Love of Fortune and Steel

Part 1

James's shoes crunched on loose gravel as he hopped down from the driver's seat of the large transport truck carrying wounded soldiers. He approached Bisera with a freshly summoned pair of binoculars in hand, an incongruous paper tag proclaiming $150 dangling absurdly.

"Here," he murmured, feeling self-conscious about how out of place the binoculars must look in this medieval warzone. "They'll help you see who controls the city right now."

Bisera turned, her eyes narrowing. Her gauntleted hand hovered over the unfamiliar device, and a slight flush colored her cheeks as her gaze met James's. She lifted the binoculars, letting out an uncharacteristically nervous laugh.

"How do I use this?" she asked, brow creasing.

"Think of them like two spyglasses fused together," James said gently. Leaning in, he helped her adjust the focus without making actual contact. His closeness made her pulse quicken. She cleared her throat, reminding herself to remain composed. I can't blush like some inexperienced maiden, she thought, vexed by her own reaction.

She gave a tiny, uneasy laugh. James suppressed a sigh. Ever since their awkward conversation about modern hygiene products, Bisera had been acting skittish around him, her cheeks turning red whenever their eyes met. He wondered if Seraphina should have provided simpler options instead—menstrual pads might have spared him awkward explanations.

Suddenly, Seraphina's playful voice echoed in James's mind. "James, dear," she teased, "normally I would have recommended pads for a medieval lady, especially before her wedding night to avoid potential issues. But Bisera is a warrior, so I chose practicality."

"To avoid what issues?" James asked, startled. "What do you mean?"

"Nothing you need to worry about," Seraphina replied with a mischievous lilt. "As long as you don't mind on her wedding night, all will be well."

Heat flooded James's cheeks. "What do you mean, 'as long as I don't mind'?" But Seraphina only chuckled and faded from his thoughts, leaving him confused and blushing.

Just then, Bisera stiffened, binoculars trained on the fortress. Her breath hitched. Before James could speak, something else seized his attention: rows of impaled heads lined the parapets, some still wearing helmets, the flesh in varying stages of decay.

"Oh—God," he choked, recoiling at the gruesome sight. He tried not to gag as nausea churned in his stomach. "Are those your men?"

Bisera pressed a gauntleted hand to his shoulder, worry flickering beneath her stern exterior. "They… aren't mine," she said quietly. "Likely enemies' heads. War is brutal, James."

He swallowed hard. "So the city is still held by your forces?"

She nodded sharply. "Yes. We'll learn soon enough what happened." Lowering the binoculars, she felt a pang at the revulsion on his face. Why do I care so much about how he sees me?

Bisera removed her helmet and raised her voice to the troops behind them. "Prepare to move in! We will approach slowly. Let them see me." Her soldiers stirred, hooves stamping on dusty ground. James ran back to the transport truck, heart thudding, while the wounded moaned in the vehicle trailing behind. Dust coiled around them as they advanced toward the blackened walls.

Part 2

As Bisera led her horse through Thessaloria's gate, a remarkable contraption followed: James's transport truck. It rattled and hummed like a clockwork beast, yet lacked horses, eyes, or any apparent mechanism. Defenders on the ramparts looked on in confusion and guarded awe, muttering about siege engines and sorcery.

Sensing their unease, Bisera raised her voice. "Fear not, my warriors! This is a divine wagon, conjured by the Great Mage James to carry our wounded." Her words echoed against the scorched walls. "It is a blessing from Seraphina, proof that her favor rests with us!"

At her signal, the vehicle hissed to a halt. A hush fell. Men glanced anxiously at each other, uncertain whether to kneel or flee. Bisera turned to face them. "Soldiers of Vakeria, stand at ease!"

A few gasps rustled through the ranks; one man tightened his grip on his spear while another pressed a trembling hand against the emblem of the Spirit he wore. Bisera lifted her chin. "Behold our ally and servant of Seraphina—James, the Great Mage!"

At her gesture, the truck's side panel swung open, and James climbed out. Whispers spread among the garrison.

"A giant," someone breathed. "No mere mortal!" cried another.

One trembling soldier knelt, and several followed suit. James's face flamed. "There's no need for that," he stammered, stepping back. "I'm only here to help."

He glanced toward Bisera, who offered a faint but approving smile. "He is our ally," she repeated, voice clear. "Show him respect—but in moderation." She signaled the men to make way for her army.

