Chapter 5: Secrets of the Runes
True to his plan, John spent the afternoon immersed in study. After leaving the garden, he instructed the eunuch to guide him to the palace library or archive. The eunuch's eyebrows had risen a fraction in surprise – perhaps Emperor Arslan rarely frequented the archives himself – but he bowed and complied without question.
They traversed corridors that grew quieter and more reverent. At last they reached a pair of tall doors engraved with images of scholars and sages. Beyond lay the Grand Imperial Library. John stepped inside and had to pause at the threshold.
The library was a vast hall stretching into shadows, illuminated by a combination of high windows and gently glowing globes of light that floated near the ceiling like captive suns. Shelves of dark wood soared up two levels, accessible by spiral staircases and balconies. The smell of old paper, leather, and a hint of incense permeated the air. It was at once familiar and fantastical – any bibliophile would feel at home, yet here and there the ordinary rows of books were interrupted by curious artifacts: a suspended orrery of brass rings depicting planetary motions, a stuffed chimera in one corner gathering dust, and on a central reading table, a large crystal mounted on a stand, slowly rotating and projecting a faint blue light onto the ceiling. Runes etched along its facets suggested it was an enchanted device, perhaps monitoring something or preserving the climate for the books.
A few robed figures – librarians or scribes – moved quietly about, organizing scrolls and ledgers. They glanced up in alarmed surprise to see the Emperor stride in; one nearly dropped a stack of parchment. Immediately, they prostrated themselves or bowed deeply.
John waved a hand mildly. "Continue your tasks," he said softly. "I require some materials on rune magic. Who is the master of this library?"
An elderly woman with striking silver hair and ink-stained fingers stepped forward, bowing. Despite her age, her eyes were keen behind small round spectacles. "Your Majesty, I am Livia, Chief Archivist. How may we serve your knowledge today?" Her tone held genuine devotion to learning, and John felt a spark of kinship – she reminded him of a kindly professor type.
He offered a slight smile. "I wish to read about Rune-Enscriptive Energetics. Particularly, foundational texts or treatises on the application of runes in energetic systems – ley lines, glyphwork, that sort of thing."
Livia's eyes widened slightly at the specificity, but she quickly nodded. "Of course. We have several works on the theory of R.E.E. and practical compendiums of runes." She murmured to an assistant, who scurried off among the shelves.
"Additionally," John added, "any records pertaining to this city's magical infrastructure – the ley-grid, the Grand Nexus, and similar topics."
"Certainly, sire. We have some city plans and maintenance scrolls from the previous regime's Arcane Ministry. I shall retrieve those as well." Livia motioned and another assistant briskly walked to a section of shelves.
Within minutes, John was seated at the central table with an array of knowledge laid before him: a hefty leather-bound tome titled The Principles of Enscriptive Energetics, a series of scrolls that were technical diagrams of rune circuits, and a codex listing known runes and their meanings.
The librarians kept a respectful distance as John delved in, though he sensed their curious glances. He had removed the outer silk coat and rolled up the sleeves of his linen shirt for comfort, looking more like a scholar than an emperor for the moment.
He opened the tome first. The script was ornate but legible to his eyes – another relief that language was not a barrier. On the frontispiece, an illuminated illustration showed a robed mage inscribing symbols on a stone tablet, with lightning arcing from the tablet to a tower in the background.
He began to read. The text was dense, but he was a quick study – years of parsing military manuals and learning foreign protocols had trained him to digest information swiftly.
"Rune-Enscriptive Energetics, commonly shortened to R.E.E.," the tome proclaimed, "is the art and science of binding ambient arcane energy into written forms (runes) to produce desired effects. By inscribing specific symbols and sequences thereof upon a physical medium, practitioners create conduits and matrices that channel the natural power flowing through the world – often termed ley energy – into functional outputs: light, heat, force, healing, and more."
John felt a thrill at seeing confirmation of what he had suspected. He continued reading, occasionally murmuring key points under his breath:
"The craft requires both precision and will. The rune itself acts as a key and lens; the inscriber's intent and vitality fuel the activation, though once established, many runic constructs draw power directly from the environment or stored reservoirs. Complex arrangements of runes (rune circuitry) can regulate continuous effects, akin to machines of moving parts but composed of symbols and spell-light."
He thought of the lines he saw in the throne dais – that clearly was a "rune circuitry," an array embedded in the palace's very structure.
Another section detailed the relationship with ley lines: "Ancient architects often built cities at confluences of ley lines (natural streams of earth's energy). The City of Light, for example, sits upon a nexus of three such lines, giving rise to its famed abundance of light-craft and enchantments. The so-called Grand Ley Nexus beneath its central plaza is both a focal altar and a regulator, redistributing energy via an array of sigils and enchanted conduits to key locations (street lamps, pumps, wards, etc.)."
