Act I: The City of Light
Chapter 1: Collision of Worlds
John's boots pounded the wet asphalt as he sprinted across the street. The shriek of tires on slick pavement cut through the night. A pair of headlights bore down on the woman in the crosswalk – she was frozen, eyes wide, caught in the oncoming truck's blinding glare.
With a burst of speed born of instinct, John threw himself forward. Years of Special Forces training honed his reflexes to a razor's edge. Move! The silent command roared through his mind. He tackled the woman around the waist, wrenching her out of the truck's deadly path.
A scream – hers or the truck driver's – rang in John's ears as he heaved the woman onto the sidewalk. In that split second, the world slowed. He felt the heat of the truck's headlights on his back. The growl of the engine was a thunder in his skull.
Then impact.
Metal met flesh and bone with a sickening force. Pain exploded through John's body. The truck slammed into him and he was dimly aware of being lifted, tossed like a rag doll. His shoulder cracked against the windshield before he was flung aside. The world spun end over end – a whirl of streetlights and rain – then came a crushing weight and darkness.
For a moment, he was aware of nothing at all. No pain, no sound. Only void. The agony that had exploded through him a moment ago was simply… gone.
Am I dead? The thought flickered like a dying ember. John tried to breathe but found no air. His consciousness drifted, untethered in an endless night. He had saved the woman – he remembered the terror in her face and then the relief as she flew clear of danger. That single success was a small light in the darkness closing in.
Memories fluttered at the edges of his mind: the dusty training fields at dawn, his comrades' laughter, the flag draped on a coffin, the reasons he had lived and fought. All of it seemed distant now, as if belonging to someone else.
A faint sound pierced the void – a low hum, rising in pitch and power. It resonated through the emptiness surrounding him. John's awareness stirred. The hum became a rushing noise, like wind through a tunnel. Light, faint at first, glimmered ahead. What's happening?
The glimmer grew to a radiant glow, enveloping him. It wasn't the harsh white of headlights or hospital fluorescents – it was a warm, golden luminance, like sunrise after the longest night. It beckoned.
John felt a pull, as though some unseen current had seized his drifting soul. The light drew closer, or he was moving toward it – he could not tell which. All the while, the hum deepened into a chorus of whispers at the edge of hearing. Words in no language he knew, yet strangely melodic. Is this a dream? he wondered, or perhaps the afterlife coming to claim him.
Suddenly, sensation flooded back. Not pain – something else. A tingling warmth coursed through his limbs, his chest, his face. He realized with a shock that he could feel his body again – or a body. But it felt… different. Heavy silken fabric brushed against his skin, far from the shredded clothes and broken bones he last remembered. A rich scent filled his nostrils – a mix of exotic spices, incense, and fragrant oils, utterly unlike the blood and gasoline he expected from a crash site.
John's eyes snapped open, expecting to see shattered glass and city lights. Instead, he found himself staring at a canopy of embroidered silk overhead, illuminated by a gentle golden glow. His heart thundered in his ears as confusion and awe washed over him.
The city street was gone. The truck, the rain, the night – all vanished. In their place loomed impossibly tall walls of polished marble veined with gold, draped in shimmering tapestries. The golden glow came from crystal orbs mounted on the walls – glowing stones that shone like captured starlight. They cast dancing patterns on pillars carved with strange symbols that glinted as if alive with inner fire.
John inhaled sharply. Every muscle tensed, his instincts reeling from the sudden change. He was lying on a vast bed piled high with embroidered cushions. The sheets beneath him were softer than anything he'd felt, and the bed itself could have held a dozen men.
He sat up slowly, each movement careful and controlled despite the adrenaline spiking through him. His soldier's mind screamed this was wrong, dangerous, unknown. But years of discipline kept him outwardly calm. He scanned the room, taking in details with trained precision – searching for threats, exits, anything familiar.
Rich furnishings filled the chamber: carved wooden screens inlaid with mother-of-pearl, a low table bearing fruit and a silver carafe, tall glass doors partially hidden by gauzy curtains gently billowing. Beyond them a hint of predawn sky glowed. He caught a waft of cool air carrying the scent of jasmine from outside.
It was a scene from a dream or a movie set – not any reality he knew. John's pulse pounded. Was he hallucinating in his final moments? Did the impact scramble his brain? Or had he truly… moved somewhere else?
He looked down at himself. The body beneath the silk coverlet felt strong and whole. Gingerly, he lifted his hands before his face. In the dim crystal-light he saw unfamiliar hands – broader, darker, with calloused palms and old scars crossing the knuckles. These were a warrior's hands, but not the hands he knew.
His breath caught. The hands trembled ever so slightly as he turned them, flexing fingers. He raised one to his face and felt a short, neatly trimmed beard on a squared jaw that was not his own.
John swung his legs over the side of the bed and planted his feet on cool marble. The body moved fluidly, powerfully, without the stabbing agony he expected from being hit by a truck. It responded to his will, but its motions and balance were subtly foreign. He felt heavier, taller.
A mirror – there, on the far wall above an ornate dresser. He pushed himself upright. The sudden motion made his head swim; he steadied himself on a bedpost carved with intricate runes glowing softly gold. The tingling warmth in his limbs hadn't faded, as if some residual energy yet coursed through him.
Step by step, John approached the mirror, heart in throat. A man came into view in the polished bronze surface. John stared. The face that looked back was stern, striking – perhaps in his late twenties or early thirties. Skin sun-bronzed, high cheekbones, eyes a piercing shade of green-gold that practically glowed in the reflection's low light. His hair was thick, black, and brushed back from a proud brow, a few locks falling artfully to frame his face. He wore an open, embroidered robe of deep crimson over a bare chest crisscrossed with faded battle scars. Around his neck hung a heavy pendant etched with symbols like those on the bedpost runes.
John raised a hand; the stranger in the mirror did the same. The breath he hadn't realized he was holding rushed out. That's me… or rather, this is the body I'm in. The face was vaguely familiar in a way John couldn't place – like a name on the tip of his tongue. But he knew he had never seen this man before.
