Part 1
Bisera stood alone in the war room, staring at the map table where wooden pieces marked positions that no longer reflected reality. Her fingers hovered over the cavalry horse representing Saralta's forces, remembering.
She'd been on the walls when it happened—watching Alexander's troops suddenly wheel back from their morning probe, retreat trumpets sounding in patterns that defied tactical logic. For one heartbeat she'd felt confused hope, wondering what had shattered their assault.
Then the courier arrived, breathless and ashen. "General—Princess Saralta. She led an assault against Alexander's position. She's been captured."
The world tilted. Understanding came in fragments as the soldier explained: the unauthorized raid, the desperate charge toward Alexander's command post, the concealed traps and weighted chains that were standard Gillyrian security doctrine. Two hundred riders. All captured or dead. Saralta taken.
Standing here now, scrubbed clean of battle grime but still wearing her armor—she'd washed the blood from the metal but couldn't bring herself to remove it, as if its weight kept her focused—Bisera understood why Saralta hadn't told her.
"She thought it would work," Bisera said quietly to the empty room. "She assumed the Gillyrians were like steppe confederations. Kill the khan, watch the horde scatter." Her hand finally settled on the wooden horse. "She didn't know they're a professional army. Didn't understand that Alexander's death would make them fight harder, not run."
But there was more, wasn't there? Saralta had known the risks. Had gone anyway, taking only riders under her direct command, telling no one the true target. Not seeking permission because she hadn't wanted Bisera to bear that burden—of weighing her life against the siege's outcome and saying no.
"You were trying to protect me," Bisera whispered. "From having to choose between saving you and saving the city." A bitter sound escaped her throat. "By the heavens, Saralta. You magnificent, foolish—"
The door opened. James entered carrying two cups, steam curling in the lamplight. He set one before her without speaking, just present, and the simple kindness—warm tea when everything was crumbling—made her throat tighten.
"She didn't tell me," Bisera said, needing him to understand. "She thought she was sparing me the hard choice." She drew a shaky breath. "But I would have stopped her. Not just to save her life—because it was tactically futile. The Gillyrian imperial army isn't held together by personal loyalty to one emperor. They're an institution. Kill Alexander and they'd simply fight under his successor, probably with more fury."
"She couldn't have known that," James offered gently.
"She should have asked." The words came sharper than intended. Anger surged—at Saralta for not trusting her judgment, at herself for not seeing it coming, at the impossible situation. "I'm her commander. Her friend. If she'd just—"
She stopped. Forced herself to breathe. Let the anger bleed into something rawer.
"I should have seen it," she said quietly. "The questions about Alexander's routine yesterday, his guards. The way she hugged me goodbye—" Realization struck like a physical blow. "Like it was final. She was saying goodbye and I didn't realize."
Guilt settled over her, heavy as plate armor. She was Saralta's commander. Should have noticed. Should have found better words. Should have—
"Here." James pressed the cup into her hands. "Drink."
She obeyed automatically, and warmth spread through her. It tasted perfect—honey and something floral—though the knot in her stomach barely registered the flavor.
"We're in an impossible position," she said, words tumbling out. "Without Saralta, the Rosagar cavalry are effectively useless. Several hundred riders with shattered morale and no clear commander. They answered to her, not Vakerian officers. And politically—" Her voice tightened. "Prince Tugor sent us his daughter. If we do nothing, it becomes a crisis."
She set the cup down, hands trembling. "Alexander might not kill her outright. He needs the moral high ground—the liberator with divine backing. Mercy plays better than cruelty." Her tactical mind engaged despite the grief. "But he could arrange an accident. Or she could be blinded, humiliated. You know Saralta. Her pride—if she's broken badly enough, she might—"
She couldn't finish. Didn't need to.
The tears came without permission, hot and furious. She buried her face against James's shoulder and let herself break, just for a moment, just here where no one else could see.
He held her through it, one hand stroking her hair with infinite patience—this man who'd been dropped into her world and somehow became her anchor.
"I'm sorry," she managed after long moments, pulling back. "I forgot to clean myself properly—"
James pulled her tighter, cutting off the apology. "I don't care about the dirt, Bisera. I care about you. I care that you're carrying tens of thousands of lives on your shoulders and still grieving for one friend."
