One soldier produced a slim pry bar and worked it into the crack. John placed a hand on the door, ready to push in as soon as the bar quietly lifted the latch. He glanced back at the men and nodded. Weapons ready.
The latch gave with a soft clunk. John eased the door open.
A torchlit hallway stretched before them, walls carved with faded reliefs of moons and maidens. Immediately to their left, the corridor bent toward what sounded like the main dome – flashes of light and footfalls suggested cultists rushing out to fight Safid's team. To the right, the passage delved deeper under the temple.
John's objective was to reach the inner sanctum and capture or neutralize the leadership. Safid would handle those in the courtyard.
He pointed right. The team slipped through, closing the door behind.
As they crept down the hall, a figure suddenly emerged from a side alcove—a cultist running toward the front battle, dagger drawn. She nearly collided with John.
Both were startled. John recovered first. He slammed his shield (he carried a buckler strapped to his arm) into her face. The woman crumpled with a muffled cry, nose shattered. Before she could scream, another soldier stabbed her in the chest with a short sword. They eased her down silently.
Heart pounding, John pressed on. They encountered a few more cult members, but these were hurrying the opposite way and paid the price of surprise—quick, brutal dispatches by John's silent hunters.
At last, they reached a chamber from which the chanting clearly emanated. It was a broad, circular crypt lit by dozens of candles. The walls were lined with alcoves holding old sarcophagi, now draped in black and silver banners bearing the moon-and-dagger sigil.
At the chamber's center stood an altar of polished obsidian. Around it knelt six robed women, chanting in a strange tongue. Their voices rose and fell in hypnotic cadence. In their midst, a tall figure in elaborately embroidered robes held a curved ceremonial blade aloft. She wore no hood – her hair was long and white as bone, though her face looked no older than forty. A black tattoo of a crescent marked her forehead.
John's gut told him: this was the leader.
On the altar, something – or someone – was bound. As John edged closer, keeping to shadows behind pillars, he saw it was a young man, perhaps twenty, gagged and wide-eyed. Alive.
Not what he expected. The man bore a striking resemblance to… John's heart skipped. Could it be? He had the aristocratic features, the pale complexion of the old line. Perhaps a captured noble or… the rumored prince?
The white-haired leader spoke, interrupting the chant. "On this night of the Dark Moon, we call upon Xesh to accept this sacrifice and return to us the rightful heir!" Her voice echoed.
She raised the dagger over the struggling man on the altar. The kneeling cultists chanted louder, fervently.
This was moments from a ritual execution – possibly to empower a spell or send some signal. John could not let that blade fall.
He broke cover and rushed forward, bellowing, "Stop!"
The element of surprise might have been better served by a silent takedown, but the urgency made him shout. His men surged behind him.
The circle of cultists erupted in astonishment and fury. The nearest two women spun to attack the intruders, drawing short swords.
John parried one slash and riposted with a clean cut across a cultist's midsection, felling her. His soldiers engaged the others; steel clanged and echoes screamed off the stone tombs.
The leader shrieked, not in fear but rage. She aborted her sacrifice and leapt back from the altar, brandishing her curved blade. With her other hand, she traced a rune in the air, fingers leaving a trail of red light. A firebolt materialized and shot toward John.
He threw himself aside. The firebolt singed past, smashing into a pillar behind him in a burst of heat and sparks. Chips of stone rained down.
So she was a mage as well.
Captain Hasan lunged at her from the side, but she hissed an incantation and a wave of invisible force flung him back as though struck by a mule. He crashed into a candle-laden sconce, toppling it.
Chaos filled the crypt. Two of John's men were battling three cultists near the altar, trading blows amidst spilled candles and spreading pools of blood. John faced off with the leader, circling warily.
She looked at the insignia-less armor and scoffed, "Hirelings of the Usurper? You're too late. The true heir will have your head. Xesh shall—"
John didn't bother with banter. He feinted low then slashed high, testing her. She was fast, parrying deftly with her sacrificial dagger and countering with a slicing cut at John's visor.
He jerked back; the tip scraped his helmet with a metallic screech. She fought with a manic intensity, bolstered by fanaticism.
Meanwhile, at the altar, one cultist fell to a soldier's sword, collapsing across the bound young man. Another cultist, instead of fighting, rushed to drag the young man away through a back exit. Seemed they wanted to preserve him – confirming he was important, likely the heir.