John ran a finger along the diagram accompanying that passage – it showed a schematic of a city (unlabeled, but likely this one) with lines radiating out from a central point. Tiny rune marks indicated where they led – he recognized a symbol repeated at spots, possibly the mark for glow-stone lamps, and others where wells or fountains might be.
He leaned back, absorbing it all. This was like reading a manual on how a power grid works, but magical. It was fascinating – and encouraging, because it meant these systems had logic and could be learned, not just mysterious sorcery beyond a layman.
His soldier's mind also recognized the strategic value: controlling or understanding these systems gave immense power. A conqueror who mastered R.E.E. could build or break a city's will by literally controlling its light and water. Perhaps Arslan hadn't fully appreciated that, focusing instead on conventional force.
John spent the next few hours alternating between texts. The codex of runes was essentially a dictionary: each rune symbol drawn alongside its phonetic name and its primary meaning or effect. For example, one curling glyph named "Az" denoted light or illumination; another spiky one "Thur" meant barrier or protection. Some runes were elemental (water, fire, earth, air), others abstract (binding, cutting, growing). There were also combination runes, made by overlapping or merging simpler ones, to create composite effects.
He practiced tracing a few on spare parchment with a charcoal stylus. To his mild disappointment, nothing happened – likely because to actually activate them required proper engraving technique and some infusion of energy or intent. Still, committing their shapes to memory felt useful. He imagined drawing a rune in the air or carving one on an object. Perhaps with training, he could do that.
One scroll contained maintenance logs for the City of Light's arcane systems. It listed regular inspections of nodes and described the Grand Nexus rituals performed at solstices to keep it calibrated. A note described how two years ago a minor quake had misaligned some runes and caused flickering in the eastern district's glow-stones until repairs were made. John found this all enthralling – an entire bureaucracy around magical infrastructure, as complex as any public works department back home.
He was so engrossed that he didn't notice someone new entering the library until a polite cough sounded behind him. John looked up to see a man in flowing burgundy robes, with a high collar and intricate silver embroidery. He was of late middle years, bald at the crown with long dark hair trailing in a tail, and he carried a wooden staff capped by a crystal. His eyes were sharp and somewhat haughty.
Immediately, the librarians bowed to this man, which told John he must be someone of import – likely a court magician or high sorcerer.
Indeed, the man bowed in turn to John, hand on heart. "Your Imperial Majesty. I heard you had graced the library and could scarce believe it. I am Magister Salim, chief of arcane lore for your court." His voice held a slight tension, as though he wasn't sure why the Emperor would bury himself in books instead of consulting him.
John realized this was the perfect opportunity to ask questions, but he had to maintain Arslan's facade. Perhaps Arslan usually relied on Salim for magical advice rather than reading himself.
He gave a cordial nod. "Magister, I trust you are well. Yes, I decided to survey the knowledge this library holds, particularly regarding the City of Light's arcane workings. I find it prudent to understand the tools and weapons at my disposal." He deliberately framed it as a military-minded leader might.
Salim's stance eased slightly and he offered a thin smile. "A wise endeavor, Your Majesty. The City of Light's arcane infrastructure is indeed a marvel – one that eluded our grasp in full during the siege. I am relieved it mostly survived."
"Mostly," John echoed, inviting elaboration.
Salim cleared his throat. "Yes. As the guild representative – Zafir, I believe – mentioned in court, the Grand Nexus was damaged. My own acolytes have been examining it. It appears that during our final assault, when our battlemages breached the outer wards, an overload of energy surged through the nexus. Several primary runes shattered. We have contained the instability, but repairs are delicate. I was actually on my way to brief you and request guidance when I learned you were already steeped in the subject."
John closed the tome in front of him and gestured for Salim to continue. "What sort of guidance do you require, Magister?"
Salim hesitated, choosing words. "The repair could be approached in multiple ways. One is simply replacing the broken runes with identical symbols, effectively restoring the prior design. This would get things running as they were – likely acceptable to the people here. However, another approach is possible: we could integrate the nexus into our imperial system, altering some of its rune logic to tie it with our own ley-channels from the west. It could be an opportunity to meld the City of Light's power with that of our heartland."
He spoke eagerly now. "It might even extend our influence further, magically speaking – an empire-wide grid in the future, connecting ley lines across realms under your control."
John absorbed this. It sounded impressive but also complicated. A misstep could break things worse. Also, if he had imperial ley-channels in the west, that was new info – apparently Arslan's original empire had their own magic networks.