She felt his own sorrow then, subtle but present in how he held her. He'd liked Saralta too—her irreverence, her laughter, the way she'd reminded them both that joy was still possible even under siege.
"I need to do something," Bisera said against his shoulder. "I can't just—" She pulled back to meet his eyes. "I need to call an emergency council. Now. We need a plan."
Twenty minutes later, five people gathered around the war room's map table, lamplight casting long shadows across the painted wood.
Serko arrived first, moving with the careful economy of a man whose joints protested midnight summons. Vesmir came next, ever-present notebook already in hand. Velika entered last, shoulders set with determined purpose.
"Thank you for coming," Bisera began, hands braced on the table's edge. "You know what happened. Princess Saralta attempted a raid on Alexander's command position and was captured. We need to decide our response."
"Militarily, this is catastrophic," Vesmir said bluntly, pen already scratching. "Several hundred Rosagar cavalry remain, but their morale is shattered. Without Saralta, they're effectively combat-ineffective—no clear command structure, no one they'll follow with the same loyalty."
"Politically, it's worse." Bisera's fingers traced the wooden pieces. "Prince Tugor entrusted us with his daughter and we let her be taken."
Velika shifted her weight, jaw tight. "Then we attempt rescue."
"Absolutely not." Serko's voice carried bedrock certainty. He leaned both hands on the table, weathered face grim in lamplight. "I respect the princess. I mourn this. But infiltration into Alexander's camp is suicide. Their counterintelligence surpasses anything we field. Anyone we send dies."
"Then a raid," Velika suggested, hand unconsciously moving to her sword. "Hit them hard, extract her in the chaos—"
"Why would it work?" Vesmir looked up from his notes, not unkindly. "Saralta failed because Gillyrian security doctrine doesn't depend on predicting attacks—it prepares for every attack. Every approach to Alexander is trapped, measured, pre-sited. We'd lose good soldiers for nothing."
Silence stretched. Bisera felt their eyes—these people she trusted, who followed her judgment—waiting to see what she'd decide. Lamplight flickered. Somewhere in the fortress, a bell tolled the hour.
She straightened slowly, mind working through the problem even as exhaustion pulled at her.
"You're all right," she said quietly. "Infiltration is suicide against doctrinally fortified positions. Raids won't work when the enemy builds defenses omnidirectionally." She looked up, meeting their eyes one by one. "But there's another weapon we haven't considered. One Alexander himself gave us."
"General?" Vesmir's pen stilled.
Bisera moved around the table, fingers tracing not troop positions but something else entirely. "Tell me—what do we know about Alexander? Not his tactics. Him. His character."
Serko's eyes narrowed with sudden interest. "He's pious. Obsessed with legitimacy."
"He presents himself as the perfect ruler guided by the Spirit," Velika added slowly, beginning to see where this led.
"Exactly." Bisera's voice gained strength. "Alexander built his entire campaign on righteousness—the divinely sanctioned liberator bringing civilization and correcting past injustices. His troops' morale depends on believing they fight for justice." Her hand pressed flat against the map. "So we don't break into his camp with daggers. We bind him with his own words."
"Lawfare," Serko breathed, straightening. A slow smile spread across his face—the look of a veteran seeing unexpected angles. "You want to use his propaganda against him."
"Can someone explain?" Velika asked, glancing between them.
"We draft a Covenant of Custody," Bisera said. "Public, religiously binding, naming Saralta as an example specifically. We propose reciprocal prisoner standards—clergy access, healer visits, humane treatment—and invite his chaplain and healers to inspect our Gillyrian prisoners first. Then we petition for the same access to Saralta through named envoys under time-limited safe conduct."
"He could refuse," Velika pointed out.
"Then he looks like he cares less about his troops' welfare than he claimed," Vesmir said, tactical mind racing ahead. He flipped to a fresh page. "One document, multiple audiences. Alexander himself, his army, our troops, the remaining steppe warriors."
"Exactly," Bisera confirmed. "If he refuses after we've demonstrated good faith with his prisoners, doubts spread through his ranks. We claim the moral high ground while ensuring his troops see us as honorable enemies. If he accepts, every chaplain or healer visit we secure creates precedent—makes the next one harder to refuse."
Serko actually laughed—a short, sharp bark of appreciation. "Professional doctrine resists daggers, not documents. His perimeter defeated Saralta's raid, but it's not designed to shrug off a public, theologically binding compact that his officers and rankers hear read aloud."
