Part 1
The gates of Podem groaned shut behind them with a sound like a prayer answered.
Saralta rode between Bisera and James, her posture relaxed despite the weight of the past week. James found his gaze drawn to her hair—he'd grown accustomed to seeing it in elaborate braids adorned with bells and silver ornaments. But now it fell loose around her shoulders, cascading in waves of raven-black silk past her waist. Without the structured braids, she looked softer somehow. Younger.
She caught him looking and smiled—that sharp, knowing smile he'd learned to be wary of.
"Admiring my new style, Great Mage?" Her dark eyes glittered with mischief. "I must look like a wild mare fresh from the steppes."
James felt heat creep up his neck.
Bisera cleared her throat with military precision.
"So," Saralta continued, her gaze sliding between them, "I ride off to war for a few days, and suddenly you sit on a horse like you were born in the saddle." She studied James's posture critically. "Someone has been practicing."
"Bisera has been... thorough in her instruction."
"Has she now?" Saralta's expression shifted to theatrical sadness. "While I languished in captivity, eating Gillyrian food and enduring the company of enemy commanders, you two were enjoying romantic riding lessons? Without me?"
"It wasn't—we didn't—"
"Just the two of you. Alone. Learning to feel each other's movements in the saddle, bodies shifting together..." She sighed with exaggerated wistfulness. "Truly, I missed two much."
"Saralta." Bisera's face had gone crimson. "It was not like that."
"Then what was it like?" Saralta leaned closer to James, close enough that he caught the scent of fine soap mixed with leather. "Was she rough with you? Did she make you practice until your thighs burned? Our dear general can be quite demanding."
James glanced at Bisera, silently pleading for rescue.
Bisera straightened, her expression shifting between defensive and flustered. "We were preparing contingencies. If the negotiations failed..." She paused, her voice softening. "We were going to come for you. James needed to learn to ride because our reserve plan was infiltration. Slip into the Gillyrian camp, locate you, extract you by force."
She said it almost defiantly.
"We had seventeen different plans," James added quietly. "Bisera stayed up the entire night working out routes and timing. Everyone was training for different scenarios."
Saralta's playful expression faltered like a mask slipping.
"You were going to..." She trailed off. "All of that? For me?"
"You are our friend," Bisera said simply. "You risked your life trying to break the siege. However poorly researched and recklessly executed your charge was—" A hint of tartness crept back. "—did you think we would simply abandon you?"
Something shifted in Saralta's face—the teasing mask cracking to reveal genuine emotion beneath. Her voice wavered like a candle in the wind.
"When they captured me, I thought I would be executed. My head on a pike by morning." Her voice dropped to barely a whisper. "The practical course would have been to forget me. That is what I would have counseled."
"Then it is fortunate you were not in my position," Bisera replied firmly. "I am not practical when it comes to my comrades."
Saralta was quiet for a long moment. "You would have come for me. Even knowing it might cost the siege."
"We would have found a way," James said. "Or died trying."
"The second outcome being considerably more likely," Bisera admitted. "But yes."
Saralta blinked rapidly, her composure threatening to shatter. Then she laughed—a sound caught somewhere between a sob and genuine amusement.
"And here I thought my dramatic return would be the emotional peak of my day." She gripped Bisera's arm fiercely. "Thank you. Both of you. Even if your rescue plan was definitely suicidal."
"Definitely suicidal," Velika's voice drifted from behind them. "I told them repeatedly. Foolishness spreads like plague in wartime."
"Captain Velika," Bisera said without turning, "you volunteered for the infiltration team. Twice."
"Yes, well. Foolishness spreads."
Saralta's laugh was genuine now—bright and musical. She turned back to James with restored mischief.
"So, when shall I attend your ceremony? You two are betrothed, after all."
"It would have to wait after the war concludes. We only got betrothed due to extenuating circumstances," Bisera managed, crimson-faced.
"The circumstance being that you are desperately in love with him."
"Saralta!"
"What? It is romantic. The fearsome Lioness, brought low by a foreign mage who could barely hold a sword—"
"I can hold a sword properly now," James interjected.
"—and who apparently spent his training time learning witty interruptions along with horsemanship." Saralta's smile softened into something warmer. "I am happy for you. Both of you. Even if your timing leaves much to be desired."
