Adelais' Internal Conflict

Part 1

A low roar of outrage swept through the war-torn clearing as James unexpectedly stepped toward Nikolaos and the Vakerian soldiers, one hand lifted in appeal. Around him, men with bloodshot eyes gripped their weapons, half-ready to finish the Gillyrian commander on the spot. Cries of "He deserves no mercy!" mixed with spitting on the ground. Nearby, Nikolaos lay unconscious on the churned earth—his armor stained with mud and blood, his breathing shallow but steady. Even unconscious, he was a symbol of the cruelty he had unleashed, and the men's anger boiled over.

"Don't… kill him," James said, voice trembling but loud enough to check the surrounding fury. He hated taking life, even at war's end, and the troops' rage bristled at what they deemed naïve idealism. Yet his plea carried an unexpected conviction that pulled them up short. He was the Great mage in their eyes after all.

At this, Bisera raised her free hand in a silent command. "Hold," she rasped. Despite the thirst for revenge coursing through her men, they grudgingly obeyed, turning to their general for direction.

Bisera's gaze flicked to James—his face ashen from the brutal fight, yet his eyes shining with moral conviction. He despised slaughter, refusing to let vengeance degrade them. An ache twisted in Bisera's chest. She, too, craved retribution for the horrors Nikolaos had brought upon her plague-weakened army. Yet she couldn't dismiss James's compassion, nor the advantage of sparing a potentially valuable hostage.

Swallowing hard, Bisera stepped closer to Nikolaos's inert form. Her battered armor bore fresh dents; her half-healed shoulder throbbed. Though inwardly torn, her voice emerged cold and steady. "Nikolaos will be kept alive. Bound and under guard. He may serve as a useful hostage in the future. We will not become butchers in the aftermath of our victory."

An uneasy hush settled. Some spat curses, muttering, "He doesn't deserve to live." Bisera's glare warned them to stand down. Rage still simmered behind her calm façade, but she forced herself to see the bigger picture. Nikolaos, reviled though he was, had strategic worth beyond a hasty execution. The memory of James's plea added extra weight to her choice.

At Bisera's signal, soldiers carefully lifted the unconscious commander, shackling his wrists and ankles. Vesmir personally saw him hauled off to a sturdy oak for watch, ensuring he wouldn't wake unattended. As Nikolaos's slumped figure was carried away, Bisera caught James's eyes. Thank you, his weary nod said. I trust your judgment, she answered with the faintest smile. Their silent accord underscored how James's moral compass had tempered her wrath.

With the immediate crisis averted, Bisera lowered her sword, wiping its blade on a rag. Only then did the ache in her shoulder roar back, the fading adrenaline revealing her exhaustion. She sheathed the blade and surveyed her depleted army. Smoke from makeshift pyres blurred the horizon; fewer than six hundred men remained upright, many shivering from fever or weariness. Medics newly trained by James rushed between the wounded, fighting to stave off death.

Bisera squared her shoulders. "Tend the injured," she said curtly. "Gather our fallen—and theirs. We honor them before the day's end." Her voice never wavered, though her heart clenched at the sight of so many battered warriors. Rest was a luxury she couldn't afford.

Soon, funeral fires dotted the field—smoke columns rising into the bruised sky. Bisera offered a quiet prayer to the Universal Spirit that the departed, both Vakerians and Gillyrians, might find peace beyond mortal strife.

James moved among the wounded with tireless resolve, dispensing conjured water, healing tonics, and gentle reassurance. At one point, Bisera glimpsed him kneeling beside a scrawny spearman, helping the lad drink from a sleek metal flask that had not existed a minute before. The soldier's wide-eyed wonder spoke volumes. Bisera's chest tightened at the kindness James showed—far more than some so-called nobles back home ever gave. Catching her gaze, he managed a small smile that sent warmth fluttering through her. Despite the grime and blood staining his foreign clothing, James looked more dignified than any aristocrat.

She forced herself to turn away, assembling a knot of officers around a half-ruined wagon that served as a makeshift war council table. On its flatbed lay a mud-smeared map of the region. Vesmir joined her next, having personally secured the unconscious Nikolaos under heavy guard. Velika—her throat bruised by the same man's attempted murder—refused to sit, though pain etched her face. A handful of other captains gathered, their tattered armor and bloodied bandages testifying to the vicious day.

"The enemy will regroup, General," Velika rasped, pulling her cloak tighter. "Nikolaos was dangerous, but merely one milestone. We still don't know where Emperor Alexander's main army is." The dried blood on her bandages showed how close she'd come to death, but her devotion to Bisera never faltered.

Vesmir nodded grimly. "At least a thousand Gillyrians escaped south. Prisoners claim Alexander himself may be only days away, with fresh forces. We can't face open battle while half our men are plagued and injured."

Bisera's gauntleted fingertip traced a winding river on the map. "Our men are feverish and spent," she said tightly. "We can't linger here to be overrun. Yet forcing a march on the sick is its own risk. Suggestions?"

One veteran captain stabbed the map with a scarred finger. "We move for Serstav, still held by Vakeria. Its walls might hold off a larger assault, giving us time to recover."

Vesmir, exchanging a glance with Velika, offered another path. "Or parley, offering Nikolaos for a ceasefire. Alexander might pause if we dangle his noble cousin." His voice held clear distaste at bargaining with such a villain.

Bisera's mouth set in a thin line. The notion offended her sense of justice, yet in war, every resource counted. "Even if Alexander values him, he may not halt an entire campaign," she said. "Still… it might buy us time." She glanced at the battered ranks, her eyes heavy with worry. How many more can we lose before morale collapses?

Velika coughed, wincing at the sting in her throat. "Poison and infiltration aren't Alexander's usual style. Nikolaos must have acted on his own." Yet her expression hinted her uncertainty.