"And it buys time," Vesmir added. "Time means survival for Saralta. Weekly inspections create accountability. Every visit makes her safer."
"The key is transparency," Bisera continued. "This must be blatantly public—proclaimed to both armies, deliberately leaked within our city. Gossip would convince Gillyrian prisoners more effectively than official announcements. Create expectations Alexander can't easily dismiss."
"What about the envoy?" Velika asked, warrior's practicality grasping the strategy. "Who do we send?"
"A senior chaplain or abbess, a healer, one high-ranking commander, and a herald-scribe," Bisera said. "Appropriate to our customs, demonstrating clean hands. No scouts, no tricks—that would break the spell. We offer two Gillyrian officers we hold to cross with the envoy under parole as good faith."
"And we ask only to verify her health, deliver letters and religious tokens," Serko added, nodding approval. "Nothing that requires privacy or sensitive locations. We want the whole Gillyrian camp witnessing her condition."
"After that initial visit, we establish weekly rhythm," Bisera said. "Fixed hour under truce for chaplain-healer inspection and letters. Rhythm creates habit. Habit creates norm."
A moment of silence as they absorbed it. Lamps flickered lower. Outside, the fortress stirred—distant sounds of soldiers preparing for another day under siege.
Bisera's voice softened with command tempered by compassion. "Saralta is Prince Tugor's daughter, sister to the next Khan. If we abandon her, the Empire loses the steppes. But more than that—she was our ally. Our friend. She fought beside us, was captured trying to break the siege. This approach honors her without throwing lives away."
Velika's jaw set with fierce approval. "The general speaks wisdom. We save with law and witness, not just lances."
"It's more than Saralta," Vesmir said, still writing. "It establishes precedent. If this works, it protects every soldier on both sides."
"We will initiate the proposed treatment at Podem," Bisera added. "Immediately. Clergy access, healer rounds, names on rosters, humane rations for prisoners. We read the roll at the gate every sixth day. If we live it, our ask isn't hypocrisy."
"The Rosagar riders," Velika said. "Without Saralta—"
"We name an interim triad of her most trusted squadron leaders," Bisera interrupted, already thinking ahead. "Hold funerals and oath-renewals. Once we get the first inspection report about Saralta, we publish it. Keep them updated regarding her condition and that of the other captured steppe warriors."
Serko looked at her with something approaching awe. He straightened fully, old back protesting but voice strong. "This is brilliant, General."
"It's the only way to save Saralta without squander innocent lives," Bisera said simply. Exhaustion crept back as adrenaline faded.
"If only Bishop Adnan were still here," Velika sighed. "He could seek the Spirit's blessing on our plan."
Serko's expression shifted—sudden intensity. He turned to James, who'd been quietly watching Bisera work. "The Bishop is gone, but—Lord James. You have direct connection to Lady Seraphina. Could you ask for guidance?"
All eyes turned to James. He shifted slightly, and Bisera saw discomfort cross his face—the weight of expectation, the pressure of being the "Divine Mage."
"I don't want to burden James with—" Bisera started.
"I can try," James interrupted gently, meeting her eyes. "I can't guarantee she'll answer, or help, or even be available. Seraphina operates on her own schedule. But I can ask."
Bisera nodded, feeling suddenly lighter despite exhaustion. "Then we reconvene at dawn. Lord James will petition Lady Seraphina tonight for guidance. Regardless, we proceed with drafting the proposal tomorrow." She straightened, command returning. "General Serko, work with our scribes on the formal language—make it theologically binding, cite the Holy Book scriptures and oath traditions that Alexander favors. Captain Vesmir, prepare the list of Gillyrian prisoners and identify candidates for good-faith exchange. Captain Velika, select potential envoys."
Her voice hardened with finality. "We send this under flag of truce tomorrow afternoon. Agreed?"
The officers nodded—not just agreeing, but believing. Bisera could see it in their faces: this was a plan worthy of the Lioness of Vakeria.
"Dismissed," she said. "Get some rest. Tomorrow will be difficult."
The officers filed out, footsteps fading down the corridor. Serko paused at the door, looking back at Bisera with something like pride, then left her and James alone in lamplight.
Bisera swayed slightly, and James was there, steadying her. "You should rest too."
"Soon." She rubbed her temples. "Will you pray with me? To the Spirit?"