A ripple of acceptance coursed through the ranks. They parted, letting Bisera's horse, James's "divine wagon," and the following troops pass. Timbers groaned as the lumbering contraption squeezed through the narrow gate. Some soldiers reached out, awestruck, to touch its strange metal sides.

At last, they emerged into a sunlit courtyard. Only moments earlier, despair and imminent ruin had hung over the defenders, but now murmurs of renewed hope replaced that gloom. Though soot-darkened and exhausted, they watched Bisera and James with cautious optimism. Perhaps, at last, a divine boon might save Vakeria.

Further into the city, its wounds became gravely evident. Buildings stood half-collapsed and blackened, their timbers charred. Thin plumes of smoke still rose from massive blazes, and rubble cluttered every street. Some bodies—burned or simply abandoned—lay unclaimed in the alleys, buzzing with flies. A fetid stench of decay filled the sweltering air. At a major crossroads, a line of impaled heads bore silent testimony, and beyond them, hastily erected gallows displayed hooded remains of alleged rioters.

James had seen battlefield injuries, but never so many corpses left to rot. He swallowed hard, following Bisera's horse until a squad of grim-faced Vakerian soldiers emerged through the haze, warily eyeing a few terrified civilians who darted aside.

A tall, gaunt soldier snapped off a shaky salute. "General Bisera," he said, voice raw with fatigue. "I'm Captain Dragan… acting commander after Captain Ivan's death."

Bisera swung down from her horse, boots grinding ash into the scorched cobblestones. Though she appeared composed, the tightness in her jaw belied her tension. "Captain Ivan is dead?" she asked tersely. "Report."

Dragan nodded wearily. "Yes, General. Four nights ago, Gillyrian infiltrators slipped into his quarters and murdered him in cold blood. We carried out a citywide sweep, hanged several suspects, and thought that ended it. But…" His gaze drifted to a grisly row of impaled heads farther down the thoroughfare.

James followed his look, his stomach lurching. She's not even blinking. An uneasy chill rippled through him as he realized Bisera's calm acceptance.

"…then, three nights ago," Dragan continued, "the Gillyrians attacked with what seemed to be an army of at least six thousand—judging by the torchlights. They pounded our ramparts with catapults all night, making multiple assaults on the walls. Meanwhile, infiltrators set fires everywhere, sparking riots. Half our men barely held the walls, and the other half fought rioters in every quarter. We had no one to spare for firefighting. By dawn, the Gillyrians withdrew, but a quarter of the city was aflame."

He paused, gesturing at blackened ruins. "It took until late last night to douse most of the bigger fires."

Bisera's eyes narrowed as she studied craters pockmarking the defenses. The damage looked genuine, but she suspected the Gillyrians' force hadn't been as large as the torchlights implied. They either retreated on someone's order or never intended a full takeover, she thought. Either way, they've succeeded in creating chaos.

"How many remain able to fight?" she demanded briskly. "And why the impaled heads?"

Dragan's lips twisted. "Barely five hundred can still bear arms. Many more are wounded—some are dying. We put down the riots, executing ringleaders—Gillyrian infiltrators and local troublemakers—to scare others into obedience. We displayed their heads to deter further revolts. As for the bodies… we lack the manpower to both guard the walls and bury them. The townsfolk resent us for not extinguishing the fires in time and refuse to help."

Bisera exhaled slowly, aware of James's unsettled stare. He must think I condone all this. But how could she criticize her men when they did what they had to do? She knew it was brutal. In war, extremes are sometimes the only option.

"We can't let corpses rot in the streets," she said more softly. "Disease will destroy what's left of Thessaloria."

Dragan nodded, swiping sweat from his brow. "Aye, General. But we'll need your troops' help."

Bisera gave a measured nod. Her gaze swept over the city's shattered remains: collapsed rooftops, glowing embers, and the oppressive stench of death. Behind her, James stared at a crumpled body near a scorched wall, face pale with revulsion. I wish he could grasp the impossible situation my men have faced.

Unease wrapped around her. Whoever had orchestrated this infiltration was brilliant, waging a war of attrition from within. We survived one calamity, but more may be on the horizon. The Gillyrians might have withdrawn just to strike again later—especially now that I'm here.

"Captain Dragan," she said, regaining her stony composure, "gather all the men you can spare. We'll help clear the dead to prevent an epidemic. After that, we'll plan a withdrawal as soon as possible."

Relief and dread contended in Dragan's eyes. "Yes, General."