His mind raced for answers. He remembered the accident – saving the woman, the truck, the darkness… and then waking here. Wherever here was, it was far from home.
A surge of emotion welled in his chest – confusion, fear, a curious wonder. John closed his eyes and exhaled slowly, calling on every ounce of discipline to steady himself. Panicking would accomplish nothing. He'd survived ambushes and night raids by keeping his wits; he would survive this, too, whatever "this" was.
Observe. Assess. Plan. The mantra of his training surfaced automatically. He would treat this like any other dangerous, unknown operation: gather intelligence first. He needed information – about this place, about whose body he inhabited – and he needed to avoid tipping off anyone that something was amiss until he had the facts.
John glanced once more at the imposing yet unfamiliar figure in the mirror and squared his (new) shoulders. The man in the reflection wore the expression John often saw in himself before a mission – determined, alert, unreadable. That was good. He could work with that.
Unbidden, a troubling thought arose: what of the real Arslan, the man whose body this was? Had his soul been cast out at the very moment John arrived? The idea was unsettling, but John forced it aside; he had no answers, only the present reality to deal with.
Behind him, through the haze of gauzy curtains, the first light of dawn began to filter in, heralding a new day in this impossible new world.
Chapter 2: A Strange Dawn
A soft knock came at the chamber's grand double doors just as the dawn light strengthened. John – now Emperor Arslan Rûmî, he reminded himself, though the name still felt alien – turned away from the mirror's reflection and faced the door. He schooled his features into what he hoped was a composed, regal mask. In truth, confusion still churned inside him, but he knew enough to hide weakness.
"Enter," he called out, praying his voice sounded normal. The word left his lips in a low, resonant tone. It was a stranger's voice to his ears – richer, with a slight accent he couldn't place. But it hadn't trembled, and that was what mattered.
The doors swung inward without a sound, perfectly balanced on oiled hinges. A trio of figures approached, heads bowed. Leading them was a man of indeterminate age with a smooth, clean-shaven face and narrow eyes that flicked up briefly in deference. He was clad in flowing robes of deep blue and wore a delicate gold circlet. John instantly noted the subtle cues – the man's deliberate, graceful movements and the slightly high timbre of his voice when he spoke.
"Good morning, Your Imperial Majesty," intoned the robed man, bowing low with hands pressed together. "I trust you slept well. We did not wish to disturb you earlier, given the… celebrations last night."
His accent was lilting, each word enunciated with care. John caught a slight emphasis on "celebrations," and the briefest hesitation before he said it. Last night. His mind raced. What happened last night? He had nothing to draw on – Arslan's memories were a void. But at least he had confirmation that some event had taken place. Perhaps the conquest of the city had been formally feted.
Behind the robed man stood two younger attendants – a boy and a girl in matching white tunics embroidered with silver script. Their eyes were lowered respectfully, but John could see curiosity in their furtive glances. They carried a large polished tray laden with a breakfast spread: flatbreads, fruits, and a steaming clay pot likely filled with spiced tea or coffee, judging by the rich aroma that reached his nose.
John realized an awkward silence was stretching. He had been too quiet. Quickly he dipped his chin in what he hoped was a kindly, if reserved, nod. "I… slept very well," he lied smoothly. It wasn't entirely false; he felt physically rested if mentally stunned. "You did right not to wake me."
The robed man – a eunuch, John was now almost certain from the voice and absence of facial hair – gave a pleased smile. "Your Majesty's health is our utmost concern." He clapped his hands softly and the two servants glided forward, setting the breakfast tray on a low ebony table near the balcony.
John took the opportunity to step away from the mirror and nearer to the table, moving carefully, measuring each gesture. He must project confidence and familiarity with this environment, even as he noted every detail like a scout behind enemy lines. The aroma of the spiced beverage was strong; it reminded him fleetingly of cardamom and cinnamon, scents from distant memories of markets in far-off deployments. The fact such spices existed here was oddly comforting – a small commonality between worlds.
The eunuch watched him with a polite, expectant expression. John realized he was waiting for some indication to proceed. Perhaps Arslan had a morning routine known to them. Without missing a beat, John lowered himself onto one of the large cushions by the table, gesturing subtly for the attendants to pour the drink. He hoped taking initiative would mask any missteps.
At once, the girl stepped forward and deftly filled a delicate porcelain cup for him, then another. The boy presented a platter of cut fruits – figs, dates, and something that resembled a peach with vibrant purple flesh. John picked up the cup, inhaling the steam. It was tea, heavily spiced and sweetened. He took a cautious sip and felt warmth and energy spread through him – perhaps enhanced by magic, as everything else here seemed to be touched by the arcane.
He maintained a neutral expression, though inwardly he marveled. It was delicious and invigorating. Setting the cup down, John allowed his gaze to sweep over the eunuch and the attendants, who stood quietly awaiting further commands. This must be part of Arslan's household staff. They likely knew him well – or thought they did. Any odd behavior could arouse suspicion.
The eunuch cleared his throat gently. "If Your Majesty pleases, shall I have the royal attendants draw a bath and prepare your raiment for the day? The morning court is scheduled at the second hour after sunrise. There is also the matter of the petitioners from the city…"
He trailed off tactfully, eyes on the floor at John's feet. John's mind caught on the mention of "morning court" and "petitioners from the city." That sounded like official duties. Facing a gathering of courtiers or petitioners so soon felt daunting – he hardly knew who or what awaited him. But it also might offer valuable information.
He needed more time to gather himself and learn. An idea struck: if Arslan was emperor, perhaps he had the privilege to delay or cancel appearances. But that might be out of character; he had no idea. Alternatively, he could keep the engagements short and observational.
John remembered the eunuch had asked about a bath and clothing. First things first. Maintaining the facade, he gave a slight wave of his hand as he'd seen a commander do when granting leave. "Yes. That sounds fine."
"Very good, sire." The eunuch bowed again, seeming to relax at the routine response. He murmured to the younger attendants. The boy darted off through a side door John hadn't noticed, presumably to summon bath servants. The girl began clearing away the breakfast things once John had eaten a piece of fruit, moving efficiently and silently.