"Of course."
They knelt together on the hard floor—James somewhat awkwardly, unused to the posture, but trying. Bisera crossed herself in the Vakerian way and began in formal Vakerian: "O Universal Spirit, who sees all and knows all, hear the prayer of Your unworthy servants..."
James joined when he could, pronunciation careful. They prayed for wisdom, for mercy, for Saralta's safety. Bisera's voice held genuine reverence—the kind that came from believing absolutely that something greater listened.
"Lady Seraphina," James added, tone respectful but less formal, "if you're available, we could really use your help."
They waited. Minutes stretched. Bisera's knees started aching. She glanced at James, wondering if he'd heard a response she'd missed. But James looked equally uncertain.
"Usually she just... shows up?" James said finally, breaking the silence.
"Oh." Bisera's brow furrowed. "So perhaps she heard but deems this not the right time to answer?"
"Maybe." James shifted, wincing slightly. "Or maybe we're supposed to handle this ourselves. She does that sometimes—lets us figure things out rather than solving everything."
"That seems... pedagogically sound," Bisera said, though disappointment threaded her voice. She'd hoped for divine intervention, for something to lift the burden of decision from her shoulders.
"We should rest," James suggested gently, rising and offering his hand. "Tomorrow will be difficult regardless."
"Yes," Bisera agreed, accepting his help to stand. "I should probably—"
She stopped mid-sentence as realization crashed over her. They were alone. Truly alone, for the first time since their betrothal. The other night she'd been too consumed with planning to really consider what their changed status meant. But now, in the quiet lamplight, with the door closed and no crisis demanding immediate attention...
Heat flooded her cheeks.
What were the expectations for betrothed couples? She knew the church's teachings about chastity before marriage, but she also knew betrothal meant certain... liberties. How much more intimacy was permissible now? What would James expect?
A thousand questions raced through her mind, each one making her face burn hotter. They'd kissed before—passionately, even—but always with awareness they weren't formally committed. Now they were. Now there were promises between them. Now the future she'd never dared imagine actually existed, and with it came possibilities that made her heart race and skin tingle and—
"Bisera?" James's voice held concern. "You're blushing. Are you alright?"
"Fine!" The word came out too quickly, too high. "Just—it's warm. With the lamps. And the armor. I should probably—"
She gestured vaguely at her armor, knowing she was being ridiculous but unable to stop the awkward rambling. James was watching her with growing understanding, and that somehow made it worse because now he knew what she was thinking, and—
"Here," he said softly, moving closer with careful deliberation. "Let me help with your armor. You've been wearing it since this morning. You must be exhausted."
His fingers found the buckles at her shoulders, and suddenly the simple practical gesture became something else entirely. She was intensely aware of his proximity, his warmth, the way his hands moved with surprising competence over straps and clasps he'd learned to navigate over these weeks together.
Each piece he removed felt significant.
"There," he murmured, setting the breastplate aside. "Better?"
"Yes," she managed, though her voice had gone breathless.
"Bisera," he whispered, and then he was kissing her.
Not the gentle, careful kisses of before. This was hunger and need and all the fear they'd been holding at bay. His mouth moved against hers with desperate intensity, and she responded in kind, hands pulling him closer. One of his arms wrapped around her waist, the other tangled in her hair—still plaited but coming loose—as he deepened the kiss.
She made a sound low in her throat, part surprise and part pleasure, as his lips trailed from her mouth to her jaw, then down to the sensitive spot where neck met shoulder.
Her hands explored the planes of his chest through fabric, feeling muscle shift beneath her palms. His fingers traced the curve of her spine, sending shivers cascading through her. When he cupped the back of her neck, tilting her head to deepen the kiss further, she pressed against him harder, feeling his response, wanting more—
"Well, well," a voice like honey and starlight interrupted, rich with amusement. "Sorry for the late response."
They sprang apart so fast Bisera nearly lost her balance. She dropped to her knees, face flaming. "Lady Seraphina! Forgive us—we didn't mean to—that is, we were only—"
"Breathing rather heavily and divesting yourselves of protective layers in what I'm certain was purely tactical preparation for rest," Seraphina finished, melodious voice dripping with elegant mockery. "Dear Bisera, your gift for battlefield strategy is considerable, but your ability to fabricate plausible excuses leaves something to be desired."
