Podem

Part 1

The departure of the Emperor's army left Podem with a rare and fragile hush—a city holding its breath after days of trumpet calls, clattering hooves, and the rumble of marching feet. Now, at dawn, Bisera stood atop the east watchtower, breathing in the biting, damp air of early winter, the kind that seeped through wool and lingered in the lungs. Far below, thin patches of old snow clung to the shadows by the walls, and the ground gleamed with a crust of frost where the sun had yet to reach.

Below her, Podem came alive in slow, steady rhythms: smoke curled thickly from kitchen chimneys, and a faint, ever-present haze hovered over the rooftops. Blacksmiths hammered the day's first nails in the chill, their breath streaming white, while young sentries, wrapped in extra layers, swapped nervous jokes as they stamped their boots to keep warm. It could have been any late November morning in the city's long, tumultuous history—if not for the fresh scars of war on its walls and the uncertain future just beyond the horizon.

The city was a palimpsest of empires. The oldest districts clung to the central hill, their Gillyrian stonework and weathered terracotta tiles bearing traces of the first snow. Vakerian carpenters had added timber balconies and steep, shingled roofs to better weather the winter storms. The market, at the city's heart, had become a makeshift parade ground and granary, its usual stalls replaced by wagons of salted fish, barrels of acorn flour, and carts piled with the last of the autumn apples—some already wizened by the cold.

Bisera's blue cloak fluttered in the raw wind, and she pulled it tighter against the morning chill. She felt the familiar ache between her shoulders—a tension that had become part of her armor. Each morning, she checked the walls, the cisterns, the anxious eyes of her soldiers. Every routine, every step, was an act of quiet defiance against fear.

"I thought I might find you here," came James's voice, muffled slightly by his scarf, but steady and familiar now, less the startled stranger and more the comrade, and perhaps something more.

She half-smiled as he joined her at the parapet. He wore Vakerian clothes these days—wool trousers and a quilted gambeson, a heavy cloak, his Northlander hair still a little too long for military regulation. A sword hung awkwardly at his side, but she noticed how his stance had shifted, how his gaze swept the city as if seeing not just the stone and timber, but the people and their hopes.

"Old habits," she said quietly. "Dawn makes liars of the night. When you see the city wake, you know what's real."

Together, they watched the morning unfold: a line of boys no older than sixteen, carrying buckets for the masons, picking their way over frozen mud; a kitchen girl chasing chickens across the yard, her laughter ringing out as she slipped in the icy dew; the blacksmith's daughter, sleeves rolled, hauling a pail nearly half her weight.

"You see soldiers," James said, "but I see families—people holding on to what they have left."

Bisera's face softened. "Both are true. They're all we have to hold this city."

They made their way down from the tower, passing through the awakening keep. The world was thick with smells—iron, woodsmoke, and simmering porridge. In the kitchen yard, a woman named Marta, her arms dusted with flour, was already shouting instructions to a pack of apprentices. Bisera stopped to listen as James offered a suggestion—sprouting grain to stretch the flour, sweetening the bread without honey. Marta's skepticism faded at the promise of "the mage's magic," and Bisera found herself smiling at the ease with which James had integrated himself into the daily rhythms of the fortress.

Breakfast in the great hall was hearty but humble: stoneware bowls of barley porridge, dried plums stewed in wine, slabs of dark rye. Officers ate shoulder-to-shoulder with sergeants, their voices low and businesslike, eyes scanning the room and the maps spread across tables. The old routines comforted even as talk turned to winter stores, defensive lines, and the rumors drifting in from the high passes.

After breakfast, they walked the length of Podem's ramparts, their boots echoing over stones glazed with ice and patches of moss. James watched as Bisera stopped to speak with every sentry—no question was too small, no complaint ignored. She was, as always, utterly present: correcting a grip here, encouraging a nervous recruit there. She reminded him of the best kind of commander—demanding, yes, but fiercely protective of her own.

James, in turn, observed the city through his foreign eyes: market women scraping beeswax into candles, children weaving dried herbs for winter stews, a troupe of apprentices squabbling over whose turn it was to feed the garrison's shaggy goats. A group of washerwomen gossiped in the shade of the wall, hands red with cold water as they beat linen on flat stones.

By late morning, drills began in earnest. Bisera supervised a new regimen—James's idea, pairing veterans with green conscripts, trading brute repetition for practical wisdom. She watched, arms folded, as the shield wall formed and re-formed, the air ringing with shouts and laughter and the occasional clatter of dropped spears.

Afterward, as the soldiers dispersed to tend gear and fetch water, Bisera turned to James. There was a spark in her eye that hadn't been there in days.