He hurried off, leaving Bisera and James to scan the charred skyline. Crows perched on broken beams, cawing at the quiet ruin. At length, James turned to Bisera, voice trembling with horror and sympathy. "Was all this really necessary?"

Her heart clenched at the unspoken reproach. She forced her expression to remain impassive. "James," she said softly, "I know it's hard to understand. But this is war. Sometimes maintaining order demands harsh measures…" Her voice trailed off beneath his pained stare.

She recalled, then, that Thessaloria housed a famed cathedral dedicated to Seraphina herself. An anxious beat drummed in her chest at the thought. What if Seraphina disapproves of what we've done here?

She gestured for a few subcommanders to take charge of the cleanup. Then, turning to James, her voice quavered slightly, "We have to visit the Church of Seraphina. We need to pay our respects."

Part 3

They approached the cathedral in a somber procession. Bisera, clad head-to-toe in steel, rode a powerful warhorse that snorted at the lingering smells of smoke and char. Her gleaming helm masked her face, but tension showed in the rigid slope of her shoulders. Captain Vesmir rode closely at her side, ever vigilant.

Behind them rumbled James's SUV, its quiet engine unnerving the weary populace. With the transport truck left behind for the wounded, James chose the SUV to follow Bisera's horse through Thessaloria's wreckage. A few dozen Vakerian infantry trailed behind, their disciplined footsteps echoing across the ruined quarter.

Curious refugees clung to the square's perimeter, gazing at the SUV in a mixture of terror and fascination. Whispers rose of witchcraft and devilry; to them, the black, horseless carriage prowling under the midday sun was a bizarre metal beast. Surrounding the square, evidence of the recent inferno abounded—collapsed rooftops, acrid soot, and the charred skeletons of entire blocks. Gaunt children huddled at their mothers' skirts, and hollow-eyed elders leaned against broken columns.

Bisera reined in her horse, focusing on the Cathedral of Seraphina. Known for its graceful dome and extensive mosaics of the Archangel, the structure miraculously remained untouched by the flames. Even its tall windows glowed with faintly colored light, a testament to painstaking craftsmanship. Bisera released a silent sigh of relief: the fires had not consumed this sacred place.

Vesmir inclined his head, acknowledging the cathedral's unscathed majesty. Bisera dismounted, her steel sabatons striking the cobblestones with a resonant clang. Refugees shrank away, wary of the woman they knew as the "barbarian general." When the SUV's engine fell silent, James stepped out in his modern clothes, drawing wary, wide-eyed stares from onlookers.

A hush settled over the colonnade leading to the cathedral's entrance. Bisera removed her helmet, revealing a face far more refined than the rumors of her "mannish" appearance allowed. She cradled the helm at her side, letting her breath form white puffs in the cool air.

A group of robed clergymen—their garments singed at the edges—waited near the doors with guarded eyes. Leading them was a tall bishop, deep creases etched into his face from stress and lack of sleep. He glanced warily from Bisera's imposing presence to James's black SUV, fearful it might be some kind of new war machine.

With measured strides, Bisera advanced. Vesmir and James fell in alongside her—Vesmir's hand hovering near his sword, James scanning everything with tense curiosity. The ragged refugees along the walls looked on, bracing themselves for further conflict.

The bishop swallowed visibly. "My lady," he said tightly, "why have you come to this holy house?"

Bisera halted before him. Bisera, to everyone's astonishment, knelt in reverence and set her helmet on the ground beside her. Metal clanked against stone, the sound carrying sharply through the hush. Gasps rippled through the crowd: the formidable General Bisera, on her knee?

The bishop's eyes flew wide as Bisera gently lifted his hand, pressing her lips to it in a respectful kiss. "Your Grace," she said, voice taut with feeling, "I come to offer prayers to Seraphina and the Universal Spirit, and seek forgiveness for what my soldiers did amid the siege and riots. We tried to contain the fires… we saved what we could… but still, so many perished."

Though the bishop's caution lingered, he could not ignore her humility. He glanced uneasily at Vesmir's guarded stance and James's foreign attire but slowly exhaled. Appearances could be deceiving, yet her public display was hard to dismiss.

After a beat, he cleared his throat. "The Universal Spirit welcomes anyone who sincerely seeks its grace," he said in a trembling voice. He stepped aside, gesturing for her to enter.