As John chewed the unfamiliar but sweet fruit, he observed the eunuch from the corner of his eye. The man oversaw everything with practiced ease. Clearly a chief attendant of some sort – perhaps the head eunuch managing the Emperor's personal quarters. John recalled from history lessons and his own readings how imperial courts often had such figures wielding quiet power behind the throne. This one had a benign air so far.
Within minutes, more servants arrived – older women and a couple of slender men – carrying buckets of steaming water which they poured into a marble tub sunken in an alcove beyond a carved screen. Through the open door, John glimpsed a lavish bathing chamber with mosaic tiles depicting phoenixes and lions amid flames – likely symbols of whatever dynasty or personal emblem Arslan bore.
John stood, intending to walk to the bath on his own, but the eunuch quickly motioned and two servants moved to assist in disrobing him. John fought the instinct to recoil at strangers' hands. He was used to dressing himself, and the last people to take off his clothes had been field medics cutting away combat uniforms. Now, a middle-aged maid with gentle hands was sliding the embroidered crimson robe from his shoulders as another attendant gathered his long hair back with a ribbon to keep it dry.
He allowed it, reminding himself that this must be normal here, and to refuse might seem odd. Still, the sensation was surreal – being waited on like a king (because he was one, he had to constantly remind himself). He felt exposed, not just physically as they peeled away the robe and loosened his silk trousers, but vulnerable in this role he was playing.
As they guided him to the bath, John mentally catalogued the layout of the chambers. The alcove with the bath was to the east side, screened by carved wood panels that nonetheless allowed him to see silhouettes of those moving beyond. One main door to the hall, one side door servants used – likely connecting to servant corridors. He hadn't spotted other exits yet, but suspected there was at least one more, perhaps to a private study or bedroom for concubines or guards.
The bath water was scented with oils – he could detect sandalwood and rose. When he sank into the tub, the almost-too-hot water sent a pleasant jolt through him. He bit back a sigh of relief; it had been ages since he'd had a real hot bath, as opposed to quick showers in military barracks or even cold streams on deployments.
While attendants busied themselves washing his arms and back with soft sponges and strange pearlescent soaps, John let his gaze wander. Decorative columns flanked the bath, etched with more of those glowing runes, forming patterns that he realized were subtly shifting, like a slow circling flow of light under the surface of the stone. So even here in the bath chamber, magic ran through the architecture, likely heating the water or maintaining temperature, perhaps even refreshing the water from some source.
Rune-Enscriptive Energetics, he mused, recalling the term that had surfaced in his mind as he observed the runes. If that was the name of this magic system, he needed to understand it intimately.
Two maids standing by the door were quietly gossiping in low voices, likely assuming the splashing water would mask their words. His heightened senses, or maybe just acute focus, caught pieces of their conversation.
"…never seen His Majesty so quiet," one murmured.
"Exhaustion, no doubt," replied the other softly. "After the battle chants and all that sorcery at the gates… I'm surprised he can even stand this morning."
John filed that information away. Sorcery at the gates? Battle chants? Perhaps Arslan – or his forces – used some magic in taking the city. Did Arslan himself wield power? The mention of sorcery could imply he had battle-mages or magical weapons. At least he now understood why the eunuch had been concerned about waking him.
As the maids fell silent, John pretended to rest his head back, closing his eyes as if enjoying the bath. Truthfully, it gave him a moment to concentrate. He flexed his arms under the water. This body was strong, more muscular than his original. If it had been through combat yesterday, it showed no wounds or even soreness that he could detect – possibly healed overnight by magical means or simply resilient.
When the bath was done, John stood, water cascading off his broad form. Attendants rushed forth with plush towels, drying him with practiced efficiency. He caught his reflection again in a silver mirror on the wall – droplets clung to the curved muscles of his arms and chest, and the scars looked stark against his skin. One long scar along his ribs looked especially nasty, perhaps a blade wound from some past skirmish. He wondered idly how Arslan had earned it, but no memories came.
Back in the bedchamber, a fresh set of clothes had been laid out: an under-robe of fine white linen and over it a sleeveless coat of midnight blue silk embroidered with golden thread in swirling patterns that looked like stylized flames or maybe flowing script – perhaps both. It was a garment befitting an emperor, ornate yet with a warrior's cut. Alongside it on a stand was a wide leather belt with a curved scabbard attached.
John's eyes were drawn to the weapon. The scabbard was lacquered wood, trimmed in gold, and the hilt of the sword protruding from it was wrapped in dark ray-skin and capped with a pommel shaped like a snarling lion's head. He felt a thrum in the air as he stepped near it – a faint vibration that raised the hairs on his arm. The sword fairly glowed with significance. Could this be Arslan's sword? Perhaps a legendary blade taken as a trophy or one handed down through his lineage. Either way, runes were visible along the scabbard's length and likely on the blade itself, radiating a subtle power that John could almost feel humming.
"Shall I assist with your sword, Your Majesty?" the chief eunuch asked, noticing where John's attention had drifted. His tone remained carefully neutral, but John thought he detected a note of pride in the eunuch's voice, as if the sword were a symbol of great import.
John hesitated a mere heartbeat. Though he had often carried weapons, this sword seemed almost alive with energy, and he yearned to examine it more closely. But he nodded and allowed the eunuch to lift the belt. The eunuch fastened it around John's waist over the outer coat. It was surprisingly heavy and reassuringly solid at John's hip.
Dressed and armed, John felt more himself than he had since awakening – albeit himself dressed for a historical epic. The weight of the sword was a comfort, an anchor. He rested a hand on the lion pommel lightly. It fit well in his palm, as if made for his grip.
The eunuch stepped back and clapped once. Immediately, a pair of tall double doors on the opposite side of the room—doors John had presumed led to a hallway—opened. Two armored guards snapped to attention just outside, their breastplates shining and helmets adorned with plumage. They each bore a long spear etched with swirling patterns of their own. At their belts hung side swords. Their eyes were forward, posture stiff with discipline.