"What do you recommend, personally?" John asked, again masking it as leader seeking counsel.
Salim bowed his head slightly. "My professional opinion is that we stabilize first – restore the nexus as was – then gradually, if desired, work on integrating the systems once we have more time and study. The immediate concern of water and light is paramount for morale. And I confess, trying to integrate now, without fully deciphering this city's unique runes, could be risky."
John found himself liking Salim's measured approach. He gave a small smile. "Then proceed with the first approach. Speed is important, but ensure it's done right. Lives depend on it."
Salim looked relieved. "As you command, sire. I will coordinate with the guilds and Master Aru on resources. We have some skilled runesmiths in our retinue as well."
Before he left, John added, "Magister Salim, one more thing. Provide me with a basic briefing document on the runic standards of our empire – I want to compare them to what I've read here about this city. I have… an interest in how we can use these powers more effectively in future campaigns and governance."
Salim's eyes lit up at that, likely pleased that the Emperor was showing interest in his field. "I shall prepare a summary at once, Your Majesty. You will have it by tomorrow."
He bowed and took his leave.
After the magister departed, John leaned back in his chair, stretching. He realized the light from outside had shifted to late afternoon amber. His eyes were a bit strained from reading, but his mind buzzed with new knowledge.
So far, he had indeed delayed any rash political moves by immersing himself in this "studious" persona. And it was paying dividends: he now understood far more of how magic functioned here, and he had opened the door to working more closely with the likes of Salim and the guilds, which could only help him navigate future issues.
The chief archivist, Livia, approached softly with a cup of tea. "My lord, forgive me, but you have been reading for many hours. Perhaps some refreshment."
John accepted the tea gratefully. It was herbal, with a calming chamomile-like effect. "Thank you, Livia."
She smiled, a bit astonished at hearing her name from the Emperor's mouth. "It is an honor to see Our Emperor valuing the wisdom in these halls. If I may say, your father – pardon, the late Emperor (she corrected, since Arslan wasn't originally Emperor before conquest) – rarely found time for such pursuits himself."
John realized she thought he was referring to some imperial father. Clearly Arslan had not been Emperor until now, but maybe she assumed he meant Arslan's predecessors or mentors. He let it slide.
"Knowledge is as important as steel," he said quietly, a genuine belief of his own shining through.
By the time John finally left the library, dusk was approaching. He carried with him a few notes he had jotted down – diagrams of a couple of simple runes that he wanted to try later on perhaps. Livia had promised to have copies made for him of any texts he desired.
Stepping out into the corridor, John rolled his shoulders and realized he was actually looking forward to seeing the city at night – to see if parts were dark or if some glow-stones still shone. It would tell him if the repairs had started yet, and also it would simply be a sight to behold: the famed City of Light after dark. Perhaps he could take a view from one of the high balconies before retiring.
But as he made his way back towards his chambers, escorted by a single lantern-bearing servant (the palace corridors were lit by spaced glow-crystals providing a gentle light), he also knew he had to be prepared for whatever came next. Day one in this world was nearly done. It had been a victory of sorts – he hadn't been exposed, he had set some positive changes in motion, and he had begun to arm himself with understanding.
Still, he remained on guard. The palace at twilight took on a more shadowed aspect. Courtiers and servants he passed bowed, but he caught some furtive looks. Word of his unusual behaviors would be spreading. Let them talk, he thought. If anything, it might make potential adversaries pause, uncertain what manner of man they now served or faced.
He intended to keep it that way – unpredictable, unreadable. It was an advantage in itself.
Reaching his chambers, John dismissed the servant. Before going in, he stepped onto a side balcony that overlooked part of the city. Night had fallen fully. In the distance, he saw patches of darkness where perhaps the glow-stones were out, but large boulevards closer to the palace still glittered with soft white lights at regular intervals. The effect was enchanting – rivers of light outlining thoroughfares, and clusters of illuminated windows from homes and taverns. If the City of Light was diminished, it was not defeated; its brilliance remained, if a bit bruised.
John allowed himself a moment of appreciation at the vista. This world… it held so much wonder. Danger, too, but also wonder. In that moment, he vowed that whatever else happened, he would strive to leave his mark here not just as a conqueror, but perhaps as something more – a builder, a protector. He had taken a life to save another in his old world; perhaps here he could save many while living a life that wasn't originally his.
The thought was both solemn and freeing.