James hadn't knelt, which sent another spike of fear through Bisera. "We were trying to reach you," he said, voice steadier than expected given how thoroughly disheveled he looked. "Through prayer. You didn't answer."
"Ah yes, I was otherwise engaged—coordinating several rather significant cosmic events across six different universes, if you must know. Also, I confess to finding a certain pedagogical value in suspense. It builds patience, don't you think?" A pause, weighted with meaning. "Though I must acknowledge that my timing just now was... less than ideal. For you, at any rate. Personally, I found it rather illuminating."
Bisera made a small sound of mortification.
"As recompense for my untimely interruption," Seraphina continued, tone shifting to something more businesslike, "I shall offer you something infinitely more useful than the guidance you sought: a tiny surveillance drone with camera capabilities. Let's say... fifty thousand dollars?"
"Wait," James said, still not kneeling. "A drone? But you said weapons were restricted—"
"It's not a weapon, darling boy. It's merely a camera with the delightful ability to fly. Perfectly legal under the fairness rule. You could use it for wedding photography, aerial real estate videography, documenting your honeymoon travels..." Her voice took on a wicked edge. "What you choose to do with the drone is entirely between you, your conscience, and whatever tactical applications your clever minds might devise."
Bisera looked up from her kneeling position, utterly confused. "A flying... what?"
"Think of it as an artificial bird that lets you see through its eyes," James explained, his modern knowledge making sense of the impossible. "We could fly it over Alexander's camp, identify Saralta's location, check her condition—"
"Verify she's alive and well-treated before sending formal envoys," Bisera breathed, understanding flooding through her. "Document their camp layout for the covenant negotiations. Gather intelligence without risking scouts."
"Without sacrificing actual scouts or requiring infiltration teams who'd inevitably need to kill guards," Seraphina interjected with satisfaction. "You see? Problem-solving with elegance and minimal casualties on all sides. I'm teaching you to fish rather than simply providing fish—much more sustainable than merely dispensing tactical advice like some cheap oracle."
"I'll take it," James said immediately. "Fifty thousand dollars."
"Excellent. I will add it to your debt. Remember to lower the debt with some offerings. You are approaching your credit limit. The drone will manifest shortly—I trust you can figure out deployment?" Her presence lightened, preparing to depart. "Do endeavor to get some actual rest before your reconnaissance mission. And perhaps..." The amusement returned, warm and knowing. "Consider purchasing contraceptives if you truly must. This cosmos may differ from yours, but certain biological functions remain decidedly the same."
Then her voice was gone, leaving only gentle lamplight glow and sudden, profound silence.
Bisera and James stared at each other.
"Was that..." Bisera managed weakly, "divine guidance?"
"Yes," James said, helping her to her feet with gentle hands. "That's... actually pretty standard for her. You get used to it eventually."
"You're so casual about it." She pressed a hand to her still-burning face.
"After a while, you realize she enjoys the dramatic timing as much as the actual helping." He touched her cheek tenderly, and despite everything, she saw affection in his dark eyes. "Though her timing tonight was spectacularly bad."
"Or," Bisera said slowly, mind reasserting itself even through embarrassment, "spectacularly good. It removes any uncertainty." Hope kindled in her chest, fragile but real. "With her device, even if Alexander refuses our proposal, we can confirm Saralta's condition."
"True," he agreed, pulling her close again. Just holding her. "But first we need to figure out how to fly the thing without crashing it into Alexander's imperial pavilion."
"That," Bisera murmured against his chest, "sounds like tomorrow's problem."
Part 2
The drone that appeared on James's worktable was smaller than his palm.
James stared at it in the lamplight, scarcely believing something so tiny could be worth fifty thousand dollars. The drone sat on the wooden surface like an elaborate mechanical insect—twin rotors folded against its compact body, barely longer than his hand from fingertip to wrist. Thirty-three grams. Light enough to rest on his open palm without him feeling the weight.
After carefully studying the manual for a full hour, James finally took it to Bisera right before dawn.
"It's... wondrous," Bisera breathed, leaning closer to examine it. "Is this Seraphina's work?"
"A conjured marvel from my world," James corrected gently. "Warriors in my land use these for watching enemies from afar without being seen." He unfolded the rotors with careful fingers—they extended to span just over twelve centimeters, thin and precisely engineered. "The blessing is its silence. This is crafted to fly without sound. Someone could stand three paces away and never hear it."