"Walk with me," she said, her voice suddenly softer. "If you're not already committed to another inspection."

"I think my schedule is clear," he replied, feigning seriousness.

"Good. There's something I'd like to show you this afternoon. Something not on any officer's map."

He blinked, then grinned. "Is this an order or an invitation?"

"Both," she said, the edge of command softened by the promise of something else.

Part 2

The eastern postern gate was little used, a narrow arch tucked behind the kitchens and the old herb gardens. James found Bisera waiting there, dressed simply in a woolen tunic over riding trousers, a blue cloak draped around her shoulders. Her hair was neatly braided, and the only hint of her rank was the sword at her side, a symbol she never abandoned.

Bisera's mare snorted softly, a plume of white breath curling from its nostrils as it greeted James. He approached cautiously, eyeing the horse with a mix of curiosity and apprehension. Bisera, noticing his hesitation, smiled reassuringly.

"Come," she said gently, extending a hand. "Ride with me. It's no secret you're not exactly at home in the saddle, even if you are the Great Mage."

James flushed slightly, grateful for her discretion—and perhaps more grateful for the chance to ride with her. He accepted her hand, allowing her to help him onto the horse. The proximity was intimate, scandalously so had James been anyone else. But the entire city knew that the Great Mage, divine emissary and master of the mysterious divine wagon gifted by Seraphina herself, had never learned to ride due to the lack of need.

They rode out together, slipping quietly through the surrounding farmlands. The last of the orchards stood bare, gnarled branches dusted with hoarfrost, while stacks of beehives sat dormant and silent, waxy lids sealed against the cold. Villagers tipped their hats as they passed—some in reverence, others with clear relief at the sight of their legendary general and the mage who signifies divine favour. Here, the war felt distant, a quiet echo.

Bisera guided the mare easily along a path that climbed gently into the eastern foothills, the earth hardened by recent freezes and the air sharp with cold. James's arms wrapped around her waist from behind, absorbing the landscape: patches of ice in the shadows, the russet and bronze of late autumn leaves clinging to the hardier trees, frost silvering the grass. In the distance, Podem appeared ancient and serene, its towers framed by the blue mountains and a sky pale with low, wintry light.

They stopped at a clearing marked by a flat stone shelf overlooking the river valley. Bisera dismounted gracefully, her boots crunching on the frozen ground, then reached up to help James down. He slid awkwardly, glad when his feet found solid ground again.

"My father brought me here, years ago," Bisera said softly, tying the mare's reins to a low-hanging branch and sitting down on the stone. She patted the spot beside her invitingly. "Long before I was a soldier. He said every commander should intimately know the land she's sworn to defend."

James sat, feeling the lingering chill of the stone through his cloak. For a long moment, they just looked out over the valley—fields dotted with sheep, their breath visible in the frigid air, the river shining like a ribbon of steel beneath thin morning ice, and the distant shapes of villagers hurrying to finish chores before the sun dipped low.

"It's beautiful," he murmured, pulling his cloak tighter as a cold breeze rustled the frosted grass.

"I think that's what he meant me to see. Not the lines of approach, not just the high ground for defense—but the simple beauty, the reason we fight." Her voice was hushed. "I forget that sometimes."

James glanced over, struck by the rare openness in her expression. "You remember it now."

She turned, searching his face. "I do, with you. For all my life, I've carried a sword. But this—sitting here, free of duty, if only for a few hours—feels like the rarest victory."

He touched her hand, tentative but sure. She didn't pull away; instead, her fingers curled into his, rough and warm from a lifetime of training.

Bisera opened her pack, producing a simple meal—dried apples, hard cheese, honeycomb wrapped in waxed cloth, and a skin of watered wine. She spread them out on the stone, her breath curling in the chilly air. The feast was as humble as any in Podem, yet it felt like something extraordinary.

They ate in companionable quiet, savoring the food and the sense of stolen time. Bisera watched James with an intensity he was learning to recognize—not the calculating stare of a general, but the look of someone learning to want, to hope.

"Do you miss your world?" she asked suddenly, rubbing her hands together for warmth.

He considered. "Parts of it. The ease, the certainty. But I don't think I've ever felt more… alive than I do here. Even with everything at risk."

She nodded. "You see more than most. Even in the smallest things."

James's thumb traced the line of her knuckles. "You make it much more bearable when you are scaring me."

A laugh burst from her, bright and unguarded, echoing a little in the cold air. "Is that what you think of me? Scary?"

He grinned, emboldened by the playful mood. "Only that first encounter when you looked as if you were going to die on me. Or when you look at me like you might kiss me, and I don't know which is more dangerous."

