James

Part 1

Two days had passed since the fierce battle outside Thessaloria, and the Vakerian army had withdrawn westward to a plateau overlooking a dense woodland. The wounded lay in makeshift pavilion tents, their groans a constant reminder of the price paid in blood. Morale was fragile—Bisera, their revered general, had vanished in the arms of James, the man some now called "the Great Mage."

Adelais moved through the Vakerian encampment like a silent ghost. To most of the soldiers, she was simply a red-haired refugee who looked after a handful of war orphans. Her gentle demeanor and quiet stoicism disarmed suspicion. Yet her true identity was a Gillyrian spy, loyal to Emperor Alexander, reporting on the Vakerians' every move.

In truth, Adelais was finding it increasingly difficult to maintain that loyalty. She had witnessed James wield a power that defied all logic, a power that had turned the tide of battle in mere heartbeats. She had heard the Vakerian soldiers' whispered prayers to the Universal Spirit, praising James as a figure chosen by the archangel Seraphina. And she could not forget the final sight of him disappearing in a swirl of golden light, taking a dying Bisera with him—as if crossing the very threshold of reality. Most importantly, she could not forget the moments she spent with James and watched as he treated the downtrodden with such kindness and performed miracles to alleviate their sufferings. Could such a man really be the enemy? What if he is really a saint?

The encampment was a place of uneasy faith. Soldiers erected a small shrine at the base of a weathered oak, leaving offerings of bread or dull coins, beseeching the heavens for Bisera's safe return. They murmured, "Seraphina, guide them both," or "Bring back our general." Even the more skeptical among them had taken to prayer at night, hoping, if not believing.

Adelais helped distribute watered-down soup to the wounded. She moved from tent to tent, offering a comforting hand on a fevered brow or steadying a trembling soldier's grip on his cup. None suspected her of espionage; in fact, many were grateful. Beneath her cloak, however, she concealed a small parchment, folded and sealed with wax.

She had written the letter the night before, her heart thudding in her chest. In her report, she detailed everything she had seen: how James's "divine" weapon had torn through Gillyrian lines, how he had vanished with Bisera in his arms, how the Vakerians seemed on the brink of turning their fear into unwavering faith. Even as she wrote, she felt a twinge of doubt. Was she betraying James and Bisera who had shown her nothing but kindness? Or was she staying true to her homeland and the Spirit.

Her instructions from Emperor Alexander had been clear: uncover the truth about James and return any critical information. Yet as she observed the orphans huddled close to her at night, trusting her for warmth and scraps of food, she found her loyalties wavering.

In her final moments before dusk, Adelais slipped away from the plateau's rim. She timed her movements so that the patrol on the ridge had just passed, giving her a brief window of solitude. The forest loomed tall and dark, branches twisting in the moonlight.

By the gnarled roots of an ancient tree, she crouched down and opened a small iron cage she had hidden. A single dark-feathered pigeon pecked restlessly inside. With deft fingers, she tied her letter to its slender leg, muttering a hushed prayer—not quite to Seraphina, but to the intangible powers that ruled all fates.

Your Majesty,

I write to you from the Vakerian encampment west of Thessaloria.

James—known as the Great Mage—vanished with General Bisera before my eyes.

He wields great power of destruction that can annihilate entire armies.

The Vakerians believe him an emissary of Seraphina.

They await their general's return with unshakeable faith.

Exercise caution, for James is not a simple imposter.

Yours truly,

Adelais

She released the pigeon. Its wings beat silently into the night. For a moment, she stood there, heart pounding. If discovered, she would be executed as a spy. However, to Adelais, fulfilling Alexander's wishes was more important than securing her own life.

She watched the bird vanish into the darkness, feeling a peculiar heaviness. For all her years of service, she had never felt quite this torn. Standing at the cusp of the trees, Adelais realized she no longer felt completely confident of the righteousness of her actions. The trust she was betraying tugged at her conscience. Despite herself, she found she wanted Bisera to live, wanted James to succeed in some strange way. But loyalty was loyalty. And so, she turned back toward the tents, her expression resolute, heart full of doubts she dared not voice.