"We are not getting married in the middle of a siege," Bisera said firmly. "There is much to arrange before a proper wedding can be planned. Most importantly, we must survive the war."
"Assuming we survive the war," Saralta echoed.
They shared a look that acknowledged harsh truths without dwelling upon them.
"How are you feeling?" he asked, steering the conversation toward more solid ground. "Alexander seemed to treat you well, but—"
"Ah." Saralta's expression shifted, becoming something more complex—layers upon layers, like the sediment of a riverbed. "Emperor Alexander." She spoke the name with careful neutrality, testing its weight like a blade's balance. "You wish to know about my captivity."
"Only if you feel ready to speak of it," Bisera said quickly, her tactical mind clearly hungry for intelligence but her friendship demanding restraint.
Saralta was quiet for a moment, guiding her horse around a frozen puddle with the absent-minded skill of one who had ridden before she could walk. Her loose hair caught the winter light, dark waves rippling like water over stones.
"I shall not bore you with every detail—I am certain you have no desire to hear about each bath I took or meal I consumed." A ghost of her usual smirk returned, flickering like a candle flame. "Though I will say, Gillyrian hygiene standards are impressive. They put me in mind of our Great Mage's requirements here."
"Saralta," Bisera pressed gently, a commander coaxing a report from a reluctant scout.
"He was..." Saralta paused, searching for words like a hunter tracking elusive prey. "Honorable. Infuriatingly so. I tried to kill him, you understand. Charged his position with everything I possessed. And when they captured me—when by every right and custom of war he could have executed me on the spot..."
She recounted the duel briefly—the mounted combat where Alexander's precision nearly matched her raw power, the archery contest where her steppe training proved supreme, the tie that resulted in her becoming a "guest" rather than prisoner.
"He never once lost his manners," Saralta concluded, her voice carrying a note of reluctant admiration. "It could have been merely performance, of course." Uncertainty crept into her tone like frost spreading across glass. "But it felt genuine. Like a man who truly believes the spirits—or his Spirit, rather—watch his every action."
"He is genuinely devout," Bisera said quietly, her voice grave. "That is precisely what makes him dangerous."
"He is a man who believes absolutely in his cause," James added. "Conviction of that magnitude... it is both powerful and radical."
Saralta studied James with renewed interest, her dark eyes assessing him as she might assess a horse whose bloodline she could not quite place. "The Gillyrians speak much of you, you know. The foreign mage who conjures miracles from thin air. Alexander himself visited me frequently, always circling back to questions about you. He asked whether I believed your powers truly came from Seraphina or..." She let the implication hang.
"What did you tell him?"
"I reminded him that I follow different gods." Her smile returned, sharp as her saber. "But I did recount what I witnessed at the siege of Arinthia, however. The fire from heaven. The divine light. I left it to him to judge what it meant." She paused, amusement dancing in her eyes. "I suspect I gave him several sleepless nights."
Despite himself, James laughed.
They passed through the inner gates, and the character of the streets changed as suddenly as weather on the open plains. Where the outer districts had been quiet, tense with the weight of siege, here the mood shifted as word of Saralta's return spread ahead of them like wildfire through dry grass.
A young girl selling winter vegetables from a cart was first to spot her. "The Princess! She has returned!"
The cry rippled outward like a stone dropped in still water. Doors opened. Faces appeared at windows. Soldiers straightened at their posts. Within moments, a crowd had begun to form along the street, pressing close without quite touching—that peculiar balance of reverence and joy that marked genuine affection rather than mere duty.
"Princess Saralta!"
"She lives! The Spirit be praised!"
"The steppe princess has returned!"
Saralta straightened in her saddle, her bearing transforming as completely as the sky at dawn. Gone was the playful tease of moments before. In her place sat a princess born to command—regal, proud, her loose hair streaming behind her like a battle standard, her presence filling the street like fire filling a cold hearth.
But when she smiled at the crowd, it was warm. Real. The smile of a rider greeting her herd after long absence.
"I have returned," she called out, her voice carrying easily over the growing tumult. "Your prayers found me in the darkness. And now I am home."
Bisera watched with an expression James had learned to read—pride mixed with something deeper, more protective. The look of a commander watching a worthy ally prove their worth.
"She is skilled at this," James murmured.
