallion with practiced ease. His armor gleamed purple and gold, catching light.
That unwelcome flutter hit her stomach again.
Focus. He's the enemy.
Igor stood between them, his massive frame making even Alexander look merely well-built. "First round: mounted combat with wooden training weapons. First to score three solid hits wins. Second round: horseback archery. Five targets at varying distances. Most hits wins. May the Universal Spirit guide both warriors!"
Training weapons. Alexander wasn't risking actual mortality.
Igor raised his hand. "Competitors ready?"
Saralta nodded, feeling mana flow freely now, pooling in her muscles like water seeking its level. She channeled it carefully, letting raw power settle into her limbs. Strength flooded through her—pure, overwhelming force.
"Ready."
"Ready," Alexander echoed.
Igor's hand dropped. "Begin!"
Saralta spurred forward, the chestnut responding instantly. Her natural horsemanship showed in every movement—she and the animal moved as one entity, perfectly synchronized.
Alexander charged with terrifying speed, his white stallion eating distance. But where Saralta flowed with her mount like water, Alexander rode with precise, calculated control—every movement deliberate, mechanical perfection born from endless drilling.
At the last possible second, he veered left with inhuman speed, his training sword flashing toward her ribs.
He's channeling too. Her enhanced reflexes barely allowed her to block. The wooden weapons connected with a crack that echoed across the field, and the force nearly numbed her arm despite her enhanced strength.
She riposted immediately, putting her enhanced strength behind the blow—enough force to bend steel. The sword whistled through the air with terrifying speed.
Alexander twisted in his saddle with flexibility that defied human anatomy, his mana-enhanced body moving like liquid. The strike that should have caught his shoulder passed harmlessly as he bent backward at an impossible angle, then snapped forward with serpentine grace. His counterattack came from a position that should have left him off-balance.
His blade caught her shoulder—precise, perfectly placed.
One point to Alexander.
The crowd roared.
She'd never seen anyone move like that. Where she flooded her body with raw power, his enhancement was surgical. Refined. Every ounce of mana directed with perfect efficiency to exactly where it was needed.
They circled. Saralta struck high with enough force to splinter shields; Alexander ducked low with supernatural speed and countered toward her thigh with a strike that concentrated all his enhanced strength at a single point.
She deflected with brute force, then tried to hook his blade. But he disengaged with impossible speed, already moving left.
The crowd's roar faded to background noise. There was only the horse beneath her, the sword in her hand, and an opponent who matched her in ways she'd never experienced.
Saralta channeled more mana into her next attack, letting power build until her muscles scream against her armor. She struck with enough force to kill an armored knight, the blade a blur.
Alexander met it not with equal force but with perfect precision. His mana-enhanced flexibility let him twist his entire body, using her strike's momentum to redirect rather than stop it. As her blade passed, his counter came with lightning speed—three strikes in a heartbeat's space, each precisely targeted.
She blocked two with raw strength. The third caught her side. Another point to Alexander.
But her return strike—powered by enough channeled mana to throw a man twenty feet—caught him full on the chest, and only his mana-enhanced body kept him from being unhorsed. A point to Saralta.
Both were breathing hard now, both pushing their abilities to the limits. Sweat dripped down Saralta's back.
The next exchange was brutal. She charged again, putting everything behind a massive overhead strike. The wooden sword groaned under the force, mana channeling creating visible ripples in the air.
Alexander's eyes widened—the first sign of genuine alarm. He couldn't block that. Not directly.
Instead, he did something impossible.
His mana-enhanced reflexes kicked in. His flexibility let him throw himself sideways in the saddle, parallel to his horse's back, while simultaneously bringing his sword up not to block but to deflect—redirecting just enough of that enormous force that the blow whistled past his head.
Before Saralta could recover, he'd already flowed back up with liquid grace, his blade moving with supernatural speed in three rapid strikes to her exposed side.
One hit. Two. Three.
The match was his.
Igor called time. "First round to His Imperial Majesty! Prepare for horseback archery!"