Bisera's tactical mind engaged immediately. "Then we need not expose ourselves at all. We could send it forth from here—let it fly out the window while we remain safe within these walls."
"Exactly," James confirmed, moving to the window that overlooked the eastern approach. The pre-dawn gray was just beginning to lighten the sky beyond. He opened the wooden shutter just wide enough for the tiny drone to pass through. "Perfect timing—enough light for the mystical sight it carries, but the guards will still be drowsy from the night watch."
"And we can all witness what it sees from here," Velika observed, moving closer to see the device James held. "Secure, warm, and no one will know we're spying upon them. The advantages of such a small conjured thing..."
"In my world, warriors use these for reconnaissance precisely because they can watch from complete safety," James explained, unfolding the creature's rotors with careful fingers.
He unfolded the compact control, which had a panel that folded up to show what the drone saw. The surface was simple enough: directions, height, the angle of its view, ways to see heat or light.
"Once I send it forth, we have forty-five minutes," he said quietly, positioning himself near the window. "The battery… or divine power sustaining it won't last longer than that. Then it will sleep."
"Then we must use our time wisely." Bisera moved to stand beside him, close enough that he could feel her warmth, her presence steadying him. "Alexander's camp lies sixteen hundred meters away. How long to reach it?"
"At its fastest? Perhaps eight minutes." James called upon the control's power, watching the tiny panel flicker to life. What the creature saw appeared in shades of green—a spell for seeing in darkness. "But we'll need time to search. The command area alone could have a dozen tents."
He placed the flying marvel on the windowsill, its tiny form barely visible in the pre-dawn dimness. Through the control, he began the ritual to awaken it. The twin rotors began spinning with a sound so faint it was barely audible even in the quiet room—a whisper, like moth wings.
"By the Spirit," Velika murmured, leaning close. "I can barely hear it, and I'm standing right here."
"That's the blessing." James sent the command. The creature lifted smoothly from the windowsill, slipped through the opening, and rose into the gray air with uncanny grace.
On the panel, the view tilted and spun as the creature found its bearings, then steadied. Podem's walls fell away below, rendered in the ghostly green of the darkness-seeing spell.
"Remarkable," Bisera whispered, moving to stand behind James where she could see the panel clearly. Velika positioned herself on his other side, the three of them gathered around the small window into distant places. "The vision—it's like seeing through the creature's eyes."
James guided the flying marvel eastward, keeping it at thirty meters above the ground—high enough to avoid notice but low enough for its eye to capture useful details. After a few minutes, they see the enemy camp spread out below, an organized city of canvas in the pre-dawn gloom.
"There." Bisera pointed at the panel. "The purple pavilion at the center—that's Alexander's command tent."
"I see it." James adjusted the path, bringing the creature in a wide arc to approach from the north. On the panel, he could make out guard positions, soldiers moving between tents, the organized pattern of a disciplined war camp. "The guards around his pavilion extend twenty meters out. Any tent within that circle could be holding valuable prisoners."
"Start with the sturdier structures," Bisera advised, her tactical wisdom invaluable. "Given her strength, they wouldn't house her in ordinary canvas."
James descended to twenty meters, threading the flying marvel between tent peaks with careful precision. Its small size made navigation easier than he'd expected—it could slip through gaps that would be impossible for larger birds.
"First tent," he murmured, bringing the creature to hover near a reinforced structure fifteen meters from Alexander's pavilion. Guards stood at the entrance, but the marvel was small enough and quiet enough that they never looked up. He circled the tent, searching for openings.
"There—the ventilation gap at the side." Bisera's finger traced the panel.
James maneuvered the creature upward, slipping it through the opening with a hand's width to spare. The interior appeared on the panel: empty. Just supply crates and spare armor.
"Not this one." He backed the marvel out, scanning the command area for other candidates. "There—see that tent? Sturdier construction, guards at both entrances."
He flew the creature across the gap between structures, staying low to avoid being outlined against the lightening sky. The second tent had similar ventilation gaps. The marvel slipped inside.
Three Gillyrian officers sprawled on bedrolls, sleeping. No prisoners.
"Keep searching," Bisera urged, though he could hear the tension in her voice. Minutes were passing. Dawn was coming.