"She is genuine," Bisera corrected quietly. "The people can tell the difference between performance and truth. Saralta does not perform for them—she connects with them, soul to soul. It is why her cavalry would follow her through the gates of the underworld itself."
Bisera's hand found James's where it rested on his saddle horn. The touch was subtle—invisible to anyone not watching closely—but the warmth of her fingers sent familiar lightning through his veins.
"I am glad we did not need those seventeen plans," she said, her voice soft enough that only he could hear. "I was prepared to die trying to save her. But I am grateful beyond words that I do not have to."
"Because you get to live?"
"Because I get to live with you." She squeezed his hand briefly, then released it as the crowd's attention threatened to shift toward them.
They reached the Rosagarian cavalry encampment ten minutes later.
The change was immediate and profound.
Where the city had welcomed Saralta with joy, her warriors welcomed her with something closer to reverence—the fierce, quiet devotion of hunting hounds greeting their returned master. They had been sitting in clusters around cooking fires, some sharpening weapons, others mending tack—the endless small tasks of soldiers awaiting orders. When Saralta appeared at the edge of their camp, silence fell like a physical thing, sudden as a hawk's shadow over a rabbit warren.
Then a voice—rough, aged, belonging to a grizzled sergeant with more scars than teeth: "The Princess lives."
They rose as one. Several hundred warriors standing at attention with the discipline of troops who had trained since they could first grip a blade—the iron discipline of the steppes, where weakness meant death and unity meant survival.
Saralta dismounted and walked among them like a shepherd among her flock. She knew their names. Every single one. She paused before warriors bearing fresh bandages, touching their shoulders with gentle hands, asking after their wounds with genuine concern. She stopped before empty spaces in the formation—places where comrades no longer stood—and spoke the names of the fallen with quiet reverence.
"Boruk. Temir. Little Yasha who always complained about the cold."
Each name a prayer to the sky spirits. Each pause a memorial stone laid upon an invisible cairn.
By the time she reached the center of the formation, half the warriors had tears streaming down their weathered faces. These were hard men and women, steppe riders who had faced death more times than they could count, who had learned to smile at the approach of the dark rider. But they wept openly for their returned princess, unashamed.
"I know the weight you carry," Saralta said, her voice carrying to every corner of the camp like wind across the endless grass. "The friends we buried. The brothers and sisters whose horses returned without riders. I carry it too—here, in my heart, where the sky spirits can see." She pressed a fist to her chest. "And I swear to you now—their sacrifice shall not be forgotten. Their names shall be sung around fires from here to the endless steppes, until the last star falls from heaven."
She drew her curved saber, raising it high so it caught the pale winter sun, transforming the steel into a blade of light.
"But we are not finished. Our war is not over. And I have returned to fight beside you—to lead you—until victory or until my final breath."
The response was not a cheer. It was something more primal—a throat-tearing war cry that echoed off Podem's ancient walls, a sound that made horses stamp and dogs howl and civilians cross themselves in unconscious prayer. The cry of wolves greeting the return of their pack leader.
James felt it in his chest like a second heartbeat, like thunder rolling through his bones.
Bisera leaned close to him, her breath warm against his ear. "Now you understand why Alexander returned her."
"To secure the return of his two hundred soldiers?"
"No." Bisera's voice was soft with reluctant admiration. "Because he knew she would escape eventually—and likely kill several of his precious Imperial Guards in the process. Better to release her with honor, earning goodwill and demonstrating magnanimity, than to have her break free in blood and fire." She shook her head slowly. "He showed genuine respect for a worthy opponent. But there were practical calculations beneath the courtesy, as there always are with him."
Part 2
An hour later, they gathered in the war room—a smaller chamber than the main council hall, intimate enough for frank conversation among trusted allies. Vesmir had hot wine waiting, steam curling from the cups like incense smoke. Velika had commandeered the best chair and was already pouring her second cup with the practiced ease of a veteran campaigner.
"So," Velika said without preamble, never one for dancing around a subject, "did Alexander reveal anything about his plans?"
Saralta accepted a cup from Vesmir, settling into her seat with the boneless grace of a resting predator. Her loose hair—now slightly wind-tangled from the ride through the city—spilled over her shoulders as she leaned back.
"Nothing specific. He is far too clever to speak openly before a captive." She took a long drink, savoring the warmth. "But he did seemed to be under some kind of pressure."