"Stop that one!" John barked, pointing. One of his men disengaged to pursue the escaping cultist carrying the prisoner. They vanished through an archway.
The leader used John's momentary distraction to unleash another spell. She slapped her palm to the ground, yelling guttural words. Snaking tendrils of shadow crept from under the altar, wrapping around John's legs and arms, holding him in place like living ropes.
John struggled, rage flaring as he realized she'd ensnared him. The leader gave a victorious grin and stepped forward, reversing her dagger to plunge it into his throat seam.
At that instant, a lion's roar – or something like it – sounded faintly. John's sword, the lion pommel, vibrated in his grip, resonating with an unseen power. A surge of warmth ran up his arm.
Without fully understanding, John reacted. He channeled all his will and let out a shout, slicing his kilij in a broad arc despite the clinging shadows.
To his shock, the blade glowed faintly gold and cut through the shadow bindings as if they were cobwebs. The leader's eyes widened in disbelief.
Freed, John drove forward. His sword met her dagger and knocked it aside with brute strength augmented by whatever force had awoken in the lion blade. Off-balance, she snarled and reached for a talisman at her neck – perhaps to conjure something dire.
John didn't give her the chance. He rammed his shoulder into her chest, slamming her against the altar. The breath whooshed out of her. Her head cracked against the stone and she crumpled, dazed.
Seizing a length of the shadow rope still dissolving away, John improvised, looping it around her wrists. Though ephemeral, it solidified at his mental command – some instinct or remnant of magic responding to the sword's influence.
The cult leader came to, finding herself bound by her own dark magic turned against her. She shrieked in frustration, thrashing but unable to free herself.
By now, the skirmish was nearly over. The last cultist in the room fell to Captain Hasan's blade, leaving only whimpers and the flicker of scattered candles.
John yanked the leader up by her collar, breathing hard. "It's over," he growled. "Call off your people, if any remain."
She spat at him, eyes burning with hatred. "You know nothing. The true king will have your head. Xesh shall—"
John clouted her across the temple with the hilt of his sword, not in the mood. She slumped, not unconscious but dazed enough to silence her vitriol.
He became aware of distant sounds: the clash of weapons in the corridors and faint shouts. Safid's team likely had pushed inside by now, mopping up what remained.
One of John's men returned, dragging the unconscious body of the cultist who had tried to escape with the prisoner. "Got her, sir. The young man is secured – he's alive," he reported.
John exhaled deeply, relief flooding him. He surveyed the scene. Three of his own were injured but alive, binding wounds and propping each other up. Four cultists dead here, plus those outside. And their leader captured. It was a hard-won but clear success.
"Secure her," he ordered two soldiers, shoving the bound leader into their arms. "And get that young man out safely – he may be the lost prince."
The soldiers exchanged astonished glances but obeyed, carrying the gagged prisoner gently.
John was about to move when an echoing rumble shook dust from the ceiling. He tensed – was the structure coming down?
Safid's voice echoed from the hall, "John! Are you alive in there?"
John's shoulders sagged in relief. "Here!" he called back, using his name since only Safid would hear.
Moments later, Safid appeared, helmet gone and a gash on his forehead, but very much alive. Behind him a few of his men fanned out, wide-eyed at the carnage.
"We have the temple," Safid reported, breathing hard. "Some fled into the woods. We'll hunt them down by daylight."
His gaze fell on the captured cult leader and the bound young man being carried out. His eyes widened as he noticed the youth's features even in the dim light. "By the heavens… that lad looks like…."
"I suspect," John finished grimly, "we just found the lost prince."
Safid let out a short incredulous laugh. "Then tonight's victory is even greater."
John nodded, though inwardly he knew this complicated matters. A legitimate heir in hand – it could be a political time-bomb. But that was a concern for tomorrow. They had done what they set out to do: crush the immediate threat.
He glanced at his sword. The runes on the scabbard slowly faded back to dormancy, the strange surge of power ebbing. He wasn't even sure exactly what happened, but it seemed the blade – or perhaps John's own emergent magic – had saved him. A mystery for another time.
"Burn these banners, collapse whatever tunnels you safely can," John instructed. "We'll send a message that the Daughters of Xesh are finished here."
Safid barked orders to start torching the chamber. The cult leader, regaining some of her venom, began cackling. "Fools…cut off one head, another shall—" A gag was promptly shoved in her mouth, silencing her.