Bisera's cheeks flushed, and for a moment, the unflappable general looked as shy as any village girl. "Maybe it's the same thing," she said softly, shifting closer for warmth so that their shoulders touched.

James turned, his heart pounding in a way no battle had managed to cause. He reached up, brushing a stray lock of hair from her face. Bisera didn't move away. Instead, she tilted her chin, lips parting ever so slightly.

He kissed her, gently at first—just a brush of lips, careful and wondering. When he pulled back, Bisera's eyes were bright, searching his as if seeing herself reflected there.

They lingered in that quiet, their hands twined, the world reduced to the rhythm of breath, the hush of late autumn leaves, and the muffled quiet that only comes before snow.

When Bisera kissed him again, there was nothing tentative—her mouth was warm and insistent, her hands threading into his hair as she drew him closer. James responded with equal urgency, his fingers finding the hollow of her waist, the heat of her through layers of wool and leather. The kiss deepened, slow and sensual, all the more intense for its contrast with the cold world they both inhabited—a world of iron discipline, bitter winds, and constant danger.

They parted only when breathless, foreheads pressed together, laughter caught between them.

"I didn't think—" James began, only to be silenced by Bisera's finger to his lips.

"Don't think," she whispered. "Just… let me have this. Let us have this."

For a time, they simply existed together, sharing warmth against the cold and stealing kisses, telling stories of childhood, of dreams half-remembered and paths not taken. Bisera confessed her fear—not of battle, but of wanting something for herself. James spoke of the emptiness he'd felt in his old life, the strange sense of belonging he'd found with her here despite being such a foreigner to this world.

There, in the clearing above Podem, it was as if the world had narrowed to two people—two hearts, two histories, interwoven by war and chance and a hope for something more.

"I would like to see more of your world," Bisera said suddenly, brushing a fleck of frost from his sleeve.

"Why the sudden interest?" James asked.

"Because, I crave to know about you. And each person is the product of his or her environment," Bisera answered, with a slight philosophical glint.

"There must be more to it than that," James said, his voice tinged with mischief.

"Well, I do kind of miss the comfort of your bed." Bisera's face blushed as the words slipped out of her.

"I mean… I thought maybe I can learn to introduce those comforts to this world so that all can enjoy."

"Do those comforts include me?" James teased.

"No, you are mine and mine alone." Bisera replied with a sultry smile.

Part 3

Many miles southwest of Podem, the Gillyrian imperial encampment stretched across the rolling, frost-bitten floor of the Maritsa Valley, ordered as meticulously as a mosaic from the empire's golden age. Torchlight flickered over perfect rows of lamellar-clad soldiers, their tents in symmetrical lines, their banners fluttering with the golden eagle of Gillyria. The camp itself reflected the Gillyrian ethos—precision, discipline, and a devotion to civilization as order over chaos.

In the heart of the camp, under a striped pavilion embroidered with the imperial crest, Alexander, Emperor of Gillyria, Defender of Gillyria, stood alone before a sprawling oak table. His posture was ramrod-straight, every line of his lean, athletic frame exuding both poise and tension. His dark hair, grown a little long in campaign, fell artfully across a brow that seemed carved from marble, and his almond-shaped eyes—piercing, intelligent, and cold—moved ceaselessly across the intricately detailed campaign map.

Golden markers—each an eagle or spear—represented Gillyrian cohorts. Silver ones showed the known Vakerian positions. Red waxed string, pinned in careful lines, connected strongholds and waypoints, with all routes converging upon Podem, the city that Alexander regarded not only as a fortress, but as a symbol: the gateway to his vision of reconquest.

A measured step outside, then a formal, practiced knock. The tent flap lifted and Igor, Captain of the Praetorian Guard, entered. He was a striking contrast to Alexander—towering and blond, green-eyed, with a face as beautiful as it was powerful, muscles straining the seams of his cloak, the scar across his jaw catching the lamplight. In full armor, he stood not merely as a soldier but as the living embodiment of Gillyrian power—yet there was warmth in his eyes that softened when they settled on his emperor.

"Your Imperial Majesty," Igor said, offering the deep, closed-fist salute of the Praetorians. "The field commanders await your word regarding tomorrow's march."

Alexander's attention lingered on the map for a heartbeat longer before he acknowledged Igor with a slight incline of his head. "Thank you, Igor. Join me."

Igor approached, hands clasped behind his back. Though officially the emperor's chief bodyguard, he was more than a protector—he was confidant, brother-in-arms, and, to Alexander, perhaps the only man who truly understood the weight of the crown.

"There's confusion among the officers," Igor said quietly, careful to respect protocol even in private. "General Nikephoros is concerned that, at our present pace, we'll not reach Podem before full winter sets in. Some urge greater haste. The Vakerian capital is in chaos—now would be the perfect opportunity to exploit their weakness."