Part 2

Inside the ruined citadel of Thessaloria, Governor Nikolaos of Gillyria studied the fractured walls and scorched floors with a grim expression. A late, earlier battle had left deep scars. Though the city was slowly stabilizing under Gillyrian control, the price paid was high. The stench of burnt wood and dried blood clung to the corridors, and rumors of James's mysterious power seeped into every conversation.

Nikolaos was no stranger to battlefield tales. Having served the empire for decades, he had heard countless yarns of invincible warriors and divine miracles. Most proved to be exaggerations or illusions. But this time, the evidence was irrefutable. He had seen James's impossible "fire-spewing" weapon cut down rows of Gillyrian soldiers in mere seconds. He had seen the golden distortion of the air as James vanished, taking the wounded Bisera. These were not drunken rumors; these were cold, terrifying facts.

The citadel's great hall had been hastily restored to function as a command center. Nikolaos sat upon a seat that once belonged to the leader of the former Vakerian garrisons, listening to an anxious line of informants from among the population of Thessaloria. Their accounts repeated the same refrain: James performed miracles and was highly revered among the Vakerians and Bisera, the Lioness of Vakeria, believed James to be an emissary of Archangel Seraphina.

"In the name of the Universal Spirit, they believe he's an emissary," whispered a trembling merchant.

"They think he's beyond mortal men," added a former city guard.

"Some say the archangel Seraphina herself blessed him," a wide-eyed baker's daughter murmured.

Nikolaos's jaw tightened. The problem was more than just extraordinary weaponry; faith itself was shifting the war's tide. An army convinced of divine backing could fight with inhuman determination. If the Vakerians, or even some Gillyrians, started believing James was a divine emissary from their god, Gillyria would be facing not merely swords, but an army of zealots and perhaps a large number of defectors.

An uneasy hush filled the hall as Nikolaos finished hearing the testimonies. Finally, he dismissed the informants and turned to his scribe. In measured tones, he dictated a letter to Emperor Alexander:

To His Imperial Majesty, Emperor Alexander, Defender of Gillyria,

I write from Thessaloria, where our forces have taken the city at great cost.

However, there is troubling news: the Vakerians believe themselves guided by a man named James—a supposed "Great Mage."

He vanished from the battlefield alongside General Bisera in a phenomenon that defies all known sorcery or cunning.

His weaponry is beyond imagination, capable of cutting through our lines in an instant.

The Vakerians have not lost heart; they rally around the legend of his divine favor.

If Bisera returns healed, it will cement James's status as an emissary of the Universal Spirit.

We are at risk of facing not merely men, but men possessed by unbreakable faith.

I urge immediate reinforcements and your strategic guidance.

Faith cannot be killed by swords alone.

In unwavering loyalty,

Governor Nikolaos, Thessaloria

The wax seal pressed into the parchment with finality. Nikolaos dispatched a courier, who rode out at once under the moonlit sky. Standing at the battered ramparts, Nikolaos gazed across the city's scorched skyline. History had seen its share of "prophets" and "miracle-workers," most easily discredited. But James was something else. An idea—perhaps even a myth in the making. And Nikolaos understood all too well how unstoppable a myth could become once faith took root.

Part 3

Bisera awoke with a soft start, the midday sun streaming through soaring windows and bathing the luxurious bedroom in warmth. At first, the events of the previous day felt like a fever dream: her grievous wounds on the battlefield, James's sudden rescue, the golden portal that whisked them away, and the intimate moments that followed. As consciousness returned fully, she realized the plush bed, high ceilings, and enormous windows were all still here—and so was James.

She lay still for a moment, recalling how, the day before, she had tried to stay awake while James gently explained where they were and how they'd gotten there. She had been too weak to process it all, and at some point—after hearing bits of what had happened to the Vakerian army—she'd drifted into a deep, exhausted sleep.