He turned and re-entered his chambers, where lamps had been lit and the evening's quiet sprawled out invitingly. His body was tired, but his mind still whirred. John knew he should rest – tomorrow would likely bring new trials and he needed to be at full strength, physically and mentally. Yet he also felt the temptation to continue his studies by lamplight deep into the night.
Maybe he could compromise – a bit of reading in bed to lull him to sleep, he mused wryly. Even emperors might steal bedtime reading.
A faint smile on his lips at that thought, John – Emperor Arslan – closed the balcony doors and prepared to end the first day of his new life, determined to meet the coming dawn with knowledge hard-won and discipline unbroken.
Chapter 6: Shadows at Midnight
Deep night draped the palace when John jolted awake. For a second, he didn't know why – his room was silent save for the faint crackle of a wall-mounted glow-stone turned to its lowest setting. He had been in a light sleep, his soldier's instincts never letting him slumber too deeply in an unfamiliar, potentially hostile environment.
He lay still in the grand canopy bed, listening. Years of nighttime operations had trained him to be acutely aware in darkness. His hand slid quietly under his pillow where he had smartly tucked a small ornamental dagger earlier (one he'd found displayed on a shelf and claimed for personal reach). The cool metal handle against his palm was reassuring.
There – a whisper of sound, like fabric brushing against stone. It came from beyond the door to his outer chamber, perhaps from the corridor or balcony? John's pulse quickened but he kept his breathing slow and even, feigning continued sleep to any watcher.
Another faint scrape. The balcony, he surmised. The doors to the balcony were closed, but not locked—he hadn't thought to bolt them after his evening gaze at the city lights. Cursing himself silently, he shifted his eyes toward that side of the room. The gauzy drapes stirred ever so slightly, though no breeze should be blowing in.
Moonlight pooled faintly at the threshold of the balcony doors. And in that weak light, he saw a darker shadow move against the pale curtains.
Adrenaline flooded John's veins, cold and clarifying. An intruder was in his quarters.
His mind snapped into combat mode. Single intruder, approach via balcony likely, method of entry perhaps climbed the outer walls or magically levitated. Motivation: assassination. He had no allies who would sneak in at midnight. Threat level: high, but element of surprise might be his if they think him asleep.
From the corner of his eye, John caught a glint of steel—a blade reflecting a sliver of moonlight as the figure slipped fully into the room. The shape was slight, likely someone dressed in dark tight-fitting garb. The person moved with practiced stealth toward the bed.
John waited, muscles coiled. He would have one chance. He strained to detect if the intruder was alone or if more lurked. No alarm had been raised by the guards outside; perhaps they were neutralized or the assassin bypassed them. Either way, help was not coming.
The figure crept closer. John could almost feel the gaze upon him, checking if the Emperor slept soundly. He willed his body to remain relaxed, eyes nearly closed. The assassin halted a mere two paces from the bed. In the gloom, John saw a raised hand gripping a long dagger—or a short sword—poised to strike down.
In that instant, John exploded into action. Years of close-quarters combat training propelled him; he moved on instinct, as precise as if this were a mission in the dead of night. He twisted and kicked off from the bed with powerful force, simultaneously swinging his left arm up to entangle the assailant's weapon arm while driving his dagger in a tight arc with his right.
His sudden movement took the assassin utterly by surprise. John's forearm struck the intruder's wrist, deflecting the stabbing blade so it sliced harmlessly into the mattress. In near silence, the two figures clashed in the darkness.
The assassin was fast, and now up close John glimpsed their eyes—narrowed above a cloth mask—and realized with a shock it was a woman. She recovered quickly from his initial parry, twisting lithely out of his grip and slashing at him with a secondary knife that flashed in her off-hand.
John jerked back; the tip grazed his forearm, a sting of pain, but he kept his hold on his own dagger. Feet finding the floor, he centered his stance. The assassin lunged low, aiming for his abdomen. John flowed with a defensive move straight out of special forces training—redirecting her momentum with one hand on her forearm and stepping aside as he brought his dagger down toward her back.
She was too skilled to be skewered outright; she spun away with catlike agility, John's blade slicing only through a loose flap of her dark tunic. She hissed in frustration, circling him now.
The room was dim, but both had enough night-vision to navigate by shadows and the faint glow-stone light. They were silhouettes dancing deadly around the grand bed, the silken sheets now rumpled and bearing a gash from her initial strike.
John noted she favored her left foot slightly—maybe an old injury or imbalance. Any advantage he could exploit, he catalogued. She, for her part, was assessing him anew. This was no soft royal target but a trained fighter meeting her stroke for stroke.
She feinted high then sliced low; John anticipated the ploy and blocked with his dagger, metal clanging softly as it met hers. The brief contact allowed him to trap her knife-hand by clamping his forearm against hers and wrenching. He heard a muffled gasp as her wrist snapped with a quiet crack.