Bisera nodded, trying not to reveal the exhaustion dragging at her bones. "Then at first light, we march for Serstav. Keep Nikolaos as a bargaining chip. If an opportunity arises, we negotiate. Otherwise, we retreat behind walls until our men recover." The officers saluted, battered but resolute, then dispersed to implement her orders.

Alone by the wagon, Bisera stared at the horizon as dusk deepened. So many threats at once—plague, unstoppable foe, a forced march with broken ranks. She shut her eyes. "Archangel Seraphina, watch over us."

When Bisera looked up again, her gaze snagged on Adelais hovering near a wrecked tent. The red-haired refugee had attached herself to them back in Thessaloria, but from the start her curvaceous well-nourished figure and keen eyes had piqued Bisera's suspicion. She'd quietly put men on guard around the woman. Now, she saw a burly sergeant confront Adelais over a cloth-wrapped shortbow. Tension radiated from both of them.

"Where'd you get that bow, girl?" the sergeant snapped. Adelais clutched it protectively, eyes darting. She stammered about "finding it on the battlefield." The sergeant demanded she surrender it, noticing a dagger at her waist. Bisera recognized the coiled readiness in Adelais's stance: a cornered predator.

Striding forward, Bisera ordered, "Stop!" Soldiers eased. Adelais still clutched the bow, fear and defiance warring on her pale face. Bisera's quick assessment took in the fine Gillyrian etchings on the bow. Spy?

"Adelais," Bisera said, voice calm but sharp, "if that's even your real name… You traveled with us, tended the sick. Yet you hide weapons. Why?"

Adelais trembled, then sank to her knees in the mud. "General," she whispered, "I place myself at your mercy. I—I only meant to protect myself in this madness of war." The posture was submissive, but Bisera saw tension in every line. She was ready to fight if cornered.

Angry murmurings rose: "She's Gillyrian, a spy!" "She tricked us!" The men who accepted Nikolaos's capture now demanded no leniency for this infiltrator. Bisera's mind churned: the archer that saved Velika earlier was apparently not from among her men. Could that have been Adelais, for reasons unknown? Killing her might be simpler, but it felt wrong.

Bisera lifted her chin. "Stand down," she told the ring of men. "Confiscate her weapons. Keep her under watch. She's done nothing to earn death."

Surprise rippled. Adelais looked up, shock and relief mingling in her eyes. Bisera extended a gauntleted hand, pulling the smaller woman upright. "We'll speak later," she said quietly, the warning implicit. Turning to Captain Vesmir, she added, "Give Lady Adelais a tent, with two guards. Let her walk nowhere unescorted, but treat her courteously."

Vesmir saluted, guiding the stunned woman away. As they left, Bisera let out a shaky exhale. Am I too lenient? Part of her suspected infiltration. Another part recognized a spark of sincerity in Adelais's gaze. If she truly was a Gillyrian noble in disguise, she might turn her to Vakeria's advantage—or keep her as a hostage later. For now, Bisera's soldiers were too exhausted for further conflict. She had more pressing matters: wounded men and a looming march at dawn.

Part 2

Adelais, having narrowly exposed her infiltration during a fraught confrontation, finds herself stunned by Bisera's compassion in letting her remain relatively free. She should have been chained or harshly questioned, yet instead, the Vakerian general showed mercy, which utterly confounds Adelais.

All around her, the camp bustles with battered soldiers. Many are missing limbs or bear horrific wounds, but their peers share rations and words of solace, fighting off despair with unity. This display contradicts everything Gillyria taught: that Vakerians thrive on savagery and chaos. Yet in this camp, Adelais perceives a fierce humanity.

She recalls how some Vakerian soldiers acted cruelly in Thessaloria's cathedral, only for Bisera herself to halt their abuses. Meanwhile, Nikolaos's atrocities—striking Gillyrians and Vakerians alike—shook her assumptions about which side truly behaves like brutes. Confusion grows, especially when she considers James's conjured healing supplies, which seem blessed by the Spirit. If his gifts carry genuine divine favor, perhaps Gillyria cannot claim that only they serve the Spirit's will.

Her thoughts drift to Emperor Alexander, the man she loves from afar: gentle, wise, dedicated to restoring Gillyria's lost greatness. She risked everything infiltrating Vakeria to aid him. Initially, she believed wholeheartedly in Gillyria's righteous cause, convinced Vakerians were mere barbarians. Now, after witnessing Bisera's disciplined leadership, James's miraculous abilities, and the camp's respect for both enemy and ally corpses, Adelais questions if good and evil are so clear-cut.

A philosopher's argument once dismissed as near-heresy rings in her mind: the Universal Spirit transcends kingdoms, judging not by national claims but by justice and mercy. Observing Vakerians bury fallen Gillyrians with solemn rites, Adelais wonders if the Spirit's love crosses all borders. These realizations threaten to unravel her lifelong beliefs. She still cherishes Gillyria fervently and yearns to fulfill Alexander's dream, but how can she ignore the compassionate acts unfolding around her?

Tears sting as she contemplates her vow to serve Alexander wholeheartedly. Could loyalty force her to deny the truths she's seen: that some Vakerians embody empathy and that Nikolaos's cruelty undermines Gillyria's moral high ground? She fears Alexander's reaction if she returns to him admitting the war's moral lines are blurred. Will he think she's lost her devotion or, worse, turned traitor?

Hands shaking, Adelais moves toward the tent assigned to her, still guarded but not brutalized. Her sense of purpose wavers. Perhaps she should flee tonight, bringing her intelligence back home. Yet the impetus falters. She realizes she can't simply abandon this unfolding complexity until she understands it fully.