Saralta remained mounted, her legs trembling from the sustained mana channeling. She'd pushed herself harder than she had in months. But the exhaustion mixed with exhilaration—and now, fierce anticipation.
Alexander stayed on his white stallion, though she noticed he was breathing hard and favoring his ribs where her strike had landed.
"Impressive, Princess," he said. "I haven't been pushed that hard in years."
"The round's not over yet." A predatory smile curved her lips.
This was her domain. Horseback archery—the art that separated steppe warriors from all others. She'd been shooting from the saddle since she was six years old, had learned to reload at full gallop before she'd learned to read.
Five targets appeared along the course, arranged by Gillyrian soldiers at Igor's direction. Wooden posts with straw-filled circles painted in concentric rings. The first at thirty paces. The second at forty-five. The third—barely visible—at sixty. The fourth positioned behind an obstacle, requiring the archer to navigate around intervening terrain. The fifth placed on an angle that would demand shooting while turning in the saddle.
Igor's voice boomed across the field. "Five targets! One pass each! Most hits to center rings wins! Emperor Alexander—as challenger, you ride first!"
Alexander gathered his reins, his white stallion prancing beneath him. He drew his bow—a beautiful recurve of horn and sinew, clearly a masterwork. His posture was textbook perfect: back straight, shoulders square, drawing arm aligned precisely.
"Begin!"
He spurred forward at a controlled canter. Not the reckless gallop of steppe riders, but measured, calculated. His mana enhancement kicked in—Saralta could see it in the way his pupils dilated, tracking the first target with superhuman precision.
The first arrow flew. Dead center. The crowd roared.
Second target. He adjusted for distance with mathematical accuracy. Another center hit.
Third target at sixty paces. He drew, compensated for drop and wind, released. The arrow struck—just inside the second ring. Still impressive at that distance from a moving horse.
Fourth target. He navigated around the obstacle with controlled precision, his stallion responding to subtle commands. Drew. Released. Center ring.
Fifth target. The difficult angle. He twisted in his saddle with that inhuman flexibility, his mana-enhanced body allowing a shot that should have been impossible from that position. The arrow struck the outer edge of center.
Four center hits, one near-center. The Gillyrian soldiers erupted in cheers.
Alexander cantered back, barely winded. "Your turn, Princess. Let's see if the steppes live up to their reputation."
Saralta urged her chestnut forward to the starting line. She didn't bother with textbook posture. Instead, she settled into her saddle with the loose, flowing ease of someone who'd been born on horseback. Her bow was simpler than Alexander's—traditional steppe construction, reinforced with horn but built for speed over elegance.
She closed her eyes for a heartbeat. Felt the horse's breathing synchronize with her own. Felt the mana pooling in her arms, her core, her vision. Not the surgical precision of Alexander's enhancement, but raw power married to instinct honed over twenty years.
"Begin!"
She exploded forward.
The chestnut erupted into a full gallop immediately—no measured canter, but the reckless speed that made steppe cavalry legendary. Wind whipped her braids back. The world blurred into motion.
First target approaching fast. She didn't slow. Didn't adjust her posture. Just drew in one fluid motion—the bow coming up as naturally as breathing—and released.
The arrow struck dead center while she was still accelerating.
The crowd's roar changed pitch. This was different. This was something they'd never seen before.
Second target. Forty-five paces. She was moving twice as fast as Alexander had been. Drew. Released. The motion so smooth it looked like dance. Dead center.
Third target at sixty paces. The difficult shot. She didn't slow down. If anything, she pushed the chestnut faster. At this speed, the margin for error was nonexistent. Her mana-enhanced vision locked onto the target, compensating for speed, distance, wind, the bouncing gait of her horse—
Drew. Released.
Dead center.
The Gillyrian soldiers' cheers mixed with shocked gasps. Several Vakerian prisoners who'd been brought to watch were screaming her name.
Fourth target—the one behind the obstacle. This was where it got interesting.
She didn't navigate around the terrain like Alexander had. Instead, she aimed her horse directly at a gap in the obstacles that looked too narrow for a mounted rider. The chestnut responded to her knees without hesitation, surging through the opening with inches to spare on either side.