John noted how their gaze flickered toward him only in the briefest acknowledgment. They seemed young, probably elite troops assigned as his personal guard. He could smell oil and metal from their gear, see the alertness in their stances. Special Forces training in him quietly assessed reaction times, lines of sight, possible weak points—instinctive analysis of any armed presence. Satisfied enough for now that they posed no threat to him—and would likely protect him with their lives—John let out a slow breath.
"Your Majesty," the eunuch said softly, "the court awaits at your pleasure. If I may be so bold, many will be relieved to see you in good health this morning."
John turned to the eunuch, fixing what he hoped was a confident, inscrutable expression on his face. The morning sun now streamed fully through the balcony doors, illuminating the opulent chamber and the people within it. He realized this was the moment he had to step out and truly play the emperor before an audience of courtiers and petitioners.
He gave a single, firm nod. "Then let us not keep them waiting." His voice sounded steady, even commanding, in his ears.
Inside, his thoughts churned: I will listen, observe, and say little. With any luck, he could glean more about this world and his role within it from the proceedings, all while maintaining the facade of Arslan Rûmî, the newly crowned conqueror of the City of Light.
And so, flanked by the solemn guards and guided by the watchful chief eunuch, John stepped forward through the doors, leaving the sanctuary of the bedchamber. Whatever lay beyond in the halls of court, he was determined to face it with the same courage that had driven him into the path of a speeding truck – only this time, he would survive the collision and learn to master this new world.
Chapter 3: The Conqueror's Court
John stepped into a grand hall that nearly stole his breath. Towering columns of white marble lined the walls, each carved with intertwining motifs of sunbursts and stars. High above, a great dome of stained glass blazed with the morning light, its colors cascading over the hall in patterns of gold, azure, and blood-red. Scenes were set in that glass – John glimpsed stylized figures of heroes and mages, and at the apex a radiant sun flanked by two moons. Perhaps it was the emblem of the conquered City of Light, now illuminated by the rising sun that symbolized Arslan's new reign. The floors beneath were polished marble, inlaid with an elaborate mosaic at the center depicting what looked like the city itself encircled by runic sigils. Rich tapestries in crimson and indigo hung along the walls between columns, each embroidered with motifs of lions and stars – likely the banners of Arslan's own dynasty now claiming this palace.
At the far end of the hall, on a dais of polished onyx, stood the Imperial Throne. It was an imposing seat wrought from brass or gold, fashioned in the likeness of two great wings curling up to form the backrest. The throne caught the rainbow hues filtering through the dome and shimmered as if alight. John's stomach tightened at the sight – it was where he was expected to sit, to dispense judgment and command as emperor.
As he moved forward with measured steps, flanked by his two guards, John kept his face stern and unreadable. Yet his eyes darted discreetly, cataloguing the scene. The hall was already populated: along the sides, rows of courtiers, military officers, and robed functionaries bowed as he passed. A mix of emotions played across the sea of faces – awe, fear, curiosity, resentment. The aftershock of conquest was evident. Some courtiers wore rich local attire of the City of Light – long embroidered coats and veils – likely nobles or officials of the former regime now come to pay homage (or feign it). Others were clearly Arslan's own people, their style distinct: armored officers with the lion emblem etched on their breastplates, advisors in the deep green robes that perhaps marked the imperial administration. John even spotted a cluster of men in rougher dress with tool belts – could they be engineers or craftsmen summoned here?
He ascended the dais steps, every footfall echoing in the hush. Standing beside the throne was a tall man with a hawk-like face and a neatly trimmed gray beard. He wore a fur-lined cape despite the warmth of the hall and rested one hand on the pommel of a slender sword. A general, by the martial posture and the scars crisscrossing his left cheek. His eyes appraised John keenly as he approached, and he gave a curt bow of respect.
"Your Imperial Majesty," the general greeted in a voice rough as gravel, "we are blessed to see you this morning. The court awaits your words." He stepped back, allowing John to take his place.
John inclined his head to the man – likely one of Arslan's top commanders. The general's stance was relaxed but his gaze was sharp; clearly a man used to speaking his mind, perhaps even to the emperor. John filed that away for later, then turned and lowered himself onto the throne.
The seat was surprisingly comfortable – padded with cushions – but John felt a jolt as he sat, as if the air itself crackled with energy. Up close, he saw that the onyx dais itself had fine lines of silver and brass inlaid in geometric patterns beneath his feet. Those lines glowed faintly, connecting from the throne's base outward across the floor in whorls and straight paths – a network of runes and conduits. The throne wasn't just a chair; it felt like sitting at the heart of a circuit. Is this part of the ley-grid? he wondered, heart quickening. Maybe the throne tapped into the city's magic somehow, symbolically or literally linking the ruler to the land. If so, he sensed no immediate effect except a slight tingling in his fingers.
To the gathered court, he hoped his momentary surprise was not evident. He straightened, resting one hand on the lion pommel of his sword and letting his gaze travel impassively over the assemblage. A hush fell fully as all waited.
The chief eunuch had positioned himself to one side of the dais, ready to prompt or assist as needed. It was he who gently signaled a herald. The herald, an elderly man with a scroll, stepped forward and cleared his throat. In a loud, clear voice he proclaimed, "This morning's court is now in session before His Imperial Majesty, Arslan Rûmî, Conqueror of the City of Light, Emperor of the Seven Realms." His words echoed, and every head bent lower in deference.
Seven Realms? John kept his expression neutral, but that was a valuable nugget of information – the empire apparently spanned seven realms. He didn't know their names or conditions, but it suggested Arslan's conquests were vast and likely unfinished.
The herald continued, "Let all who speak do so with respect and humility. May the light of heaven and the wisdom of our great Emperor guide us to prosperity."
With that formal opening, the proceedings began. John braced himself, fingers flexing subtly on the armrest. He would have to navigate whatever came with minimal knowledge. Listen first. Speak little, he reminded himself.
The first petitioner was brought forward by two guards. A middle-aged man with fine silk robes and a gaunt face knelt at the foot of the dais. His hands trembled as he lifted a wooden box above his head in supplication.
"Rise and speak," John said quietly. The herald repeated it in a louder voice for all to hear, perhaps a customary ritual.