Third tent: empty. Fourth tent: supply storage. Fifth tent: more sleeping soldiers.
"There!" Velika pointed suddenly at the panel. "That structure—twenty paces from Alexander's pavilion. Eastern side. There are guards posted at the entrance."
James brought the creature around, his heart hammering. The tent Velika had spotted was indeed different—reinforced walls, double-layered fabric, guards posted at the main entrance. He circled it once, studying the exterior.
"The guards are watchful," Bisera observed. "Not drowsy or distracted. They're protecting something precious."
"Upper ventilation gap," James said, already guiding the marvel higher. "Same way in."
The creature slipped through the fabric gap and into the tent's interior. James held his breath as its mystical eye adjusted to the dimmer lighting.
The tent was far larger than expected—and surprisingly comfortable. Rich carpets covered the ground. A small table with food—bread, cheese, fruit. And in the center of the space, a privacy curtain divided the area.
From behind the curtain came the sound of water dripping. Movement.
"Someone's there," Velika whispered unnecessarily.
Then a voice—familiar, wary, but unmistakably Saralta's: "Who's there?"
Bisera's entire body went rigid. "That's her!" Her hand gripped James's arm almost painfully. "James, bring it closer! Let me see her! Is she hurt? Is she—"
"I can't just—" James started, but Bisera's desperate expression made him reconsider. "She might cry out if she sees the flying creature. It looks like some great strange insect. Most women would—"
"Saralta isn't 'most women,'" Bisera said firmly. "She once slew a bear with her bare hands. A flying marvel sent by Seraphina won't frighten her."
"Fine," James relented, though unease prickled his spine. "But if this goes wrong—"
He maneuvered the creature toward the curtain. The panel showed fabric, shadows, the suggestion of movement beyond.
"Over the curtain," Bisera urged. "Quickly! We need to see if she's been wounded!"
James pulled back on the control, bringing the marvel up and over the curtain in one smooth motion.
The drone's view adjusted, and suddenly, time seemed to crystallize.
Saralta stood beside a large wooden bathtub, water glistening on her skin in the lamplight. She'd clearly just emerged from the bath—droplets traced rivulets down her body, her raven-black hair hung wet and loose over her shoulders, water dripping from the ends to pool on the carpet beneath her feet. She wore one of those navy blue sports bras James had manifested the day before her charge.
Around her neck, a leather-coated iron collar with a chain resting between her breasts glinted in the lamplight.
Below the sports bra: nothing.
James quickly adjusted the camera angle to focus on her upper body only. He checked carefully for wounds, signs of torture, visible injuries.
No visible wounds. No signs of beating. But the collar...
On the other side, Saralta's dark eyes went wide—not with fear or panic, but with pure curiosity. She tilted her head, studying the hovering drone like a cat spotting an unusual moth.
"What manner of creature are you?" she asked the drone directly, her voice holding wonder rather than alarm. Her right hand remained relaxed at her side, but James noticed her left hand was subtly positioning itself, palm forward, mana beginning to gather in a faint shimmer. Ready to defend if this strange insect proved hostile.
"You are like a giant dragonfly," Saralta continued, speaking as though the drone might answer. She leaned slightly forward with curiosity. "With a single glowing eye. Are you some kind of summoned creature? A magical construct?"
In the room, Bisera's face had gone pale, then flushed with sudden, terrible understanding.
"The collar," she whispered, her voice tight with dawning horror. "She's in a luxurious tent close to his personal pavilion. Wearing barely anything."
"General?" Velika's voice held confusion.
Bisera's tactical mind was assembling a picture with brutal efficiency. "Don't you see?" Her whisper grew desperate, face burning hotter with each connection her mind made. "The collar. He's keeping her as his—" She couldn't say it. Couldn't voice the thought. The image was overwhelming: Alexander, who preached honor and divine favor, keeping Saralta collared with minimal clothing as his concubine. "That sick, sanctimonious—"
James's face had gone red, but he forced out: "Let's not jump to conclusion. We should examine the rest of the tent—"
"What else explains it?" Bisera gestured at the screen, her voice hardening with suppressed fury. " Who baths while chained with a collar. This is… " She couldn't finish, but the implication hung heavy in the air. "And she's in this luxurious tent, James. Near his personal quarters. Dressed in nothing but—" Her voice caught.