As John and Safid led the way out of the labyrinth, guiding their teams and prisoners back towards the surface, John felt a weight lift off his shoulders. Not the weight of responsibility – that remained – but the immediate fear of an unseen dagger in the dark.
He had gone into the shadows and emerged victorious.
Outside, dawn was hinting at the horizon, a pale glow through the trees. The night's cool air felt like a benediction on his sweat-streaked face as he removed his helm to breathe freely.
Birdsong was just beginning, oblivious to the violence that had transpired. John took a moment to close his eyes and simply exist in that early morning hush, alive and triumphant.
"Majesty," Safid said quietly at his side, not using the name now that others milled nearby. "We should get you home."
John opened his eyes. Yes, home. Back to the palace, where a new day waited – one in which his enemies were fewer and his reputation would soon be greater, even if only through whispers of a "mysterious night operation."
He wiped a streak of blood from his cheek – not his own, luckily – and nodded. "Let's go."
They departed the ruined temple grounds as the sky lightened. Behind them, the old stones of Selhun smoldered with the flames of burning cult banners – a beacon to any who might find the courage to follow in Xesh's footsteps.
And ahead, the City of Light awaited its Emperor's return, secure in the knowledge that its shadows had been scoured, at least for now.
Chapter 5 End
Chapter 6
The first hints of dawn were streaking the sky pink and pale gold as John and his party approached the City of Light's walls. Birds were chirping awake in the hedgerows along the road. Despite the cool early air, John felt sweat drying on his skin under his armor and a deep fatigue starting to gnaw at his limbs. The exhilaration of battle was ebbing, replaced by sheer exhaustion and a throbbing collection of bruises.
They rode in quietly through a side postern gate opened by Safid's trusted guards. The city beyond was just stirring – bakers lighting ovens, a few laborers with carts heading to market – none paying mind to a small column of riders entering under cloak of dawn.
John kept his visor down, speaking little. At the center of their formation, two of Safid's men half-led, half-dragged the hooded cult leader, who was bound and slung over a horse. Just behind them, another pair carefully escorted the young man they'd rescued – the rumored "lost prince." He had regained consciousness during the ride and now sat in front of one of John's soldiers on horseback, hands tied but otherwise unharmed. His eyes darted about warily above the gag in his mouth, taking in the city he had presumably not seen in years.
As they passed through the sleepy streets toward the palace's side entrance, John guided his mount alongside the youth. The prince – if indeed that's who he was – noticed and stared at John's armored form with a mixture of apprehension and defiance.
John raised a hand slightly, signaling the soldier to halt. He leaned toward the captive and spoke softly so only he could hear. "Easy. You're safe from them now. We won't harm you." He wasn't sure if that was true long-term, but at least under his watch it was.
The young man's blue eyes widened in surprise at the gentle tone. He mumbled something against the gag.
John nodded to the soldier, who pulled the gag free but kept a firm hold on the lad.
The young man wet his lips, grimacing. "Who… who are you?" he whispered hoarsely. His accent held the cultured lilt of the old aristocracy.
John hesitated, visor still down. "A friend, perhaps. The usurper, perhaps. Time will tell." He realized the paradox – he was both the one who stole this boy's birthright by ruling in Arslan's body, and also the one who just saved his life.
The youth looked confused. Up close, John gauged him to be about eighteen. Hardly a child – almost a grown man, yet with a certain softness suggesting he hadn't lived rough. Probably hidden in cloisters or foreign courts rather than battlefields.
Before John could say more, Safid trotted up. "We should not tarry, Majesty. The palace awaits."
John agreed and motioned to replace the gag. The young man didn't resist, but John caught a searching, conflicted gaze from him as the cloth was tied back. He couldn't decipher it – gratitude or hatred, or both.
They entered the palace grounds through a concealed stable gate. Servants loyal to Rashid were already present to take the horses and usher the group to a secluded wing of the palace dungeons, away from prying eyes.
Rashid himself hurried down a torch-lit corridor, wringing his hands until he saw John step inside, helmet in hand. The eunuch let out an audible sigh of relief. "Thank the Light… you're back safely." His eyes swept over John's battered armor, noting scuffs and a smear of dried blood on the breastplate. "Are you injured, sire?"
John removed his gauntlets, flexing sore fingers. "Nothing serious. Others fared worse than I." He glanced over as two soldiers hauled the cult leader to a cell. She glared murder at everyone, the moon tattoo on her brow crinkling as she scowled.
Rashid followed his gaze. "That must be…?"