The target flashed into view for barely two seconds as she cleared the gap.
Drew. Released. All in one motion, bow and body and horse moving as a single entity.
The arrow struck dead center.
Now the crowd was going wild. Even the Gillyrians were shouting, caught up in the display of horsemanship that was less skill and more art form.
Fifth target. The angled shot.
This was the test. The shot that required twisting in the saddle, maintaining aim while your body rotated and your horse thundered forward.
Saralta had been making this shot since she was twelve.
She didn't just twist. She stood in her stirrups, rotated her entire upper body backward—almost facing her horse's tail—and drew her bow at an angle that looked physically impossible. Her core screamed. Her thighs locked around the saddle like iron. Mana flooded through her, stabilizing muscles, sharpening vision.
The target appeared in her vision, angled, difficult, demanding.
She released.
The arrow flew in a beautiful arc, compensating for her rotation, the horse's motion, the awkward angle.
It struck so perfectly center that it split the wooden peg holding the target in place. The entire target fell forward, the arrow buried so deep it had gone clean through.
For a moment, there was absolute silence.
Then the entire field—Gillyrians and Vakerians alike—exploded into deafening cheers.
Saralta completed her pass and wheeled her chestnut around, cantering back to where Alexander and Igor waited. She wasn't even breathing hard. This wasn't pushing her limits. This was what she'd been born to do.
Igor walked to inspect the targets, though the result was obvious to everyone watching. He returned, barely suppressing a grin.
"Five perfect center hits!" he announced. "The second round goes to Princess Saralta!"
For a moment, there was absolute silence.
Then a Gillyrian officer began to clap. Slowly at first, then building. Within heartbeats, the entire field erupted.
Alexander sat very still on his white stallion for a long moment. Then he began to laugh—genuinely, warmly, the sound carrying across the field.
"By the Heavens," he said, loud enough for nearby soldiers to hear. "That was the most magnificent display of horsemanship I've ever witnessed." He looked at her with something like awe. "The steppes don't just live up to their reputation—they exceed it."
Saralta felt heat rise in her cheeks, but she kept her voice level. "We're raised in the saddle, Emperor. Before we walk, we ride."
"Clearly." He dismounted, and after a moment, she did the same. They stood facing each other while thousands watched.
Igor stepped between them. "The competition stands at one round each! His Imperial Majesty claims victory in mounted combat! Princess Saralta claims victory in horseback archery! The final result—"
"A tie," Alexander finished, his dark eyes never leaving Saralta's face. "An honorable tie."
The crowd erupted once more—cheers and groans depending on bets placed, but underneath it all, a current of genuine excitement. They'd witnessed something rare: two elite warriors, each supreme in their own domain, fighting to a standstill.
Alexander crossed the small distance between them, close enough she could see genuine respect in his eyes—and something else. Recognition, perhaps. The acknowledgment of meeting a true equal.
"A remarkable competition, Princess. I haven't faced an opponent that skilled in years. Perhaps ever."
"You're not bad yourself." She paused, then added with a slight smirk, "Though you ride like a farmer compared to a real steppe warrior."
He laughed, the sound genuine and warm. "I'll concede that point entirely. My people may have many strengths, but we don't have children shooting from horseback before they can write."
Around them, the betting settled. Soldiers—Gillyrian and the Vakerian prisoners alike—were already retelling the competition, embellishing details, arguing about particular moments. This would be talked about for years.
Igor approached, clearing his throat. "Your Majesty, perhaps we should discuss the tie terms? And the Princess needs accommodations."
Alexander nodded. "Of course. Princess, please accompany me."
As they walked through the camp—Saralta no longer in chains but walking freely beside the emperor—soldiers parted with expressions of awe and respect. She'd proven herself worthy of their emperor's attention, matched him blow for blow.
The purple pavilion felt different now. Less threatening.
He laughed, settling into a chair. "So. We tied. Which means you remain here as my guest until you can escape on your own, and you've sworn an oath never to attempt another suicide charge. The one hundred twenty prisoners will be treated honorably, as promised."