Alexander's gaze remained on the campaign table, tracing the route north with a fingertip. "Nikephoros was ever the hawk," he murmured, the ghost of a smile at the edge of his sculpted mouth. "Tell me, Igor: would you leave Serres unbroken behind us, with a garrison yet loyal to Vakeria?"

Igor hesitated, then shook his head. "No, sire. Even a wounded garrison can strike at our rear or harass the supply trains. It's doctrine—never march past an enemy fortress."

"Correct." Alexander straightened, his cloak falling in perfect folds. The lamplight gleamed off the intricate filigree of his cuirass. "We will have Serres, but not by slaughter. Those retreating Vakerian troops—wounded, exhausted, permitted to withdraw—are about to abandon it in an orderly retreat. No storming, no casualties."

Igor's green eyes widened with admiration. "A bloodless victory."

Alexander nodded. "As my old mentor taught me—war is an extension of politics. We use battle sparingly, only when all other means are exhausted. There is no virtue in killing for its own sake; true mercy, Igor, is in sparing lives when possible, but be ruthless when needed."

The emperor paused, pouring two cups of dark wine from a waiting decanter—a gesture that was less ceremonial than familial between them. He handed one to Igor, who accepted it with the reverence one might give communion.

"Let our soldiers avoid bloodshed when possible. For when battle is needed," Alexander continued, "we must throw everything into it—strike hard, without pity or fear."

They drank, a moment of camaraderie beneath the weight of imperial responsibility.

The conversation shifted as Alexander set his cup aside, eyes returning to the map. "Every move we make is calculated. While the Vakerians are weakened by civil strife and hunger, we keep them guessing—will we besiege Podem now, in winter, or wait for spring? They must prepare for both, wasting men and stores. Their armies are stretched, their loyalty uncertain. If the usurper in Arinthia prevails, we may negotiate the return of Podem, and much of southern Balkania, with the remnants of the loyalist faction. If not—"

"We strike when they are at their weakest, right after concluding a civil war," Igor finished, voice low.

Alexander smiled—rare and genuine, like sunlight on marble. "You see it, old friend."

A rare warmth flickered between them; a bond forged in survival.

Igor studied the map, then Alexander. "Some say your patience is indecision. The men want glory; the Senate wants a quick victory."

"Men see the battle before them, not the shape of the war," Alexander replied. His eyes—cold but not cruel—held a fire stoked by purpose. "We are Gillyrians. We rebuild civilization from chaos, not by mindless bloodshed, but with reason, faith, and timing."

"Faith, yes," Igor murmured. "But the men have begun to whisper about the 'angel'—the one rumored to walk by Simon's side in Podem."

Alexander's eyes narrowed. For a heartbeat, something vulnerable flickered across his face—the faith that had guided his every action, now shadowed by doubt. Reports of miracles, of Seraphina's supposed emissary, gnawed at his mind in the quiet hours.

"If the Universal Spirit had truly abandoned us, Igor, we would not have retaken Sparklestar. We would not stand at the gates of our lost cities. An angel's presence does not erase centuries of injustice. Remember, even the Lord of the Abyss was once an archangel of the Spirit."

Igor nodded, accepting the reassurance. "I will remind the men of the justice of our cause."

Alexander clasped his shoulder—an intimate gesture, rarely shown. "And you, my friend. There are few in this world I trust as I trust you. Not just to fight, but to think."

They turned back to the map, and Alexander continued. "Tomorrow, we move. But at my pace. I want double scouts on the eastern approaches—if Simon has left Podem for Arinthia, we must know his route. Our skirmishers will harass their foragers, but never commit to open battle. We keep the city under pressure, nothing more."

Igor saluted. "As you command, Your Imperial Majesty."

A brief, rare smile. "And tonight, no more talk of war. Go and rest well."

Igor lingered a moment longer, studying the man who had once been his rescuer, his prince, now his emperor. "As you wish, Alexander. May the Spirit watch over us both."

He withdrew, and Alexander was left in lamplight, surrounded by maps and the faint aroma of incense from his personal shrine. He reached for the pendant that lay hidden beneath his tunic—a small icon of the Universal Spirit, pressed into his palm by Irene years ago.

For a moment, Alexander allowed himself a private prayer: not for victory, but for clarity—for the strength to act with both mercy and resolve, as his father and his faith had taught him.

He looked once more at the model of Podem on the table—a city of stone, of memory, of hope. Soon, he knew, it would be more than a place on a map. It would be the crucible that tested everything he believed about justice, duty, and the tangled path of destiny. Soon, he will know which side the Spirit has cast His die.