"The head of the snake," Safid confirmed. "We'll need to question her at length."
A low growl came from the cell as the woman strained against her bonds. One of Safid's men slammed the iron door shut, cutting off her curses. "Witches," he muttered under his breath.
John removed his helmet fully, running a hand through damp hair. "Secure her with the best wards and guards. We'll let her stew a bit before interrogation. She's a fanatic – I doubt threats alone will work, but perhaps Salim has mind-reading tricks."
"We'll see to it, Majesty," Safid said. He then motioned to the young prisoner, who was being gently seated on a bench by the guards. "And what of that one?"
Rashid's eyes went wide as he truly noticed the young man for the first time. In the better light, there was no mistaking the resemblance – the lad had the same high cheekbones and aquiline nose depicted in portraits of the last king. Rashid's mouth opened in astonishment. "By the saints… The lost prince…"
The prince in question stiffened at the recognition, looking both proud and afraid.
John raised a hand. "For now, he's just another prisoner. We won't announce anything." He fixed Rashid and Safid with a firm stare. "Only we who are present know of this. That knowledge must not leave this hall."
Safid bowed his head. "Understood, Majesty."
Rashid swallowed and mirrored the bow, though his face still betrayed awe. "Of course, sire. My lips are sealed."
John stepped toward the youth. The boy straightened his back, meeting John's gaze with a measure of courage.
"How should I address you?" John asked quietly. "Do you have a name you prefer?"
The young man hesitated, perhaps surprised to be asked politely. "I… My name is Darius," he offered finally, voice hoarse.
John crouched slightly to be eye level. "Darius. I'm told you are of the old royal line."
Darius lifted his chin. "My father was King Cyrus XII." There was both pride and sadness in how he said it.
Rashid's lips parted – that name confirmed it; the last king of the old dynasty. Safid's expression hardened slightly, perhaps remembering the war against Cyrus. John held up a hand to forestall any outburst.
He nodded slowly. "If that's true, then fate has been cruel to you, Darius. And the cult that spirited you away and tried to use you… well, they're finished."
Darius looked between them. "You… you are Arslan Rûmî?" he asked John uncertainly. Perhaps he had gleaned it from context.
"I am," John answered. He felt a strange dissonance in confirming it – him, John Sullivan, claiming that name to the rightful heir of the prior rulers. This moment could have been charged with hatred or bitterness. But Darius's eyes instead showed mostly confusion and wary respect. Perhaps saving someone's life, even a rival, buys some goodwill.
Darius glanced at the cell holding the cult leader. "They told me you would kill me if I were ever found."
Safid grunted, "Many would have."
John shot the general a cautioning look, then addressed Darius evenly, "I'm not in the habit of killing prisoners, especially not young men who've done me no personal wrong." He placed a hand on Darius's shoulder. The boy flinched, then steadied.
"You will be kept safe and treated well," John continued. "But you must remain under guard for now. I can't have you running off or rallying any remaining supporters to rebellion. Do you understand?"
Darius searched John's face. "You spare me… only to hold me hostage."
John appreciated the straightforwardness. "Call it protective custody. Until we figure out a more permanent solution."
Darius blinked, focusing on John's armor rather than his eyes. Then he gave a slight, resigned nod. "I won't be foolish."
For now, John believed him. The boy had nowhere to go; his cult protectors were gone, and any allies in the city would be in hiding or unaware. Perhaps he sensed that his best chance at life was strange mercy from the man he'd been taught to view as a usurper.
"If only those cult fanatics saw it that way," John said wryly.
Darius grimaced. "They… filled my head with grand ideas since childhood. But seeing them willing to cut my throat for their ritual opened my eyes. I was a means to their end, nothing more."
A silence fell. John broke it gently. "What would you want for your future, if you could choose freely? I ask not as your captor, but sincerely."
Darius blinked, clearly not expecting the question. He thought a moment. "I'd want a life that's mine. Not as a pawn, nor a pretender. Perhaps to travel, see the world beyond courts and hideaways. To learn a craft or scholarship." He glanced to the book pile that a guard had removed from his pack. "I find I quite enjoy reading and philosophy. In another life, I might have been a simple scholar."
John smiled. The answer pleased him. It meant Darius had no burning ambition for the throne – likely because he never truly held power, only dreamed of survival.
"I cannot release you outright yet," John said, candor in his tone. "But I intend no harm. In time, maybe we can find a suitable role or place for you, discreetly. If you prove loyal to the realm as it stands, there could be a path to a normal life."