The woman did not scream—she was too disciplined for that—but the dagger dropped from her limp hand. In a final effort, she lunged to stab with her other blade at his neck, eyes flashing with desperate resolve.
John intercepted, catching her forearm with both hands this time. Using his superior height and Arslan's considerable strength, he twisted the weapon from her grasp. It clattered to the marble floor.
In one fluid motion, he shifted his grip, spun behind her, and locked an arm around her throat, dagger pressed to her ribs. The assassin strained, but he had leverage now. With her one good hand she tried to pry at his forearm, but it was like iron.
"It's over," John growled quietly into her ear, adrenaline making his voice even lower and more gravelly than usual. "Don't make me kill you."
She froze for a heartbeat, then surprisingly let out a bitter, breathless laugh. In a heavily accented voice she whispered, "Then enjoy betrayal, false king." And before he could react, her body went slack—she bit down on something, a poison capsule perhaps. He felt a shudder run through her; she'd taken her own life rather than be captured.
John cursed and eased her down to the floor. A sickly sweet smell hit his nose as foam bubbled at the corner of her mouth beneath the mask. Quick-acting toxin. Within seconds, her eyes glazed. She was dead. John felt a surge of frustration at being denied answers – and a grudging respect for the assassin's fanatic resolve, however misplaced.
He knelt there, heart pounding, the dead assassin in his arms. Events had unfolded in mere moments, silent and deadly. Only now did the aftermath begin: a muffled shout from outside as a guard finally noticed something, or perhaps heard the brief struggle. The doors to his chambers burst open and two of his personal guards rushed in, spears at the ready, followed by the eunuch and a bleary-eyed servant holding a lantern.
The sudden light revealed the scene: Emperor Arslan in nightclothes, crouched on the floor, one arm bleeding from a shallow cut, a black-clad intruder lying lifeless beside him.
"Majesty! You're hurt!" The chief eunuch gasped, rushing forward. The guards fanned out, one checking the balcony, the other standing protectively over John and the fallen figure.
"I'm fine," John said shortly, rising to his feet. The cut on his forearm was minor, hardly worth note, though it did sting. "Seal the room. There may have been more than one. Find out how this one got in."
The guards nodded. One went to signal the alarm outside; a bell clanged in the distance. The other carefully inspected the assassin's body, pulling back her mask to reveal a young face, perhaps no older than twenty. Strange angular tattoos marked her cheeks. She wore no identifying emblem.
John recognized those tattoos, or thought he did, from something he'd read in the library or heard whispered: they resembled symbols associated with an extremist sect of the old regime's royal guard – maybe a last loyalist who had sworn to kill the conqueror.
The eunuch – Rashid, John recalled the name he'd extracted earlier – was trembling but maintained composure. "Forgive us, Your Majesty, this should never have—"
John held up a hand to stop the apology. Now was the time for decisive leadership, even if internally he was still coming down from the adrenaline high. "No need for that now. Send for the palace physician to tend to this scratch," John commanded quietly, not wanting to downplay the incident but also signaling he was not badly hurt, to calm the frantic energy. "And quietly ensure the captain of the guard doubles patrols around the royal quarters. No one is to know the full details of this tonight outside those who must."
He didn't want panic or to give any would-be conspirators knowledge of how close their attempt had come. There was also the matter of how the assassin bypassed security—did she have inside help? He would need to investigate discreetly.
Rashid bowed and hurried to dispatch a servant for the physician.
John looked down at the corpse, a slight frown on his face. Her final words echoed in his mind: "enjoy betrayal, false king." False king… Did she somehow know he wasn't truly Arslan? Or was she simply referring to him as a usurper of her city's throne? Most likely the latter, he reasoned. Still, it made his skin crawl.
The guard who had inspected the balcony returned, saluting. "Your Majesty, it appears she climbed the southern tower and descended onto your balcony. Rope and grapple still attached on the roof. The outer sentries…" He hesitated. "We found them, sir. Throats slit. She got past them."
John's jaw tightened. Good men, likely killed in silence. This assassin was highly trained, perhaps one of a cult of killers. The tattoos suggested something like that.
He took a deep breath. "Secure her body. We'll examine it more in daylight for clues. And quietly see to the fallen guards' families; they served well." The guard nodded solemnly.
The palace physician arrived swiftly—a wiry old man with a case of salves and bandages, clearly nervous. John allowed him to fuss over the shallow cut, cleaning it with something that stung of alcohol and herbs and wrapping a bandage tightly. In truth, John had endured far worse in the field without complaint, but he endured the ritual for the sake of appearances. He caught the physician surreptitiously eyeing the dead assassin with shock as he worked; clearly attempts on the emperor's life were not commonplace enough to be routine.