Bisera rose, her breath growing steadier. James, watching closely, saw the slight tremor in her gauntleted hand. He wrestled with a swirl of conflicting emotions—disgust at the barbarity, empathy for her impossible role, and, surprisingly, a growing admiration. She's so tactful, he thought, but also courageous.

Together with Vesmir, he followed Bisera into the church's broad nave. The air carried the fragrance of incense, and tall windows along the dome admitted soft beams of light. Intricate mosaics of Seraphina adorned the walls in place of typical medieval icons—an unusual but reverent display. Moving forward, Bisera set her sheathed sword gently on the polished floor, then knelt before a gilded icon panel of Seraphina, her head bowed.

James studied her, noticing tension in every line of her body. Was she genuinely remorseful, or only afraid of divine retribution? Some unsettled mix of cynicism and compassion warred in his heart. Yet he could not deny his own fascination—Bisera's quiet vulnerability tugged at his heart in unexpected ways.

The bishop and clergy hovered at a respectful distance, their faces a mixture of awe and worry. Outside, wary refugees pressed close to the entrance, drawn by the charged atmosphere. Bisera placed a gauntleted hand over her heart, closing her eyes in fervent prayer. In that moment, the stench of death and the city's ravaged streets faded, leaving only colored light reflected in the mosaic's golden tiles and the faint echo of whispered pleas for forgiveness.

Part 4

After a moment, Bisera dipped her head toward the bishop in polite farewell. She turned to Vesmir and James, indicating her wish to depart. Vesmir signaled the soldiers, who promptly moved into formation along both sides of the cathedral steps, creating a path through the crowd so Bisera and her two companions could exit without hindrance.

Outside, a restless mix of refugees, priests, and curious townsfolk still hovered in front of the cathedral, many craning to glimpse the so-called "Great Mage." At first, the soldiers managed to hold everyone back. Then someone—perhaps an anxious parent trying to get closer, perhaps an agitator—shoved forward, sparking a ripple of commotion. The press of bodies quickly escalated into a wave of pushing and jostling that broke through the narrow soldier's line on the left.

"Hold them back!" one of the guards shouted. But it was too late. Several refugees stumbled through the breach, colliding with those in front. In the ensuing scramble, a ragged, hooded figure was abruptly thrust into James's path, almost knocking him off balance.

Startled, James caught her shoulders gently to steady her. The woman lifted her head, eyes wide with alarm. Her face, though smudged with soot, seemed incongruously smooth and well-kept for a war refugee. Yet the way she trembled and shrank back looked remarkably convincing.

"I—I'm sorry," she gasped, voice shaking in a mixture of fright and apology. "I didn't mean to bump into you… I was shoved…" She glanced over her shoulder as though worried about another shove.

Bisera's hand hovered near her sword hilt, instincts flaring. She shot a quick look at the soldiers, who waited for her orders. Vesmir likewise tensed. From their vantage, this hooded stranger appeared suspiciously out of place—and the chaos had erupted right when Bisera and James emerged.

But Bisera, catching the woman's fearful expression and seeing no immediate threat, held up a gauntleted hand to stay the soldiers. A single nod told them to let the woman remain where she was. The rest of the pushers and onlookers were corralled back, leaving this one straggler in the open space with James.

"My lady," the hooded stranger murmured to Bisera, her voice low and trembling. "Forgive me. Someone shoved me from behind. I… I didn't mean any harm."

At first, she seemed too rattled to look James in the eye. Then she braved a glance upward, letting a lock of bright red hair slip free of her hood—just enough to catch his notice. She blinked rapidly, as if trying to force back tears. The overall effect was of a woman on the verge of collapsing from fear and shame.

Bisera's gaze narrowed. She's too poised beneath that trembling act, she thought, noticing the woman's tall frame and the subtle grace in her movements. Still, there was no immediate cause to accuse her of wrongdoing; she had, after all, been thrust forward in the rush.

James, meanwhile, felt a pang of concern. "Are you all right?" he asked, gently releasing her shoulders once she regained her footing.

She peered up at him through long lashes, her cheeks flushing just enough to accentuate delicate features. "Y-yes," she breathed. "I am fine..." A timid glance darted toward Bisera, then back to James. "I beg your pardon for running into you."

James's heart quivered at her apparent vulnerability, sharpened by the memory of the despair he had seen in these war-torn streets. Bisera and Vesmir waited, uncertain. The lines of soldiers continued to hold back the rest of the onlookers, who were now quietly watching this scene unfold.