Darius exhaled as if he'd been holding breath. "That is more than fair. Thank you, Em—" he caught himself, "…thank you."
John stood to leave, satisfied that the young man would not be a danger under watch. At the door, he paused. "One more thing. Your name, Darius – keep using it here. But if ever you leave these walls, you might consider an alias for your own safety."
Darius managed a rueful smirk. "Perhaps I'll take up 'Karim'. Seems to be a name of fortune in your guard."
John laughed quietly – it was a clever reference for one who'd overheard the alias John used the night of his rescue.
"Rest well, Darius," he said, and meant it. They were unlikely friends, but maybe allies in forging a peaceful way forward regarding the old royal blood.
Late that night, John finally allowed himself to truly rest. After a long bath to wash away the grime of battle, he sank into his bed. Muscles aching, mind eased by victory, he drifted into the deepest, dreamless sleep he'd had since coming to this world.
He awoke past mid-morning the next day to find sunlight streaming in and Rashid waiting with a tray of breakfast and reports. Word of the midnight raid had been kept tightly under wraps; officially, the palace simply announced that a small band of rebels had been "neutralized outside the city" and all was well. The public was none the wiser about the lost prince, and morale remained high from the Emperor's decisive actions.
Over the following days, John tied up loose ends. The cult leader remained in the dungeon under heavy guard and magical wards. Salim attempted to sift her mind for information with spells, but she resisted fiercely. Within a week, she ended her own life in custody, cursing Arslan's name with her final breath. John took no pleasure in it, but it neatly closed the chapter.
The captured cultists were few and low-ranking; most either converted fanatics who knew little, or hired blades with no deep insight. John ensured they were interrogated fairly, then dealt with justly – some executed for murder, others imprisoned.
Darius remained a curious secret in the palace. Only Rashid, Safid, Salim, and John himself knew the boy's identity (Aru might suspect, but he wasn't told explicitly). John had him quietly relocated to more comfortable quarters within the palace proper, under the guise of a minor noble ward. Darius spent his days reading in the archives and conversing with Rashid on philosophy – an arrangement that oddly seemed to content both the youth and the old eunuch.
On the third evening after the raid, John invited Yvara to share a quiet dinner in a small pavilion overlooking the moonlit palace lake. She was delighted, though a tad nervous – it wasn't common for an Emperor to dine tête-à-tête with one concubine outside the harem halls.
They talked for hours under the stars. John found himself speaking more freely than he ever had – telling her (in careful, veiled terms) of how alienated he'd felt at first and how her kindness had helped him feel human. Yvara in turn shared stories of her childhood by the sea, her secret love of poetry, and how she had played violin before being brought to the palace (a talent John resolved to get her an instrument to resume).
At one point, Yvara shyly recited a short poem she'd composed praising "a lion with two hearts – one of stern duty, one of gentle light." John realized she was describing him, and it moved him more than he could say. In response, he clumsily attempted a few lines of an Earth poem he recalled about finding home in unexpected places. She didn't understand all the references, but the sentiment reached her; tears glinted in her eyes as she squeezed his hand.
That night ended with a tender embrace – nothing more. Both felt it was enough, for now.
Word of the Emperor's closeness to Yvara spread quietly among the harem and staff. It caused some murmurs of jealousy or intrigue, but John was careful to be fair and kind to all. Still, it was noted that Arslan's heart, which had once seemed made of stone, now clearly favored one gentle soul.
As summer gave way to autumn, the capital enjoyed a period of calm industry. The Grand Nexus integration test proceeded smoothly; a month after stabilization, John approved fully linking it to the imperial network in stages, with no adverse effects. Lights burned brighter than ever across the city at night, and the people hailed it as a symbol that the empire was truly unified again after the upheavals.
John continued his magical studies with Salim in spare evenings, now openly requesting tutoring. The archmage was pleased to oblige. Together they made progress – John could reliably cast a handful of minor runes on command: an illumination orb, a locking ward for doors, even a kinetic push to slam open a heavy gate (to Safid's startlement when John demonstrated one morning).
In mid-autumn, John took Safid and a small retinue on a tour of some central provinces that had been restive. Riding out with a modest guard – and disguised at times in common travel garments – he dropped in on local lords and town councils, catching some off guard and delighting common folk by hearing their grievances directly. It was an unprecedented move; Emperors didn't usually wander so freely. But John's personal approach earned genuine goodwill, and by the time he returned to the City of Light, reports from those provinces indicated disputes were settling and taxes flowing more readily. A little respect and listening, John found, went a long way.