Within half an hour, the immediate crisis was contained. The guards removed the body under a sheet. Rashid had incense burning to clear the bitter scent of poison from the air. Extra guards took up posts at every approach to John's chambers. The eunuch insisted on replacing the torn bedsheets and even offered to stay within the outer chamber through the night in case His Majesty needed anything—a polite way to ensure John felt safe. John declined the offer gently, stating that the doubled guard sufficed.
At last, the flurry of activity died down. John stood by the balcony doors, now bolted and guarded on the outside as well. Rashid hovered. "Shall I leave you to rest, Sire? It is nearly the fourth watch of the night."
John gave a faint nod. "Yes, Rashid. Get some rest yourself. Tomorrow will be a busy day."
The eunuch bowed deeply, regret still etched on his face. "As you will, Majesty. I am most thankful you are unharmed." With that, he departed, closing the chamber doors behind him. John heard him barking whispered orders to the hallway guards to stay alert or face his wrath.
Now alone again, John exhaled and rubbed a hand over his face. So much for sleep. His blood was still thrumming from the encounter.
He moved to a washbasin and poured cool water from a pitcher to clean his hands and splash his face. In the mirror above the basin, the emperor's visage stared back, looking more awake than weary. The bandage on his forearm was a stark white stripe against bronze skin.
He clenched his fist. The assassin had been skilled and fanatical. If it had been the real Arslan sleeping in that bed, would he have awakened in time? John couldn't know. But his own lifetime of combat had saved him tonight.
False king, she'd called him. He whispered it to himself in the mirror, as if testing the idea. Was he a false king? He inhabited another man's life. But the person who'd tried to kill him tonight saw him only as the Emperor – whether rightful or not was a matter of perspective. Ultimately, he had to own this identity if he was to survive and protect those under his care.
"False or true, I am the one standing," he murmured to the empty room.
He dried off and realized his hands were trembling slightly now that the action was over. Reaction setting in. John sat on the edge of a chaise lounge rather than return to bed immediately. Sleep would not come easily after this anyway.
Instead, he methodically began to breathe slow and deep, doing a mental debrief of the encounter as he would after a mission. He examined his performance: he had neutralized the threat quickly, without raising general alarm. Good. He sustained only a scratch. Acceptable. The assassin took her own life, preventing interrogation – unfortunate. Potential intelligence lost. They'd have to glean what they could from her remains and any belongings. The mention of betrayal… likely just venom from a loyalist of the old guard. But he wouldn't discount any possibility.
Perhaps most importantly: there had likely been a leak or an accomplice to let her get so close. Perhaps the outer guard rotations had been known or bribed. It could be a simple failure or part of a larger conspiracy. He needed to be cautious about whom he trusted. General Safid? Seemed loyal so far. Magister Salim? Hard to see a bookish mage hiring an assassin. That fat minister who objected at court? Possibly, if he had ties with the old regime or stood to gain from chaos.
It struck John that Arslan's conquest might not have eliminated all threats; instead, in victory, new hidden foes would emerge. This world was no less dangerous than his last, only the weapons and stakes differed.
Still in his nightclothes, John rose and walked around the room, picking up the fallen weapons. He examined the assassin's daggers under the glow-stone. They were finely made, one coated in some substance (likely poison). On the hilt of one was etched a symbol: a crescent moon crossed by a dagger. He didn't recognize it, but he'd make a note to ask Salim or Safid tomorrow if they knew it.
Finally, exhaustion began to tug at him. His shoulder ached faintly where he'd wrenched the assassin's arm, and his bandaged cut itched. The emotional weight of having killed (or at least contributed to the death of) a young woman added a heavier ache. Even for a soldier who'd seen death, it was never easy, nor should it be, he thought.
He returned to bed, leaving the curtains drawn back now and a bit more light in the room from the glow-stone left slightly brighter. Not out of fear (he told himself) but practicality. If another foe came, he'd like that split second advantage of visibility.
Lying down, John stared at the ornate canopy overhead, tracing its embroidered pattern in the semi-darkness. The adrenaline ebbing left him reflective. In a single day, he had navigated an empire's politics, studied arcane arts, and fought off an assassin. It felt as though he'd lived a week in these hours. His body was foreign yet familiar now, capable and strong. His mind was catching up, adapting rapidly.
He thought of that vow he'd made to himself on the balcony earlier – to leave a mark as a protector in this world. Tonight had proven that to protect others, he must first protect himself. He would not get a second chance if he failed.