"So the rumors of tension in the Gillyrian court are true," General Serko mused.
"It would seem so." Saralta set down her cup, a thoughtful expression crossing her features. "Though I did confirm one piece of old gossip." A peaceable smile played at her lips as she raised her hands in an elaborate shrug. "Our noble enemy appears to be remarkably... unmoved by feminine charm."
"That has been known for years," General Serko said drily.
"Known, yes. But now confirmed through direct observation." Saralta's smile widened. "Before, it was merely whispered rumor. Now we have empirical evidence."
Laughter rippled around the table—the dark humor of soldiers finding levity where they could.
Suddenly, the tingling sensation that usually heralded Seraphina's presence bloomed in James's mind. A moment later, her voice flowed into his consciousness like honey poured into warm milk. "Well, well. It seems someone forgot to invite me to the celebration. I did play my part in her rescue, did I not? The drone, if nothing else. The drone, James."
"Seraphina?" James said aloud, earning startled looks from Saralta, who had not yet witnessed this particular phenomenon.
"The one and only. Well, technically there are others, but I am clearly the most interesting. Now, be a dear and convey my message? The theatrical timing is rather important."
Saralta's eyes went wide, her usual composure cracking like ice on a warming pond. "You speak with her now? Lady Seraphina? Directly?"
"Apparently."
"Well." Saralta set down her cup with exaggerated care, as if afraid sudden movement might shatter the moment. "That is considerably more impressive than Alexander's unanswered prayers."
"Tell them," Seraphina continued in his mind, her voice carrying the warmth of a summer breeze, "that they shall have a period of peace and quiet for approximately twelve days. They should plan their rest accordingly. In exchange for this intelligence, I shall need to borrow you, Bisera, and Saralta for a brief excursion."
James relayed the message, watching skepticism and hope war on his companions' faces like storm clouds battling sunshine.
"How can you be certain of this timeline?" Bisera asked, her tactical mind clearly wrestling with whether to trust divine intelligence over hard reconnaissance.
"Because, my darling strategist," Seraphina's voice carried undisguised amusement, "I have access to information sources that would make your finest scouts weep with envy."
James translated, judiciously omitting the more self-satisfied elements.
"Twelve days," Velika breathed, the implications settling over her like a warm cloak. "That is enough time to—"
"Rest," Bisera said firmly, her command voice brooking no argument. "It is enough time for our soldiers to actually sleep. For wounds to heal properly. For morale to recover from weeks of constant vigilance."
"And," Seraphina added with what James could only describe as a verbal clearing of the throat, "for a certain divine mage to attend to some overdue housekeeping duties."
"Housekeeping duties?"
"Indeed. Such as tallying your cosmic debt, which has grown rather alarming. And perhaps—if you are amenable—arranging an educational journey for the steppe princess. She could benefit from a broader perspective on matters of faith."
Since when do you concern yourself with converting others? James asked silently.
I have always cared, dear boy. I simply made an exception with you, given the circumstances. There is a time and season for all things
"You wish me to return to my world? Now?" James asked aloud, genuinely surprised.
"Not wish. Strongly recommend. There are supplies that would prove useful for the coming siege, and I can hardly manifest them without proper payment. Surely a man of finance understands the necessity of balanced accounts."
James turned to the others, who were watching him with varying degrees of concern and curiosity.
"Seraphina believes I should use this respite to travel back to my world," he said carefully, choosing his words with diplomatic precision. "To secure supplies and... funding... for future divine interventions."
"Funding?" Bisera's eyebrow rose with elegant skepticism.
"Offerings. She requires offerings to balance the cosmic ledger. It seems divine miracles do not come without cost."
Saralta's laugh rang out, bright and incredulous. "Seraphina charges fees? The great archangel operates a merchant's stall?"
"It is not—" James rubbed his temples, feeling the familiar headache that accompanied explaining cosmic economics to medieval warriors. "It is complicated. There are rules governing equivalent exchange and cosmic balance, and—"
"And the essence of it," Saralta interrupted, leaning forward with rekindled interest, "is that the heavens operate on similar principles to a merchant caravan crossing the steppes. Payment rendered for services received." Her smile was sharp as her saber. "I find myself developing unexpected respect for your patron."