After a tense beat, Bisera gave a faint nod that conveyed, Proceed. She was curious to see what the woman would do or say next. If she were indeed just a terrified refugee, Bisera had no wish to terrorize her further. If she was something else… well, it was best to observe. She could not afford to incite any further outrage from the populace.

The woman—Adelais—ducked her head, as though gathering courage. "I—I've been trying to find my uncle's household," she said softly. "Would you happen to have some food, my lord?" she added, flicking a glance at James. "I haven't eaten for days."

Something in her tone—hesitant, apologetic—stirred James. He had met many desperate people since arriving in this war-ravaged realm, but he had rarely interacted with one so directly—especially one so mesmerizing. "I… see," he replied, rummaging inside his jacket pockets. "Let me see if I can help."

He cast a quick look at Bisera, who stood a few steps away, arms folded. She offered no overt disagreement; part of her seemed intrigued by this woman. Another part bristled at how quickly James's gaze softened with concern.

Seraphina's voice rippled through James's mind. For $14.99, you can bless her with a small miracle. Stifling the urge to roll his eyes at her "pricing," James focused on the desperate figure before him.

A muted glow formed in his hand, and a small tin canister appeared with a soft chime, drawing gasps from the soldiers and scattered onlookers still within sight. Adelais let her breath catch—just loudly enough to be heard, eyes widening in astonishment. So, it's true. He could conjure objects out of thin air.

"It's dried bread—biscuits, really," James said, offering the container to her. "They'll keep for a while. Share them with those who need it."

Adelais acted hesitant, her gloved fingers trembling as she took the tin. She lifted the lid, revealing neatly stacked golden biscuits. Immediately, a faint buttery aroma drifted into the damp air. She pressed a hand to her chest, bowing her head. "Thank you," she whispered, adding a slight quaver to her voice. "You can't imagine what this means to us…"

Her posture radiated relief, but also humility, as though uncertain if she should remain or scurry off. Bisera kept watching—this display was too good. Still, if she's using cunning, she's doing it well, Bisera conceded inwardly. The soldier lines parted a bit more, letting the woman step back or away if she wished.

A soft rumble of thunder drew many eyes skyward. Rain began to spatter harder, drumming against the cobblestones. Adelais clutched the tin, glancing nervously at the looming storm. "I—I should find the children and keep them dry," she ventured, her voice still tight with feigned apprehension. "Thank you so much for your kindness!"

For a beat, James almost reached out to stop her—he had more he could conjure if needed—but something in Bisera's stance signaled caution. Reluctantly, he let Adelais slip away. As she did, she cast one final, understated look of gratitude his way, letting her hood fall back for just a second. In that moment, James glimpsed a refined, breathtaking face still tinted with color despite the city's grimness. Then she tugged her hood down again and melted into the crowd. The soldiers let her pass, seeing that Bisera had given no order to detain her.

Bisera exhaled, tension lining her features. "That was… interesting," she said quietly, stepping closer to James. Vesmir likewise approached, scanning the thinning crowd. "She appeared out of nowhere in the chaos."

James frowned, eyes lingering where Adelais had vanished. "She seemed frightened—pushed by the crowd."

"Or so she did have us believe," Bisera whispered**.** Then she shook her head, as though brushing aside her suspicions. "No matter. You helped someone who needed help. That is what matters."

Rain hammered down harder, and a few of Bisera's soldiers motioned them to take cover. Vesmir gestured for Bisera and James to retreat to the cathedral or find another sheltered spot. Across the square, other refugees scurried away from the deluge, trying to protect themselves and any scraps of food they might have.

James offered Bisera an uneasy smile, unsure if she resented or admired his show of generosity. The look in her eyes remained guarded, though she gave him a terse nod of acknowledgment. With water trickling down their armor and clothing, they stepped back inside the massive doors. Their unspoken questions—about the hooded woman, about each other—would have to wait.

In a far corner of the square, Adelais paused beneath a sagging awning. She carefully opened the biscuit tin again, inhaling the aroma. A faint, victorious smile curved her lips. I orchestrated that well, she thought. No one would guess I planned to be 'pushed' right into his arms. She brushed aside a stray drop of rain from her cheek, then slipped into a nearby alleyway.

I successfully left an impression. The memory of James's concerned expression played in her mind. Good. This provides an opening for me to weave my way into his close circle. Just hope that fool Nikolaos doesn't derail my plan again.