"You're worried I'll try again?"
"I'm worried you'll succeed next time. And despite our current positions, I'd rather not have to kill you. You're far too valuable alive—as a warrior, a strategic asset, and frankly, an entertaining conversationalist."
Entertaining? Her?
Before she could process that, Igor cleared his throat. "Your Majesty, if I may? The Princess has been in armor and covered in... various substances... for quite some time. Perhaps we should offer her use of the bath?"
Alexander nodded. "Excellent thought. Princess, we have a wooden bathtub—normally reserved for my personal use, though Igor uses it too when he thinks I'm not looking—"
"You said I could!" Igor protested.
"—and you're welcome to it. Hot water, soap, clean cloths."
Bath. An actual bath with hot water.
Wait.
They were offering her Alexander's personal bathtub. The one he used. Which meant...
She'd heard stories. Whispered tales among mercenaries who had served in Gillyrian lands before. About ancient emperors and their... preferences. About what happened to attractive captives. About joint baths that became something else entirely.
And Alexander, looking like he'd been carved by divine hands, speaking with that cultured voice, treating her with unexpected courtesy—was he building to something?
Pieces clicked into place. The competition had established compatibility, proven she was worthy. Now came the part where he would bathe with her, where she'd be vulnerable and naked, and then...
"Oh, you are going to bathe with me," she blurted out, the words coming out more breathless than intended.
"What?" Alexander looked genuinely confused. "No, I've already bathed this morning. The tub is yours alone."
"But you said—" She gestured vaguely. "Your personal bathtub. I thought—" She couldn't finish, too embarrassed. "I've heard stories. About Gillyrian emperors. What they do with... with captives..."
Understanding dawned on Alexander's face, and to her surprise, his expression wasn't predatory. It was... gentle? Almost amused?
"Princess," he said quietly, "for someone as shrewd as yourself, your intelligence gathering skill is certainly an area needing improvement. Rest assured, I have no intention of touching you. My heart—" He paused, and something flickered across that perfect face. "My heart belongs to someone else. And it will never change."
The gentleness in his voice, the obvious sincerity, made her feel foolish. But also relieved.
"Oh." She blinked. "Wait. Someone else?" Her eyes darted around the pavilion, landing on Igor. The massive man used his bathtub too. They were clearly very close. And she'd heard those stories too—about emperors and their male companions.
"You mean... him?" She looked directly at Igor.
Absolute silence.
Alexander's face went through several expressions in rapid succession—confusion, comprehension, and then something between offense and disbelief. "What? No! Why would you—"
"The Princess's courage and skill on the battlefield," Igor interrupted, his tone absolutely deadpan but his green eyes dancing with suppressed laughter, "are only matched by the wildness of her speculations."
She whirled on him. "It's not wild! In my library readings, I came across records of ancient Gillyrian emperors who preferred male companions! And you said he lets you use his bathtub, and you're clearly very close, and—" Her face was getting redder by the moment.
"Those emperors were pagans," Alexander said, and there was steel in his voice now. "I am a devout follower of the Spirit's teachings." He paused. "There is already a lady in my heart. Only one. And for this life, I will touch no other woman... nor man."
Something in the way he said it—the finality, the devotion—made Saralta's bosom tighten.
"I see," she said quietly. "I apologize for the... misunderstanding."
"Furthermore," Alexander continued, his tone remote. "Even if my heart was free, I cannot in good conscience pursue intimacy beyond my faith. Intimacy, rightly ordered, is preconditioned on spiritual union; to enter it with a pagan could lead me astray."
The words hit like cold water. Not cruel—he wasn't trying to hurt her. But the casual dismissal, the automatic assumption of her spiritual inferiority, stung more than outright insults would have.
"How enlightened," she said, ice in her voice.
Alexander seemed to realize his words had landed wrong. "I didn't mean offense, Princess. I simply wanted to be clear about my position. The bath is yours, with no ulterior motives."