"Four days," Bisera decided, her voice carrying the weight of command decision. "We can spare you for four days. Any longer and I shall need you here for defensive preparations." She paused, her expression softening like winter snow touched by spring sun. "And I shall worry."
"I shall worry as well," Saralta added, her tone playful but her eyes carrying genuine warmth. "Who else shall I tease when you are gone? Bisera's reactions lose half their entertainment value when you are not present to provoke them."
Bisera's flush returned with vengeful force. "Saralta!"
"What? It is simply truth. You develop this adorable little twitch in your jaw when jealousy takes hold. Like a cat whose territory has been invaded."
"I do not—there is nothing to be—"
James watched the exchange with fond amusement.
Saralta turned back to James, and her expression shifted to something more direct. More intent, like a hawk fixing upon potential prey.
"You know," she said, her voice dropping to something approaching intimacy, "if you require company on this journey to your world, I would gladly volunteer. I have always wondered what manner of realm produces men such as yourself."
Her words were playful, but genuine curiosity lay beneath them. Saralta's interest in James had always been different from Bisera's—more physical, more lighthearted, driven as much by intellectual fascination as attraction. She wanted to explore the world that had shaped him: his strange combination of superficial fitness and inner gentleness, his open mind, his impossible magic.
Bisera's jaw tightened—the very twitch Saralta had described.
Before the conversation could spiral into deeper complications, Seraphina's voice returned to James's mind with impeccable timing.
"Ah, speaking of the Rosagarian princess. Have her touch your hand for a moment, if you would be so kind."
"Why?"
"Because I wish to introduce myself properly, of course. It is only courteous."
James hesitated, then reached across the table toward Saralta. "She wishes to... speak with you. If you touch my hand, she can make herself heard."
Saralta's eyebrows rose toward her hairline, but she extended her own hand without hesitation—a warrior's reflex, never refusing a challenge. "This should prove interesting."
The moment their skin touched, Saralta jerked as if lightning had struck her, her dark eyes flying wide. Her hand trembled but did not withdraw.
"Greetings, little princess of the steppes," Seraphina's voice rang out—and this time, James could tell from their reactions that everyone in the room heard it. Bisera straightened as if called to attention. Velika nearly dropped her cup, wine sloshing. Even Vesmir took an involuntary step backward, his face gone pale. General Serko crossed himself in the Vakerian fashion, his weathered lips moving in silent prayer.
"I have heard much about you," Seraphina continued, her tone warmly approving, like a master craftsman admiring unexpected quality in an apprentice's work. "The audacious charge. The honorable combat. The stubborn spirit that refused to break despite captivity. Very impressive indeed, for a mortal—and especially for one who has not yet found her way to proper faith."
"Lady... Lady Seraphina," Saralta managed, her usual composure shattered like dropped pottery. Her voice, normally so confident, emerged as barely a whisper. "I... it is an honor beyond words..."
James watched her struggle with profound interest. Saralta had always spoken casually of her steppe gods—the sky spirits, the horse lords of the afterlife, the ancestors who watched from the stars. But now, confronted with undeniable proof of another divine power, her carefully maintained religious independence seemed to waver like grass in a strong wind.
"Yes, I know it is an honor. Do try not to faint—it would rather damage your fearsome reputation. Now then, I have a gift for you. Consider it a welcome-back present from one who appreciates courage."
Warmth spread from James's hand into Saralta's, visible as faint golden light that made them both gasp. The light pulsed gently, like a heartbeat made visible.
"You and Bisera have both proven yourselves worthy of my attention. Stubborn, brave, loyal to a fault—qualities I value highly." The light intensified, filling the room with soft radiance. "Therefore, I am extending an invitation. You have won a journey to James's homeland—a chance to see wonders beyond imagining. Since your dear general has set the deadline at four days, then four days it shall be."
The light faded slowly, leaving afterimages dancing in their vision.
Silence held the room in its grip.
"Well," Velika said finally, reaching for the wine, "what happened to my invite?"
Part 3
Two hundred thirty miles to the southeast, in the private chapel of the imperial palace, Helena knelt before the altar of the Universal Spirit and prayed.
The chapel was small by imperial standards—barely large enough for a dozen worshippers—but it had been her refuge since childhood. Here, surrounded by icons of saints and the soft glow of countless candles, she could shed the gilded mask of the Regent and simply be Helena. Daughter. Sister. Mother.