At last, John allowed his eyes to close. He sank into a watchful rest, not a true sleep, but enough to carry him through the remaining hours of night. Tomorrow, the sun would rise on a ruler who was beginning to truly understand both the wonder and the peril of the mantle he had assumed.
Chapter 7: A New Dawn
When dawn finally broke, it found John already awake, standing at his chamber's balcony once more. The early sun bathed the City of Light in hues of rose and gold. From this high vantage, the damage of the night could not be seen – the city looked peaceful, almost idyllic, wisps of chimney smoke curling into the crisp morning air. If any citizens had heard the faint alarm bell in the palace during the night, they gave no sign; the streets began to stir with normalcy, vendors setting up stalls, patrols making their rounds.
John inhaled deeply, letting the cool dawn air center him. He had donned a simple robe over his bandaged arm. The wound was minor, and he flexed his fingers, noting no serious impairment. Far below, the palace courtyard began to bustle with activity – today would be another full day of imperial duties and now, investigations.
A discreet knock came at his door. At his invitation, General Safid entered, already dressed in his armor for the day, the scar on his face looking particularly stark in the morning light. Behind him came Magister Salim in his burgundy robes. Both men wore solemn expressions. Rashid hovered at the threshold, worry evident until John gestured that he may remain as well.
"Your Majesty," Safid began, bowing. "We beg forgiveness for last night's incident. We have been up since the small hours looking into it."
John turned to face them fully. He appreciated they got straight to business, no wasting time on flowery courtesies. "Report."
Safid's jaw tightened. "The assassin was indeed alone. She was skilled – we found two guards on the outer wall slain. It appears she had inside help: a servant from the stables provided information on guard rotations, and may have smuggled her into the outer bailey hidden in a hay cart. That man is in custody now. He claims he was paid in gold by a stranger; we're still interrogating him."
John nodded, absorbing the details. One breach plugged: a bribed servant. "And her identity?"
Salim stepped forward, clearing his throat. "By her tattoos and the symbol on her weapons, we believe she belonged to a cult called the Daughters of Xesh. They were a secret order of assassins loyal to the previous dynasty. Some say they consider their service a sacred blood oath to defend the old royal line. We thought most were eliminated or scattered when the old king fell… clearly at least one sought vengeance."
"Daughters of Xesh," John repeated quietly, committing the name to memory. "So likely acting on lingering loyalty, not part of a broader scheme by my own ranks."
Safid was quick to interject, "Our investigation hasn't found any evidence of conspiracy among your commanders, sire. It appears to be an isolated fanatic. However," and here he scowled, "such an attempt could embolden others if not answered decisively. Normally, after a failed regicide attempt, we'd make a public example—heads on pikes, that sort of thing—to deter the next would-be killer."
John looked between the grizzled general and the magister. He expected such a response; intimidation was the usual currency of rule in these times. Yet he felt averse to parading the corpse or slaughtering tangential suspects. Fear had its place, but he wanted to avoid driving resentment deeper underground or harming innocents.
"The assassin herself is dead," John said. "No head on a pike will add to the lesson; those who sent her will assume she failed and was dealt with. As for the stable-hand—if he was a mere greedy fool, not ideologically driven, executing him might be excessive. Better we use him. Quietly spread word through him, or whatever network caught him, that the Emperor lives and any further plots will be unearthed and crushed."
Safid bowed his head. "As you wish, Majesty. The man can be turned to our purposes, perhaps as bait for any co-conspirators, under watch."
John appreciated the general's quick understanding. He then added, "Also, ensure the families of the two guards who were killed are looked after. Generous death benefits, honors at their funeral. I will not have it said that those who give their lives for the empire are forgotten."
At that, Safid placed a fist to his chest in salute, a glint of approval in his eyes. "It will be done. Their names will be recorded in the Rolls of Honor."
Magister Salim gave a small nod as well, perhaps surprised and pleased by this mercy. John knew well that loyalty from his men was earned not just by victory, but by valuing their sacrifice.
Salim then offered a scroll. "Sire, here is the brief primer on our imperial rune techniques that you requested. I took the liberty of noting a few parallels with what we know of the City of Light's system. And an update: at first light, our mages and the guild began working on the nexus repair with the resources you allocated. We should see the glow-stones returning to full strength by tonight if all goes well."
"That's good news, Magister," John said, taking the scroll. He would peruse it later; for now, just holding it was a satisfaction—more knowledge at his fingertips.