The man stood, though he kept his eyes downcast. "Mercy, O Great Lion of the West," he began, voice quavering. "I am Hassim al-Kerim, once a servant of the treasury of this city. I come bearing tribute on behalf of the remaining council of the City of Light." He gestured and a servant boy brought the box closer, opening it to reveal rows of glittering gems and gold coins. "This is but a token of our loyalty. We beg Your Majesty to accept and to be merciful with the citizens… in these uncertain times."
John's jaw tightened. The man's fear was palpable – he likely worried about retribution for any resistance during the conquest. John felt a pang of discomfort; he had no desire to inflict cruelty on a civilian population. But what would Arslan's typical response be? Likely, a show of sternness to cement authority, tempered by just enough clemency to keep the city functional.
He recalled historical parallels from Earth – conquerors who either sacked cities to terrorize others, or spared them to win loyalty. Not knowing Arslan's reputation in full was a handicap. He had to improvise.
John leaned forward slightly. "Treasurer Hassim," he said, the title a guess but a calculated one, "your tribute is accepted." His voice came out firm, carrying across the hall. A soft collective exhale from the court suggested relief. John continued, "The City of Light is now under my protection. Its people shall be treated fairly, so long as they abide by imperial law and keep the peace."
That sounded appropriately imperial, he hoped – neither too harsh nor too lenient. To emphasize, he added a gesture of his hand. "See that food stores are opened to the common folk and that trade resumes swiftly. An impoverished city serves no one's interests."
He knew well from experience that a population with full bellies and hope was far less likely to revolt. Winning hearts after battle could secure a peace that force alone never would.
As the man bowed repeatedly in gratitude, John noticed a few of Arslan's officers exchange surprised glances. Perhaps the real Arslan might not have spoken of fairness or feeding the common folk. To cover this deviation, John allowed a thin smile, but one edged with a hint of warning. "Let it not be said Emperor Arslan cannot show mercy. But remember – any who disturb the peace will answer to me."
The mix of reassurance and veiled threat seemed to satisfy both sides. The petitioner and his entourage of nervous former officials effusively thanked him and backed away, guided by guards.
Next came a delegation of what looked like artisans – the men in work tunics John had spotted. They carried rolled scrolls and looked more angry than scared. One, an older man with ash smudges on his sleeves and a complex set of goggles perched on his cap, spoke for them. He bowed, a bit stiffly, perhaps unused to court formalities.
"Your Majesty," the man began, voice resonant and surprisingly bold, "I speak for the Guild of Illuminators and Engineers of the City of Light. We beseech your attention to a grave matter. During the siege, one of your… one of our –" he corrected awkwardly, "—battlemages unleashed a shockwave that damaged the Grand Ley Nexus beneath the central plaza. Since then, half our glow-stones have gone dark and the aqueduct's flow is intermittent. If not repaired, the city will face nightly blackness and water shortages."
As he spoke, a murmur ran through the hall. John caught the general with the scar raising an eyebrow, while another official, a fatter man in embroidered robes, scowled deeply at the guildsmen.
The petition intrigued John immensely. Glow-stones – likely those glowing orbs he had seen – and a Grand Ley Nexus, which sounded like a key component of the magical infrastructure. This was exactly the kind of information he craved.
He kept his voice measured. "Go on."
The engineer bowed his head. "We humbly request imperial support to acquire the necessary rune-smiths and materials to restore the ley-grid. The previous ruler had a dedicated cadre for such civic magic, but many fled or were... lost. We fear without aid, the City of Light will truly become a City of Darkness at night, and disease could spread if water supply falters."
Before John could respond, the fat official in robes cut in sharply, breaking protocol by speaking out of turn. "Your Majesty, if I may." He gave a shallow bow and sneered at the guild petitioners. "These people exaggerate. The city's defenses and grid faltered because of their incompetence. If the glow-stones are dark, they should light torches like in any ordinary city. We have more pressing concerns, such as establishing Your Majesty's law and order. Resources are better spent on the garrison and—"
John raised a hand, silencing the man mid-sentence. The interruption and obvious disdain annoyed him. He could guess the type – a sycophant from his own retinue, maybe more interested in stripping the city's wealth than helping its recovery. Arslan's reputation as a conqueror might lean towards extraction of resources, but John's instincts, both as a leader of soldiers and a man with modern sensibilities, rebelled at ignoring critical infrastructure.
He addressed the guild spokesman. "Master engineer, what is your name?"
The grizzled man blinked in surprise at being addressed directly. "Ah, Zafir, Your Majesty. Head of the Illuminators' Guild."
"Master Zafir," John said, adopting a formal yet respectful tone, "how long to repair this Grand Ley Nexus if you have what you need?"
Encouraged, the engineer answered, "We could stabilize the nexus within a week and have the glow-stones fully functional in two, if we can procure the keystones and if a royal enscriptor or sorcerer is assigned to assist. As for the aqueduct pump runes, those can be recalibrated in a few days with the proper sigils."
John nodded slowly. A week to restore light and water – crucial for the populace's goodwill and health. He felt this was not only humane but tactically sound. A content city would be less prone to rebellion. And selfishly, he wanted that nexus fixed so he could study it.
He cast a cool glance at the interrupting official. "The well-being of the city is establishing law and order," he said pointedly. "Dark streets and thirst breed chaos, do they not?" The fat man paled and bowed his head.
John turned back to Zafir. "You shall have what you need. Coordinate with my Master of Works." He paused, realizing he wasn't sure who that was. He glanced to the side where a cluster of his advisors stood. The eunuch subtly tilted his head toward a thin man with ink-stained fingers among them. Perhaps that was the one. John added smoothly, "Master Aru here will ensure you are provided resources and a sorcerer from the imperial cadre to assist."
The thin man started, then bowed, shooting a glare at Zafir that suggested he wasn't thrilled with the task. But he complied: "At once, Your Majesty."
Zafir and the guild members all bowed deeply, some with relieved smiles. "Thank you, Emperor," Zafir said earnestly. "The Light bless you for your wisdom."