All the while, in the back of his mind, plans for the empire's future were building like a gathering storm. Safid would often join him in the evenings over maps, pointing out where the frontiers could be strengthened or where old enemies lurked.
One crisp afternoon, perched atop the city's southern watchtower, Safid found John gazing out at the dusty roads stretching toward distant mountains.
"What troubles you, Emperor?" Safid asked, coming to stand beside him.
John rested his hands on the cool battlement stone. "Not trouble. Ambition, perhaps."
He gestured to the horizon. "Beyond those mountains lies a patchwork of petty states that once paid tribute to this empire. Since the old king fell, they broke away. Banditry, warlords… the people there suffer instability."
Safid nodded slowly. He knew John had been reading reports on those regions. "You're thinking of bringing them back into the fold."
John's jaw set. "If we don't, someone else might. And they'd not be as…benevolent as we intend to be."
Safid grinned, a fierce spark lighting in his eyes. "Say the word, sire, and we'll march before the winter frost."
John smiled back. His blood stirred at Safid's eagerness. He clapped the general on the shoulder. "Soon, Safid. We must prepare carefully. Spring will be our season."
Safid looked like a warhorse that heard the trumpet. "Then I'll begin preparations at once. The men will be ready."
That night, John sat at his desk by lamplight and penned a series of letters – summons, in truth – to various provincial leaders and allies. In flowery court language, they outlined plans for a grand spring campaign, inviting their cooperation and promising rich rewards (and hinting at dire consequences for holding back).
He sealed each missive with the imperial lion in wax and set them aside for Rashid to dispatch via fast couriers in the morning.
As he worked, he glanced at a corner of his desk where a curious object lay: a polished piece of obsidian carved into the shape of a crescent moon. It was the only item found on the cult leader besides her dagger – likely a focus for her spells. Salim had cleansed it of dark magic and handed it to John as a token.
John kept it as a reminder. For all his victories, shadows still existed beyond – if not the cult, then other threats would arise. The obsidian moon was a piece of the darkness he had conquered, a symbol that he could triumph over any gloom that challenged him.
In the quiet of his study, he turned the stone over in his hand, watching it catch the lamplight. The face that looked back from its glossy surface was resolute and calm.
He had come far in Act II of his journey: from waking confused in an alien body to mastering court and battlefield alike. He had forged bonds of loyalty and love, shed blood and shared laughter.
Setting the obsidian moon down, John took up another object – Yvara's embroidered handkerchief, the one she'd given him as a lucky token. He ran his thumb over the golden lion she'd stitched. He imagined the day he would carry it into battle at the head of his armies, a subtle strength drawn from knowing someone cared for the man beneath the armor.
"Bond and strength," he murmured to himself, recalling the vow he'd made on the balcony after the assassination attempt. He had accomplished much of both. And more lay ahead.
A soft knock at the door broke his reverie. It was Yvara, come to wish him goodnight. She noticed the letters and the tension in his shoulders.
"Don't stay up too late, my lord," she teased gently, moving behind him to knead his neck.
John closed his eyes and let her skilled fingers melt away the stiffness. "Just finished, actually."
She saw the moonstone and the handkerchief on the desk, understanding enough of what they meant. "You carry heavy burdens, Arslan," she said softly, using his name without title – something only she did in private moments.
He reached up and took her hand, drawing her around to sit on his knee. She came willingly, resting her head against his. "Lighter now, with you here," he murmured into her hair.
They stayed like that a while, the lamp flickering low. John's eyes drifted to the map on the wall, to the far reaches of his empire and beyond. He felt Yvara's steady breathing against him, a reminder of what he fought for – not conquest for its own sake, but a safe realm for those he cared about.
"I will likely have to ride out come spring," he said quietly, voicing to her what he had not yet announced publicly. "To secure the empire's borders."
Yvara's arms tightened slightly around him. She was silent for a moment, then she nodded against his shoulder. "Then I shall pray every day for gentle rains to ease your journey, and every night for your swift return."
John smiled and tilted her chin up to meet her eyes. "With those prayers, how could I fail?"
He kissed her then – a slow, tender kiss that tasted of hope and comfort. When they parted, Yvara's eyes shone with unshed tears, but her smile was unwavering.