Safid shifted and added carefully, "Your Majesty, after an attempt like this, many rulers would become reclusive or crack down harshly. But you speak of measured responses and continue your focus on infrastructure and knowledge. If I may speak freely… it's heartening, but I wonder if you wish to adjust any public engagements or your routine for safety?"
John considered. Part of him, the cautious soldier, acknowledged the risk. But to hide away would project weakness or fear. He remembered how facing danger squarely often had a psychological edge.
"We will maintain normalcy," John decided. "I will appear as needed at court. I will walk the halls as I did. Let anyone who plots against me see that I am not cowed. However," he gave a faint smile, "perhaps more archers discreetly placed on the rooftops might be wise."
Safid cracked a predatory grin. "Already ordered, sire. And double guard on all shifts."
They discussed a few more security details. Rashid, standing by, offered that the palace staff could be quietly vetted for ties to the old regime; John agreed, but with the caveat it be done subtly, to avoid sowing panic or mistrust among those loyal.
As the conversation wound down, breakfast was brought in—John insisted Safid and Salim partake of tea with him, a gesture that clearly surprised them (Emperor dining with subordinates informally was not common). Over warm tea and bread, their talk grew a bit more candid.
Safid recounted a short tale of how, years ago, Arslan (the real one) had survived an arrow wound in battle and laughed it off by night's campfire to bolster his men's morale. John listened, smiling where appropriate, gleaning insights: Arslan had been brave and perhaps reckless, but cared for morale. It was a small glimpse of the man whose life he was inhabiting, and John filed it away.
Salim brought up that the old king's youngest son—a mere boy—was rumored to have been smuggled out during the fall of the city. "Some say these assassins act in his name, hoping to one day place him back on the throne," the magister said quietly.
John responded calmly, "If the boy lives and becomes a figurehead for rebellion, we'll address it with both strength and compassion – he's a child, not a threat unless someone uses him. Let's not create a legend by overreacting. Better to win the people's loyalty so thoroughly that any pretender finds no support."
The magister and general looked at each other, perhaps not used to such nuanced strategy from their warlord-king. Wilbur Smith's terse, kinetic voice merged now with the lyrical scope of epic fantasy in John's own: "We will secure this empire not just by sword, but by bond. Fear only goes so far; respect and prosperity, that is true stability."
When the meeting concluded, John felt a sense of fulfillment. Despite the night's violence, he had started the new day not with dread, but with determination and a clearer vision of how he wanted to rule.
Left alone again to finish his breakfast, John reviewed the past day in his mind – the whirlwind that had been Act One of his strange new life. He thought of the accident that brought him here, of awakening in luxury and confusion, of navigating courtly treacheries and arcane wonders, and of facing death in the dark. In each challenge, something within him had answered: training, wit, curiosity, or courage. He had not planned to become an emperor or a character in an epic tale, but fate had cast him here and he had adapted.
John stepped once more to the balcony, cup of spiced tea in hand. The sun was higher now, the city fully awake. From the palace heights he could see banners being raised in the markets, hear the faint echo of a distant bell from a temple. Life went on. The City of Light was beginning to shine again, literally and metaphorically – repairs underway, citizens tentatively hopeful that war and darkness would recede. And somewhere out there, perhaps, ordinary people might speak of how the new Emperor showed mercy at court, how he took interest in the city's welfare. They might not know the man behind the mask, but if he played the role well, they would see positive change.
A philosophically inquisitive part of him mused: perhaps he had been brought here for a reason. On Earth, he had been a soldier trained to end conflict swiftly, to protect the innocent, to snuff out threats so others could live. Here, in a world of rune magic and emperors, those skills and values could serve an even larger purpose.
Could he bring a measure of peace or justice in a land ruled by might and arcane power? Could he find personal meaning and redemption by guiding an empire responsibly?
He didn't presume he could overturn all the old ways in a day or a year, but step by step, he would apply both his tactical mind and newfound wisdom. He would learn this world's mysteries, master its magic, and temper its brutality with a bit of humanity.
Setting down the tea, John allowed himself a small, resolute smile.
This Act of his life was only beginning, and already he felt the stirrings of legend at the edges of his path. The soldier in him saw a battle to be fought on many fronts – political, martial, moral. The inquisitive soul in him saw an odyssey of knowledge and self-discovery. And the part of him that was simply a man – John from another world – felt the gravity and thrill of being alive against all odds, with a destiny he intended to shape with his own hands.
In the east, the sun fully emerged from the horizon, bright and unyielding. John straightened his back, standing tall as the Emperor he had become. The light of the new day spilled over him and the city below, chasing the last shadows of night away.
Whatever challenges the coming days would bring, he was ready.
Act I – End