The audience continued for another hour. John handled it by minimal speaking and careful listening. A few more petitioners came and went – a group of farmers from outside the city pleading not to be taxed too harshly this season, a captain of Arslan's army reporting the need for more barracks space for the occupying troops, and a noblewoman of the city asking for confirmation that her family's estates would not be seized outright.
With each, John measured his responses, aiming to appear as a firm but not capricious ruler. He granted the farmers a temporary reduction in grain levy (earning grateful prostrations), told the captain to requisition an unused caravanserai for quarters (which pleased the soldiers present), and assured the noblewoman that loyal subjects would keep their lands – a statement that visibly relieved several local nobles present.
The general with the scar watched John throughout with a slight furrow in his brow, as if reassessing the man he served. John wondered if he was overdoing the benevolence. Arslan's persona might have been harsher. Yet the general made no open objection, and none dared question the emperor's orders in public.
At last, sensing that both his own patience and Arslan's would be wearing thin, John raised a hand to signal the end of the session. "That is enough for today," he declared. He stood from the throne, and everyone fell to bowing again. "We will resume on the morrow if needed. Go forth and do your duties. My thanks for your presents and petitions."
It might have been an unusual note for an emperor to thank his subjects for their petitions – typically it was a one-way street – but John let it stand. He was already striding down the dais steps before anyone could parse it.
The court crier proclaimed the session concluded. The tension in the hall ebbed as conversation bubbled up and people began filing out under the watchful eyes of guards.
John's two guards and the eunuch closed in around him as he left the throne's foot. The general with the scar quickly approached, falling in step. "Your Majesty, a word?"
John glanced at him and gave a slight nod, bracing internally. He expected either a critique or some pressing matter.
The general lowered his voice as they walked toward a side passage out of the hall. "I wished to report that the remaining pockets of resistance in the lower city were dealt with last night. Also," he hesitated, "I noticed Your Majesty took particular interest in the arcane infrastructure." A faint question laced his tone.
John kept his reply nonchalant. "An emperor must know his new city, General. Its strengths and vulnerabilities. The ley lines and wards here are part of that."
The older man considered, then nodded approvingly. "Just so, sire. This city is famed for its marvels. Truth told, some of us were uncertain how much stock you put in such… scholarly matters, given your focus on the campaign. It is reassuring to see you ensuring these matters are handled."
So, Arslan had not been especially known for interest in scholarly or magical infrastructure. John's subtle change had been noted but the general seemed to interpret it favorably as thoroughness. John offered a neutral "Mm."
They reached a more secluded corridor, where servants bowed and scurried out of the way. The general stopped. "One more thing, if I may. The men are anxious to know our next course. The campaign has been long – some expected you to march further east after taking the city. Others think we should fortify here for a time. I, of course, will follow whatever command Your Majesty decrees."
Ah, the strategic question. John inwardly sighed – he had no knowledge of the larger war plan or the state of the army. March further east against whom? Fortify against what threat? He needed to tread carefully, not committing to any offensive before he understood the situation.
He clasped the general's shoulder in a comradely fashion, an unexpected gesture that caused the man's eyes to widen a fraction. John realized such familiarity might be unusual from Arslan to a subordinate, but it fit John's own leadership style – he often treated his sergeants more like partners than pawns.
"We'll let the men rest for now," John said firmly. "There will be time enough to speak of new campaigns. Our priority is securing the City of Light and learning its secrets." He allowed himself a thin smile. "After all, we fought hard to claim this prize. Let's enjoy it a while and ensure it's fully in hand."
The general's surprise melted into a low chuckle. He gave a small salute, fist to heart. "As you command. I'll see to it the troops are rotated to rest, and patrols keep the peace." He paused, then added, "And, Your Majesty – well spoken in there. The balance of mercy and authority… it was inspiring."
John inclined his head, concealing his relief at the approval. "Thank you, General…?"
"Safid," the man supplied.
"General Safid." John committed the name to memory. "Your service is appreciated. We will speak again soon."
Safid departed with a respectful bow. The chief eunuch, who had silently remained a few steps behind during this exchange, now moved closer.
"If it pleases Your Majesty, the midday meal can be served in your private quarters, or perhaps in the garden if you wish some fresh air. You've had a full morning."
John realized he was, in fact, mentally exhausted from the performance and the information overload. A break to eat and quietly think sounded excellent. "The garden," he said after a moment. Fresh air and perhaps a moment alone, if he could get it, would help clear his head.
The eunuch nodded and clapped his hands. Servants materialized seemingly from the shadows to prepare accordingly. As they escorted him through the palace corridors toward an inner garden, John allowed himself a small exhale.
So far, he had survived his first court session and even made some positive moves. But many challenges lay ahead. He had learned fragments about this world and his new role: that magic ran through the city's bones, that Arslan's empire was expansive and warlike, and that now everyone looked to him for decisions great and small.
A less disciplined man might have collapsed under the weight of it. But John's resolve only hardened. He would absorb everything – knowledge, culture, magic – piece by piece, until he truly understood the game he was playing. Only then could he find a way to thrive here, and perhaps one day discover how and why he had been brought to this place.
For now, he would seize any opportunity, no matter how gentle the moment – a meal in a tranquil garden, for instance – to gather himself and plan his next moves in the City of Light.
Chapter 4: Garden of Whispers
They led John through a maze of hallways and courtyards until he arrived at a walled garden in the heart of the palace. The contrast from the imposing throne room was stark – here, tranquility reigned. Tall, graceful cypress trees swayed gently in the midday breeze. Flowering vines climbed marble trellises, their blossoms casting dappled shadows on paths of crushed white stone. A low fountain gurgled in the center, its water spilling over a mosaic basin that depicted lily pads and fish in bright ceramic tiles.
John took a moment to breathe in the scene. The air was warm but not stifling, kept comfortable by some unseen magic that cooled the garden. He detected it in the faint shimmer above the fountain – likely a rune or enchantment to temper the weather in this enclosed space. Overhead, silk awnings could be drawn if the sun grew too harsh, but presently they were rolled up, letting sunlight mingle with the shade of trees.