Now, her gaze took in every feature of the vast room: the polished floors, the heavy drapes framing a panoramic view of a sprawling backyard, and the elegant furnishings that bespoke a refined sense of luxury. The ceiling rose higher than any place she'd known, easily giving the space a regal aura. It certainly did not look like the cramped war camps or musty forts of Vakeria.

Slowly, she propped herself up, testing her body. The familiar throb of her injuries was reduced to a mild ache. Bandages still bound her torso and shoulder, but as she moved, she found more mobility—and far less pain—than she had expected.

A low voice drew her attention. "You're awake." James stood by a sleek side table, where plates of food were set. He offered her a cautious smile, stepping closer with a glass of water in hand. "How do you feel?"

Bisera slid her legs carefully over the edge of the bed, accepting the water. "Surprisingly well. Better than I… should be," she murmured, her voice hoarse from disuse.

"That's good," he said, setting a tray on the nightstand. "You slept a whole day and night. I worried you'd need more time to recover, especially after everything you'd been through."

She rubbed her eyes, recalling the rushed explanation James had offered when she first arrived in this mansion. Back then, exhaustion had clung to her like a heavy cloak, and she'd barely comprehended his words. "James… yesterday you started to tell me what happened—to the army, to me." She paused, drawing a steady breath. "Will you explain again?"

He nodded, pulling a small chair closer to the bed. "Sure. Let's go step by step."

Then James explained how, in a desperate bid to save her life, he called out to Seraphina.

"I don't fully know how it works," he said softly, "but Seraphina opened a kind of portal. I grabbed you, and next thing I knew, we stepped through—and ended up here, in my world."

Her brows furrowed. "And the Vakerian army? They were still in the middle of a retreat when I fell unconscious."

"Seraphina told me that they managed to withdraw," he assured her. "They're battered, but holding. She promised she'd warn me if they were in immediate danger. Right now, they're expecting you to return once you're strong enough. If we need to go back earlier, she'll let me know."

Bisera exhaled shakily, relief washing over her. She recalled the sense of dread she'd felt at the idea of abandoning her soldiers. "So they survived," she repeated, pressing a hand to her bandaged shoulder. "Spirit be praised…"

James offered a small smile. "Seraphina seems to be giving us time—time to heal, time to gather ourselves."

Bisera was quiet for a moment, letting his words settle. The notion that a divine being watched her fight, watched James whisk her away, and then refrained from any reprimand despite their earlier intimacy was strangely comforting. She remembered the intimacy they'd shared—both emotional and near-physical—her cheeks reddening slightly. "Was Seraphina upset about our earlier…intimacy?"

He shook his head. "No lightning bolts or stern lectures. Just a sense she's… there, in the background."

Her mind reeled, imagining the archangel as a gentle guardian rather than a forbidding overseer. Slowly, relief replaced her embarrassment. If Seraphina disapproved, Bisera thought, we'd have known by now.

The tension coiled inside Bisera began to ease, replaced by gratitude—for James, for Seraphina's blessings, and for the miracle of survival. Her fingers twisted in the sheets as she fought a sudden welling of emotion. I almost died, she told herself. Yet here I am, in a place free of smoke and bloodshed.

She glanced around the grand bedroom again, taking in details: the lofty ceiling, the tall windows revealing a lush backyard with carefully tended landscaping, the furnishings that were polished and modern yet comfortable. "Your home… it's enormous," she said, voice hushed. "When I first woke up, I thought it was some royal estate."

He smiled ruefully. "It's just a big house. About sixty-seven hundred square feet, two floors plus a basement. But this house is not mine. I am just a tenant."

She recalled how he'd once admitted he was a professional steward of rich men's wealth. In Vakeria, such wealth could only belong to nobles or merchants blessed by the Emperor. Here, James seemed to have carved out a privileged life on his own.

She took in a slow breath, marveling at just how far removed this was from the world she knew. This mansion's bedroom alone could house half a dozen soldiers. "It's… a lot to take in," she murmured. "I never imagined such comfort."