"But Saralta could easily break a collar if she wanted," Velika pointed out carefully. "Her strength—"
"Exactly," Bisera interrupted, her voice dropping to something cold and analytical—the tone she used for dissecting enemy tactics. "She could break free. Easily. But she's not trying to escape, which means Alexander has some leverage over her."
Understanding dawned on Velika's face. "The captured cavalry."
"Yes," Bisera confirmed, her voice shaking slightly. "That's his hold over her. 'Submit to me, or your men die in excruciating ways.' What would Saralta choose?"
The tactical assessment spilled out faster now, her voice gaining that hard edge of command mixed with barely suppressed rage. "He doesn't need to beat her or starve her—that would be crude, obvious. Instead he keeps her comfortable, probably well-fed, in luxurious surroundings. And every night she has to make the same choice: comply with his demands, or condemn her riders to suffering."
James had been trying to focus on the mission, not the implications of what Bisera was saying. As her voice rose with anger and anguish, he maneuvered the drone away from Saralta—who was still observing the floating device with fascination—and panned the camera to survey the rest of the tent's interior.
The view expanded. Rich carpets. The table with food. A brazier for warmth. Everything indicating comfortable captivity, exactly as Bisera had described—
Wait.
There. A wooden stool positioned beside the bathing area, just coming into frame now that he'd widened the camera angle. On top of it, neatly folded: a complete set of garments. Tunic, trousers, undergarments. Clean linen. Positioned precisely where someone who'd just finished bathing would expect to find them.
"Oh," James said quietly, relief flooding through him. "Bisera, I think—"
But Bisera had turned away from the screen, pacing now, her mind already racing ahead to responses.
"We'll need to completely revise our approach," she said, her voice taking on that hard command edge even as it shook with emotion. "The Covenant of Custody won't address this. How do we negotiate prisoner standards when he's already broke her mentally—"
"Bisera—" James tried again, still gentle, not wanting to interrupt her thinking even though she desperately needed interrupting.
"We could threaten exposure. Let his army see his hypocrisy. It would affect their morale by creating doubts regarding the justice of their cause—"
"If you could just look at the screen—" James gestured softly at the display.
"—but that risks making it worse for her. If we publicly shame him, he might punish her for it. Or he might simply deny everything and we look like we're spreading propaganda—"
"GENERAL!" Velika's voice cut through the room like a whip crack.
Velika had been watching this exchange with growing exasperation. She'd seen this pattern before: James being too gentle, too reluctant to interrupt Bisera's thought process even when necessary. He respected her too much, gave her too much space to think—which was wonderful in normal circumstances, but right now was embarrassingly counterproductive.
Bisera stopped mid-sentence, blinking in surprise.
"Lord James," Velika said with pointed emphasis, "has been trying to tell you something for the past minute. Perhaps you could actually listening?"
Bisera turned to James, looking slightly sheepish and still flushed with anger and distress. "I'm sorry. What is it?"
James gestured at the screen, his expression a mix of relief and lingering embarrassment. "When I panned the camera away from Saralta to survey the rest of the tent, I saw... there are clothes. Clean clothes. Folded on a stool right beside the bath."
Bisera stared at him for a long moment, processing. Then slowly, reluctantly, she turned back to the screen.
James adjusted the drone's position to show the stool clearly in frame. There it was: tunic, trousers, undergarments, all neatly arranged. The kind of setup that had an obvious, mundane explanation.
The silence in the room stretched.
And stretched.
Bisera stared at the screen. Her mouth opened. Closed. Opened again.
"That's..." she began, her voice very small. "Those are..."
"Clothes," Velika supplied helpfully, though her tone suggested she was fighting very hard not to laugh. "Clean clothes. Right beside the bath. Almost as if someone had just bathed and was about to get dressed before being distracted by a strange flying creature."
The silence returned, heavier this time.
Bisera's face, which had gone through so many color changes in the past few minutes, now achieved a shade of red that James had never seen on a human being before. It started at her neck and crept upward like a crimson tide, covering her cheeks, her forehead, even the tips of her ears.
"Oh," she said weakly.
"So," James said carefully, careful not to make Bisera more embarrassed than she already was, "it appears Saralta was simply... bathing. As prisoners sometimes do. And then got distracted by our drone before she could get dressed."
"She was bathing," Bisera repeated, her voice strangled. "Just... bathing."