A pavilion of carved wood stood near the fountain. Under it, a low table had been set with an array of dishes: fragrant rice pilaf studded with dates and nuts, spiced lamb skewers, flatbread, and bowls of ripe pomegranates and figs. Elegant porcelain plates and silverware indicated this was a meal fit for an emperor. The chief eunuch bowed and gestured for John to sit on the plush cushions arranged around the table's one side; apparently he would dine alone, as was imperial custom.
John dismissed the guards to a respectful distance at the garden entrance. He preferred some illusion of privacy. The eunuch, whose name John still did not know, remained at a discreet distance himself, overseeing silent servants who lingered in case of need.
As John settled onto the cushions, he realized how hungry he was. The morning's adrenaline had masked it, but now his stomach reminded him that he hadn't eaten much beyond a piece of fruit at breakfast. He sampled the pilaf – its rich, sweet-savory taste immediately pleasing – and took a bite of lamb, which was tender and bursting with flavor. The simple act of eating good food in a peaceful garden felt almost surreal after the chaos his day had begun with. Only hours ago he had been on a city street facing death; now he was an emperor lunching in paradise.
As he ate, John's thoughts wandered. He observed the attendants subtly. They moved with quiet precision, refilling his drink – a cool mint and yogurt beverage – and replacing dishes almost before he noticed they were low. They avoided eye contact, projecting an air of servitude that John found discomfiting. In his old life, he was used to camaraderie, even among ranks, not this deferential treatment. But he accepted it with a polite nod each time, knowing that was expected.
His gaze drifted to the fountain, watching sunlight on water. The gentle babble of the fountain mixed with distant bird calls. It was soothing. For the first time since waking, John's guard relaxed a fraction. Here in this lush oasis, it was easier to think.
He turned inward, reflecting on the whirlwind of the morning. He replayed each exchange at court, analyzing what he'd learned:
This world had advanced magical infrastructure (ley-grids, glow-stones) integrated into daily life.
Arslan's empire was expansive and in the midst of campaigns.
The City of Light itself was a prize not just for its strategic location, but its wonders.
The people here responded to both fear and compassion; he had to balance the two.
What he didn't know still loomed large:
Why he was here in Arslan's body and what had become of the original emperor's mind or soul.
Whether anyone could tell he was an impostor.
What dangers lay in the political undercurrents of this court – surely there were factions, maybe even those loyal to the former regime or ambitious officers eyeing opportunities.
John closed his eyes and drew a slow breath in, then out, a calming technique he'd practiced often after combat. One mission at a time, he told himself. His first mission was survival and observation – to fit in, to learn. After that would come the mission of deciding what to do with the power he now held, and perhaps finding a way home, if such a thing was even possible.
He opened his eyes to find the eunuch had quietly approached. The man stood a few paces away, hands folded. John realized he must have been lost in thought for several minutes, the food mostly eaten now.
"Your Majesty," the eunuch said softly, "shall I have the servants bring anything else? More sherbet, or perhaps you would enjoy some music? The palace musicians or…" he hesitated, "some of the ladies could be summoned to entertain."
John wiped his fingers on a provided damp cloth. The mention of "the ladies" likely referred to the harem concubines. He remembered that he should at least acknowledge that part of imperial life. It would be odd if he never saw them – an emperor, especially a newly victorious one, would traditionally indulge.
Yet he was reluctant. Part of him – as a healthy man – felt a natural curiosity, even stirrings of temptation, at the idea of beautiful women attending him. But the larger part of him, disciplined and cautious, hesitated. He had no idea what relationships Arslan had with these women, or what they expected of him. He didn't want to inadvertently hurt or alarm them by acting out of character, nor did he want to let his guard down in their presence. Concubines often were politically significant in courts; some could be spies or informants, or power-brokers in their own right.
Still, refusing outright might appear strange. So John nodded slowly. "Music would be nice." He chose his words carefully. "Whichever is customary."
The eunuch bowed, a glint of satisfaction in his eyes. He clapped twice, and one of the servants darted out a side gate of the garden. A few minutes later, the servant returned, followed by three women.
John composed himself, sitting a little straighter on the cushion as they approached. The concubines were all young and striking in different ways. By their varied features and complexion, John surmised they hailed from different corners of this world – spoils of war or political tributes gathered into the imperial harem. Their diversity only added to the exotic splendor of the palace. They wore flowing silken dresses that accentuated graceful figures, and thin veils that did little to hide their beauty. Golden jewelry glinted on their wrists and ankles, chiming softly as they moved.
They bowed deeply as a trio, and one stepped forward. She was willowy, with warm olive skin and dark hair that cascaded in braids – perhaps a beauty from the eastern provinces. Her eyes were outlined with kohl, giving her an alluring, mysterious look. She carried a stringed instrument resembling a lute.
"Your Majesty," she said in a sweet, measured tone, "we are honored to bring you music and comfort."
John felt all three pairs of eyes subtly appraising him from behind lowered lashes. He realized that they too might be unsure how to act, perhaps gauging his mood. Arslan's demeanor with them in the past would set their expectations. Was he lustful? Distant? Cruel? John had to steer carefully.
He gave a gentle motion of his hand. "Please," he said simply. His voice came out softer than in court, almost gentle, an unconscious reflection of his true self when not on a battlefield or throne. He hoped it wouldn't shock them.
The women exchanged quick glances. The lute-player sank to her knees on a cushion a few feet away and began to pluck a quiet melody. The tune was haunting and slow, matching the hush of the garden. Another concubine, a petite woman with bronze-gold hair (perhaps from some far northern clime, John guessed), produced a set of small chimes and accompanied the lute with delicate, tinkling harmony.
The third woman, who had fiery red hair and emerald-green eyes – a rarity in this part of the world, John thought – stepped behind John, near his shoulder. For a moment he tensed, but she merely began to massage his shoulders and neck with skilled, gentle hands.
He almost sighed at the relief it brought. He hadn't realized how tense his muscles were until her cool fingers worked into them. In his world, he'd only had such massages during physical therapy for injuries, never as casual luxury. It was disconcerting to be pampered like this, but undeniably pleasant.