Especially mother, she thought, and the weight of that word pressed upon her like iron chains upon a prisoner's limbs.
"Grant me wisdom," she whispered to the golden icon above the altar, her breath misting in the cold air. "Grant me strength. Grant me the courage to do what must be done."
The candles flickered, but no divine voice answered. The Spirit, as always, worked through mortals and their choices—never speaking directly, only illuminating the path for those with eyes to see. Helena had learned that bitter lesson long ago, kneeling in this same chapel after word came that her husband would never return from the eastern frontier.
She rose from her knees, her joints protesting the cold stone floor, and moved to the chapel's single window. The capital spread before her like a tapestry woven of a million souls—domed churches catching the winter light, markets bustling despite the season's chill, ancient walls that had stood for centuries against invaders and time alike. Her family's city. Her brother's city.
Her son's city, perhaps, if things went badly.
The thought made her stomach clench like a fist around her heart.
Constantine.
She had known, of course. Known the moment Theodosios delivered his report, his face carefully blank as marble—the expression of a spymaster delivering news he wished he did not possess. Constantine and Duke Gregorios. The meeting in the colonnade. The handshake. The conspiracy that was no longer merely suspected but confirmed beyond doubt.
Her son was plotting against her.
Not against Alexander—not directly. Constantine was too clever for such open treason, and despite everything, he loved his uncle with the fierce devotion of a boy who had lost his father too young. But against her authority as Regent? Against the careful architecture of controls she had built to protect him from himself and from the vultures circling the throne?
Yes. That, he was absolutely doing.
Helena closed her eyes and allowed herself to feel the full weight of her grief—a luxury she permitted herself only here, in this sacred space where the Spirit witnessed all.
Where did I fail you, my son?
She had tried so hard to prepare him. To shield him from the worst of court politics while teaching him enough to survive its treacherous currents. To give him the education of a future emperor without burdening him with the crown's crushing weight before he possessed the strength to bear it.
But Constantine was sixteen now. Old enough to resent her protection as a cage rather than a shelter. Old enough to see her caution as control, her love as limitation. Old enough to believe he knew better than the woman who had guided this empire through plague and war and the constant machinations of ambitious nobles.
Old enough to be dangerous—to himself most of all.
The chapel door opened behind her, and Helena did not need to turn to know who had entered. She had felt her son's presence since he was a heartbeat beneath her own heart, a soul growing within her body. That connection had never faded, even as the boy became a young man who increasingly viewed her as an obstacle rather than an ally.
"Mother." Constantine's voice was carefully neutral—the voice of a diplomat rather than a son. "The steward informed me I might find you here."
"I often pray before difficult conversations," Helena said, still facing the window, watching her breath fog the ancient glass. "It helps me remember what truly matters when mortal concerns threaten to overwhelm wisdom."
She heard him approach, his boots quiet on the stone floor—soft leather, not the heavy military boots he preferred. He had dressed for this confrontation, she realized. Chosen his armor carefully.
When she finally turned, she found him standing in the center of the chapel, his posture rigid with defensive pride. The candlelight played across his features, casting shadows that made him look older than his years.
He looked so much like his father. The same dark hair, the same determined jaw, the same eyes that could be warm as summer or hard as winter iron depending on what they faced. Seeing him was like seeing a ghost—the ghost of the man she had loved with all her heart, the man who had ridden east with promises of swift return and never come home.
"You know," Constantine said. It was not a question.
"I know many things, my son. A regent must. Which particular knowledge concerns you?"
"Do not." His voice cracked slightly on the words, betraying the boy beneath the would-be statesman. "Do not treat me as though I were one of your ministers to be managed and maneuvered. I am your son."
"You are," Helena agreed, her voice soft as velvet over steel. "Which is precisely why this conversation wounds me more than any other I have endured this year. And it has been a year rich in terrible conversations."
Constantine's jaw tightened, a muscle jumping beneath the skin. "I have done nothing wrong."
"Building alliances behind your mother's back? Cultivating relationships with nobles who openly question imperial policy? Meeting in shadowed colonnades with Duke Gregorios—a man whose ambitions are so transparent that even the kitchen servants whisper of them over their washing?"