James's gaze softened. "You deserve comfort after everything you've been through."

Heat rose to her cheeks, half from her own self-consciousness, half from the subtle flutter in her belly whenever she looked at him. She couldn't deny the pull she felt toward him, especially remembering how openly he'd confessed his feelings the previous day.

He handed her a tray of fresh food—warm bread, sliced meats, and fruit—along with a steaming cup of tea. Bisera sampled them, momentarily closing her eyes to savor flavors far more refined than battlefield rations. Her stomach rumbled in appreciation, reminding her of the need for nourishment after severe blood loss.

James watched her eat with gentle amusement. "Rest is good, but you also need fuel."

She paused between bites. "Thank you," she said, voice thick with sincerity. "You saved my life, James. I don't know how to repay you—Vakeria owes you a debt we can't possibly fulfill."

He set a hand on the bed near her hip, leaning in slightly. "I didn't do it for a favor," he murmured. "I did it because… I wanted to protect you. And, well,"—a faint smile tugged at his lips—"if I get to see you healthy and alive, that's already enough for me."

Her heart fluttered. She remembered the rush of mutual confessions from earlier, the tenderness she'd felt, and the promise that someday they might marry if war and duty allowed. She swallowed, placing the tray aside when she finished her meal.

"Shall we walk?" James suggested, rising to help her stand. "You've been cooped up here since yesterday—might do you good to stretch your legs."

She nodded, letting him support her. At first, her steps felt unsteady, but the more she moved, the more stable she became. Together, they walked to the tall window that overlooked the manicured backyard. Thick trees provided a natural border, while patches of lawn and flowerbeds added pops of color. It was a world apart from Thessaloria's ruined citadel.

Bisera let her fingers rest against the cool glass. "It's so peaceful," she said softly. "No screams, no smoke… Is all your world like this?"

James shook his head. "No, there are plenty of busy cities and conflicts of a different sort. But out here, on the outskirts of Bortinto, things are calm."

She turned to him, leaning her weight on the hand still wrapped around his arm. "If only Vakeria could know such peace," she murmured. "We've been at war for so long."

He brushed a stray lock of blonde hair behind her ear. "One day," he said gently, "maybe they will."

They lapsed into a comfortable silence, gazing out over the property. Bisera's thoughts drifted to her soldiers—what they must be feeling right now. Her guilt warred with the realization that she needed this healing time. As though sensing her turmoil, James squeezed her hand softly.

"I trust Seraphina," he said. "She hasn't steered me wrong yet. She let me know you'd be safe here, and that we'll know when it's time to return."

Bisera drew a ragged breath, nodding. "It's still… unbelievable. But if I'm truly needed, she'll warn you, right?"

"That's what she said," James affirmed. "So for now, focus on getting your strength back."

She managed a grateful smile. The heady mixture of duty, relief, and lingering attraction to James spun in her mind. Part of her still buzzed from the memory of his confessions, of how she'd nearly given in to her surging desire the day before. She wondered if Seraphina truly observed them both, and, for a moment, heat bloomed in her cheeks at the thought.

Suddenly, an electronic chime echoed through the mansion—a sharp ding-dong that made Bisera jump. She stumbled backward in surprise, her reflexes dulled by her injuries. With a startled cry, she nearly lost her balance.

James reacted instantly, sliding an arm around her waist to steady her. She clung to him, breath caught in her throat, heart pounding from the sudden adrenaline. Their eyes locked, faces inches apart. In that instant, the tension that had simmered between them flared anew—she could feel his body's warmth, his strong heartbeat matching her own rapid pulse.

"That's… my doorbell," he explained, voice a bit unsteady as he held her. "Means we have a visitor."

Bisera's cheeks flamed. She remained against his chest, arms lightly wrapped around his shoulders, the moment far too intimate for what should be a simple interruption. She could feel the rush of her own blood beneath her skin, the echo of her heightened sensitivity making her acutely aware of every point of contact.

The bell sounded again, urgent and insistent.