As the music played and the red-haired concubine – Yvara, she later introduced herself – kneaded out the knots of stress, John allowed himself to relax slightly. The combination of soft music, the fountain's murmur, and the massage was lulling. But he kept a portion of his mind alert, observing.
The lute player began to sing under her breath, a wordless vocalization that blended with the melody. It was mesmerizing.
"Does the pressure please Your Majesty?" the red-haired woman murmured near his ear. There was nothing overtly seductive in her tone; it was professional, courteous, yet the breathy closeness of it made John swallow.
"It's… yes, it's very good," he managed quietly.
"I am Yvara," she added softly. "If it pleases My Lord."
Her name, likely expecting him to recall it. John simply gave a slight nod in acknowledgment. He felt he should say something to them, at least to put them at ease, but was unsure how an emperor typically conversed with his harem. Probably he didn't, beyond commands or endearments.
Instead, John let the music and the moment continue a while in silence. Perhaps that was fine.
His eyes drifted across the garden as he listened to the melody. A question surfaced in his mind – something he'd avoided thinking too deeply about amid the morning's rush: Was Arslan a good man? A cruel one? He wished he had even a shred of the man's memory to guide him. All he had were hints: a conqueror's reputation, soldiers and officials who expected firm rule, concubines who approached with cautious deference.
John had worn many labels himself in life – soldier, comrade, killer when necessary, savior at times. But emperor and conqueror were new and heavy mantles. Did he even want to wear them? If this was some kind of second life granted to him, what purpose did it serve? Was he meant to become Arslan and continue his conquests? Or to change this world for the better with his modern perspective? Such grand thoughts were premature perhaps, but in this calm, perfumed garden he couldn't help the philosophical drift.
He looked at the three women attending him. They were part of this new life's burdens and pleasures. They had no say in their fate, likely. In his world, John had believed in fighting for those without power, protecting civilians. Now he sat among the very heights of power. What responsibility did he have to these people, to this empire?
The song ended gently, the last notes of the lute fading into the warm air. John realized he had stopped eating entirely, too caught up in thought and sensation. The concubine with the lute looked up for the first time to meet his gaze, seeking approval or feedback.
"That was beautiful," John said softly. Sincerity showed in his voice. "Thank you."
She smiled, seemingly a bit surprised by the direct gratitude. "It is an old melody from the east, Your Majesty. I'm glad it pleased you."
Yvara, the red-haired one, ventured to speak again, her hands now resting lightly on his shoulders. "Will Our Lord require anything more?" There was a note of subtle suggestion – likely an offer to stay, perhaps to accompany him more intimately if he desired.
John's pulse quickened slightly. The idea was enticing on a basic level – they were all lovely, and Arslan's body likely had its own appetites. But he quickly reined himself in. He wasn't prepared for that, not now for certain. He also didn't want to blur his focus with lust or emotional entanglements yet. And morally, it felt wrong to him to take advantage when he was effectively a different person than the one they were bound to.
"You have all served me well," John replied, choosing his words carefully. He mustn't seem too indifferent or too eager. "Your music and company have refreshed me. I will call if I require more."
It was a polite dismissal couched in imperial language. The concubines appeared to accept it without offense – if anything, the two musicians looked slightly relieved, perhaps unused to such restraint or uncertain how this new Emperor would treat them beyond music.
They each bowed deeply. Yvara's eyes lingered on him for a moment; there was something curious and gentle in her green gaze, but she said nothing. The trio quietly departed the garden, their veils fluttering behind them as they passed through the gate.
John exhaled through his nose slowly, unaware until now that he'd been holding a bit of tension throughout that encounter. It had gone as well as he could expect, he thought. He'd enjoyed a brief reprieve and hopefully raised no suspicions by acting within acceptable bounds of Arslan's authority.
The eunuch approached to clear his dishes, his face impassive but John thought he detected a ghost of approval in his expression. Perhaps word would spread that the Emperor was in a fine mood yet not overly distracted by pleasure – which might actually bolster his image as disciplined. Or maybe some might whisper he was oddly reserved. Only time would tell.
As the last of the plates were taken away and John was left alone by the fountain (the eunuch had tactfully given him space, waiting by the entrance), John rose from the cushions. He wandered to the fountain's edge, looking down at the water. His reflection wavered there, the face of Arslan Rûmî rippling in sunlit water. He studied the unfamiliar handsome features that were now his. The green-gold eyes that stared back had a pensive light. Who was Arslan, truly? And who was John now that he wore Arslan's face?
He dipped his fingers into the cool water, swirling it idly. There was a small rune etched on the basin's inner side, he noticed – likely keeping the water cycling clean. Even here, magic touched everything.
A bright orange fish darted near his fingers and then away. John watched it disappear under a lily pad.
In that moment of solitude, he allowed one thought of Earth to surface – not a flashback, just a quiet realization: if this was real and permanent, John Sullivan (his surname popped up unbidden for the first time since arriving) was effectively dead in his old world. Perhaps the woman he saved would remember him as a stranger who gave his life. His comrades would never know what became of him; he would be another soldier lost tragically in civilian life. There would be mourning, confusion, and then life would move on without him.
It was a sobering realization that pressed heavily on his heart. But he forced himself not to dwell in regret or grief now. He had a new life that demanded his full attention. Perhaps this was fate's way of giving him a second chance to do something truly significant.
John stood up straight and turned away from the fountain. Enough introspection, he chided himself. Action would be needed soon. If Act One of his strange journey was about finding his footing, he was well on his way. But he suspected Act Two would throw greater challenges at him – challenges he needed to be ready for.
He signaled to the eunuch that he was ready to return inside. It was time to dive back into the mysteries of this palace and its magic. He intended to spend the afternoon digging deeper – perhaps literally into books or consulting those who could teach him more about Rune-Enscriptive Energetics and the powers at play in this world. John had resolved to treat learning this magic system as seriously as he treated mastering any weapon or tactic on Earth.
With renewed determination, he left the garden's peace behind and stepped once more into the ornate halls of the palace. The light breeze ruffled the leaves behind him, carrying with it the fading notes of the concubine's melody – a gentle reminder that even in war and intrigue, moments of beauty could be found.