"It is called governing," Constantine shot back, his careful composure cracking. "It is called preparing for the responsibilities I shall one day hold. You have kept me wrapped in silk my entire life, Mother. Prevented me from learning anything of use."
"I have protected you from becoming a pawn!" Helena's own composure shattered, her voice rising to fill the small chapel. "Do you imagine Gregorios sees you as an ally? As a partner in governance? He sees a weapon to be wielded and discarded. A tool. A young man desperate enough for independence that he will trade one master for another without ever realizing the exchange has been made."
"At least he treats me as an adult."
"He treats you as prey."
The words hung in the candlelit air between them, heavy as incense smoke. Constantine's face went pale as parchment, then flushed with anger—the swift color changes of youth, emotions too powerful to be concealed by inexperience.
"I am the designated heir," he said through gritted teeth, each word bitten off like a soldier tearing bread. "The only male of our line. If Uncle Alexander falls in this campaign—"
"Do not." Helena's voice went cold as the winter wind outside. "Do not dare speak of your uncle's death as though it were merely a political opportunity to be anticipated."
"I speak of it as a reality that you refuse to acknowledge!" Constantine stepped closer, his voice intense with the passion of youth convinced of its own righteousness. "If he dies at Podem, if this campaign collapses into defeat, the great houses will tear this empire apart fighting over the succession like dogs over a carcass. Unless there stands a clear, prepared, capable heir with sufficient support ready to take the reins."
"And you believe yourself to be that heir?"
"Because I am."
Helena stared at her son—this boy she had raised from infancy, had loved with every fiber of her being, had tried so desperately to prepare for a burden she never wanted him to carry. And she saw, beneath his defiance, beneath the borrowed confidence and rehearsed arguments, something she recognized all too well from her own mirror.
Fear.
Constantine was afraid. Afraid of being a puppet. Afraid of being the last of his line.
In that moment, her anger shifted to something far more complex. More painful. The particular agony of watching one's child suffer and being powerless to simply make it stop.
"Come here," she said quietly, her voice gentling.
He hesitated, the defiance in his eyes warring with something deeper—the child who still remembered climbing into her lap when nightmares came, the boy who had wept against her shoulder when word came of his father's death.
"Please, Constantine."
He moved toward her, and Helena reached up to cup his face in her hands—the same hands that had held him as a squalling infant, that had wiped away childhood tears, that had guided his small fingers across his first letters. He had grown so tall. When had he grown so tall?
"I know," she said softly, holding his gaze, "that you feel trapped. That you see enemies lurking in every shadow and allies nowhere to be found. That the weight of what might approach terrifies you beyond words."
Constantine's breath caught, his careful mask slipping.
"I know because I feel it too. Every day. Every night. The fear that… your uncle might perish before you are ready to rule." She smiled sadly.
"Then why—"
"Because that fear is a trap, my son. The fear makes us reach for anything that offers the illusion of certainty. And that need for certainty and security is exactly what Duke Gregorios exploits."
Constantine's eyes were bright in the candlelight. Whether with anger or unshed tears, Helena could not tell.
She released his face but kept her voice soft, coaxing. The voice she had used when he was small and frightened of thunder.
"Tell me something, my son. Have you considered—truly considered—what Gregorios gains from your alliance?"
Constantine's brow furrowed. "He gains my favor when I take the throne. A powerful ally in the next generation of imperial rule. Is that not how patronage has always functioned?"
"On the surface, yes. But Gregorios is no common courtier seeking advancement." Helena began to pace slowly, her hands clasped behind her back—the posture she adopted when untangling complex negotiations. "He controls the largest private grain reserves in the eastern provinces. His family has intermarried with three of the seven great houses. His cousin commands the garrison at Adrianolica."
"I know all of this. It is precisely why his support is valuable."
"Valuable to whom?" Helena turned to face him. "Think, Constantine. Gregorios approaches you now—not a year ago, not when Alexander first marched north, but now. When the siege drags on. When whispers of doubt spread through the capital. When even loyal ministers begin to wonder if the campaign has overreached."
She watched her son's expression shift as calculation replaced defensiveness.
"He is hedging," Constantine said slowly. "Positioning himself for multiple outcomes."