"Your Majesty is too kind," she said, keeping her voice neutral. "I'll take the bath. Alone. As originally offered."
Igor cleared his throat. "Your Majesty, there is one small issue. The Princess needs to be secured during her bath. We can't risk escape, and given her proven strength..." He held up a iron collar—padded with leather attached to a long chain. "She'll need to wear this."
She stared at the collar. "You want me to bathe while chained?"
"The chain is long enough to allow full movement within the bathing area. You'll barely notice it."
"I'll absolutely notice it," she muttered, but she was too exhausted and desperate for water to argue much. "Fine. Whatever."
They led her to a sectioned-off area within the pavilion where a large wooden tub sat, steam rising invitingly. The scent of soap and clean linen filled the air.
Igor secured the collar around her neck with surprising gentleness. The chain extended from the collar to a sturdy post, long enough to allow free movement around the tub but no further. Clean clothes were placed beside the tub.
"His Majesty and I will stand guard outside the curtains. Call if you need anything. Or if you try to escape, in which case we'll call for reinforcements instead."
"How reassuring."
"We aim to please, Princess."
Alone at last, she stripped off her armor and clothes with shaking hands. Every muscle ached. Every joint protested.
She lowered herself into the tub with a groan that was probably undignified. The heat seeped into her muscles, loosening knots she hadn't known existed.
For a moment, she just sat there, letting the water work its magic, trying not to think about how ridiculous this day had been. Charged an emperor, been captured, had deeply embarrassing conversations, competed in a battle that pushed her to her limits, and was now bathing in his personal tub while wearing a collar.
And somehow, despite all of it, she felt... alive in ways she hadn't in years. Seen. Recognized. Matched by an opponent who understood what she was capable of.
Even if he'd made it clear she was beneath him spiritually.
"You're still insane," she muttered, addressing the absent Alexander.
"I heard that," came his amused reply from the other side.
"Good," she shot back, but she found herself almost smiling despite everything.
The soap was finely made—better than anything in the Vakerian camps. It lathered easily, smelling of herbs and something floral. She scrubbed away the accumulated grime, washing her hair, cleaning her nails.
When she finally emerged, she saw the clean clothes beside the tub—sleeping clothes far more comfortable than anything she'd worn in weeks.
She dressed quickly, very aware of the collar still around her neck. But even that couldn't diminish the profound relief of being clean.
"I'm finished," she called.
Igor appeared first, followed by Alexander. Both looked her over with professional assessment.
"Better?" Alexander asked, and there was genuine concern in his voice.
"Much. Though I still maintain that bathing with a collar is barbaric."
"Not as barbaric as using some's skull for a cup," Igor said with irony. "Now, let's get you to your accommodations."
They led her through the camp as the sun set. The smell of cooking meat and bread made her stomach growl audibly.
"We'll have food sent to your tent," Igor said. "His Majesty requested you be given officer corps rations."
"Your emperor continues to be unnecessarily courteous. For someone who considers me spiritually defiled."
Alexander winced. "Princess, I apologize if my words earlier—"
"Don't." She cut him off. "You were honest. That's worth more than false courtesy." She paused. "Even if your honesty makes it clear where I stand."
"You stand," Alexander said quietly, "as one of the finest warriors I've ever faced. As someone who kept her oath despite every opportunity to break it. As someone worthy of respect, regardless of our theological differences."
The sincerity in his voice made her throat tight. "I appreciate that."
They reached a tent near the command pavilion—larger than expected, with proper bedding, a brazier for warmth, a small table with a chair. The chain from her collar extended to a sturdy post in the center.
"Your accommodations, Princess."
She had to admit it was comfortable.
Food arrived shortly after—roasted meat, fresh bread, cheese, even fruit. She ate mechanically, fueling her exhausted body.
She was guarded, collared, captive in an enemy camp.
She was also alive, well-fed, comfortable, and had just competed against an emperor who'd called her skilled and worthy of respect.
Life was very strange sometimes.
She should be planning escape. Should be angry, defiant, plotting vengeance.
Instead, she found herself drifting into the best sleep she had in months.