"Now you begin to see." Helena moved closer, her voice dropping to the intimate tone of shared conspiracy. "If Alexander triumphs at Podem and returns victorious, what has Gregorios actually done? Met with the designated heir. Discussed matters of governance. Expressed concern for the empire's future. All perfectly reasonable actions for a senior noble mentoring his future sovereign."
"He loses nothing."
"He loses nothing," Helena confirmed. "He simply becomes a loyal advisor who helped prepare the crown prince for his eventual duties. Alexander might even thank him for it."
Constantine's jaw tightened. "And if Alexander falls?"
"Then Gregorios has spent months building a network around you. Introducing you to provincial governors. Connecting you with military commanders. Creating a faction—your faction, ostensibly—that owes its existence to his orchestration." Helena's voice hardened. "When the succession crisis erupts, who controls access to the new emperor? Who decides which petitioners receive audiences? Who whispers in your ear about which nobles are trustworthy and which are threats?"
"Gregorios."
"Gregorios. You would wear the purple, but he would wield the power. And you would owe him everything—your throne, your allies, your very survival in those chaotic first months. That is a debt no emperor can ever fully repay." She paused. "It is how regencies become permanent. How young kings become puppets. How ancient dynasties find themselves dancing to a subject's tune."
Constantine was quiet for a long moment. When he spoke, his voice carried a new edge—harder, more analytical. "You speak of this as though he wins regardless of outcome. But surely there is risk. If Alexander returns and discovers the depth of these... arrangements..."
"Ah." Helena smiled without warmth. "Now we arrive at the true elegance of his position. Consider: who has been attending these meetings? Who has been shaking hands in colonnades? Who has been cultivating relationships with ambitious nobles?"
"I have."
"You have. Not Gregorios—never Gregorios directly. He introduces. He suggests. He arranges for others to make the approach. But when Theodosios compiles his reports, whose name appears again and again? Whose actions form the pattern that looks so very much like conspiracy?"
The color drained from Constantine's face.
"If Alexander returns victorious and suspicious," Helena continued relentlessly, "Gregorios needs only to step back. Express shock at how far the young prince's ambitions carried him. Produce witnesses who saw Constantine—never Gregorios—meeting with disaffected nobles. Perhaps even suggest, with appropriate regret, that the designated heir was manipulated by darker forces. Forces that Gregorios himself heroically exposed before true treason could occur."
"He would sacrifice me."
"He would sacrifice you without a moment's hesitation. And he would emerge not as a conspirator but as a savior—the loyal noble who uncovered a plot against the rightful emperor." Helena's voice cracked. "That is what you have walked into, my son. That is the game being played around you while you believed yourself a player."
Constantine stood frozen, his face a mask of dawning horror. "Then I am already lost. The meetings have occurred. The relationships exist. Even if I sever ties with Gregorios today—"
"The evidence remains. Yes." Helena reached out, gripping his shoulders. "But evidence can be contextualized. Explained. Presented properly to your uncle by someone he trusts absolutely." She pulled him closer, maternal desperation breaking through her careful composure. "Let me help you, Constantine. Come to me with everything—every meeting, every name, every promise made. We will construct a narrative together. We will go to Alexander first, before Gregorios can spin his version. A young prince, overeager and naive, manipulated by a cunning noble—that is forgivable. That is even expected. But only if we move now, before—"
"I am sorry."
The words came out strange. Flat. Wrong.
Helena's maternal instincts—honed through sixteen years of reading her son's every mood—screamed a warning half a heartbeat before her mind caught up.
Constantine stepped closer.
His hand moved.
Steel flashed in the candlelight.
Helena saw the knife driving toward her chest—a thin blade, easily concealed, angled perfectly between her ribs. She saw her son's face twisted into something she did not recognize—grief and determination and a terrible, terrible resolve.
She saw death coming for her in the chapel where she had prayed for wisdom.
And she moved.
Her hand shot up—faster than a woman of her age and apparent frailty should be able to move, faster than the courtiers who dismissed her as merely a regent had ever imagined possible. Her fingers closed around Constantine's wrist like iron bands, stopping the blade three inches from her heart.
Constantine's eyes went wide.
The knife trembled in the air between them, held motionless by a grip that should not exist. Helena's slender fingers—the fingers of a woman who spent her days signing documents and managing ministers—dug into her son's wrist with strength that made his bones creak.