"Go to bed, Emperor," she whispered, stroking his cheek. "The Lionheart needs his rest."
John chuckled at the new nickname she'd given him. Obliging, he stood and scooped her up in his arms, making her squeal softly in surprise. Carrying her, he left the study and headed toward his bedchamber.
That night, for the first time, John did not sleep alone. Yvara lay curled at his side beneath the silk sheets, her warmth easing the last ghosts of loneliness in him. They talked in quiet murmurs until she drifted to sleep, and John marveled at the turns of fate – that a soldier from another world could find such peace in the arms of a concubine in a medieval empire.
Before slumber claimed him as well, John stared at the ceiling and thought of Earth. He wondered if time there had continued without him, if somewhere another world's sun rose on people who once knew John Sullivan. The thought was strangely distant. Here and now, he had purpose and belonging.
Act II of his journey had drawn to a close with bonds forged and power consolidated. The boy from Earth was almost fully intertwined with the Emperor of Rûm.
With a final sigh, John closed his eyes. Tomorrow he would begin setting in motion the grand next steps – forging a legacy that would echo through history. But tonight, he cherished what he had won so far: the trust of his people, the loyalty of his friends, and the love of a woman who saw the man in the Emperor.
Outside the window, the City of Light glittered peacefully. Its Emperor slept soundly, and in his dreams he saw neither the shadows of yesterday nor the unknowable future. He saw only the bright horizon of a dawn in which he would stride forth, lion-standards flying, into whatever destiny awaited – unafraid, unbowed, and unalone.
Chapter 9 End
Chapter 10
Dawn broke pale and cold on the day Emperor Arslan Rûmî rode to war. It was early spring; frost still silvered the grass outside the City of Light's walls. The sky was a canvas of soft pink and gray, the sun not yet cresting the eastern plains.
Beyond the massive city gates, an army gathered. Banners emblazoned with the golden lion standard fluttered in the chill breeze. Rank upon rank of soldiers stood ready – steel helms gleaming, breaths misting in the air. Horses stamped and huffed, eager to run. Officers barked final orders, and wagon wheels creaked under loads of supplies destined for the front.
John sat astride his black warhorse at the head of the vanguard. He wore a suit of half-plate armor, polished but unadorned save for a small lion emblem on the chest. At his side hung the lion-pommel kilij in its scabbard, recently oiled and honed. Over his shoulders draped a fur-lined cloak to blunt the morning's bite.
General Safid was already mounted to his right, clad in campaign armor, face set with determined excitement. To John's left, Magister Salim adjusted his grip on a staff inlaid with runes – he would accompany the march initially to assist with any magical logistics before returning to manage arcane communications from the capital.
Behind them stretched the core of Arslan's imperial guard cavalry, pennants snapping. Further back, infantry columns stood like bristling forests of spears. It was a sight to stir the blood – thousands of men united and awaiting his signal.
But John's eyes in that moment were turned back toward the city gate, where a small cluster of onlookers had gathered to see him off. At the forefront was Rashid, bundled in a thick robe, the newly-appointed regent blinking away tears he did not bother to hide. Beside him stood Yvara, cloaked in velvet against the cold, her red hair luminous in the dawn light. A few paces behind were other concubines and courtiers, all wishing to witness the departure of their Emperor to battle.
John gently nudged his horse and trotted a few steps back toward them for a final farewell.
Rashid stepped forward, bowing deeply and then, in a burst of emotion, grasping John's stirrup. "May the Eternal Light guard you, my son," he quavered. "The palace and city shall await your victorious return. I shall pray each day for you."
John reached down and clasped the old eunuch's shoulder. "I ride secure knowing you keep hearth and home, father. Look after everyone for me."
Rashid managed a watery smile. "With my life. Now go – carve your name in their histories."
Yvara moved beside Rashid, holding up a small object in her hands – a silken handkerchief embroidered with a pattern of a lion beneath a crescent moon. John recognized it as her own handiwork; he had seen her embroidering it in the evenings recently.
She swallowed nerves and spoke softly, "A token for luck, my Emperor."
John took the handkerchief, noticing it carried a faint scent of jasmine – her scent. He pressed it to his lips then tucked it securely into his belt. "I shall carry it close to my heart. And thoughts of you with it."
Yvara's eyes glistened. "Return to us safely," was all she could manage, voice choked with feeling.
John leaned down, and decorum be damned, he placed a gentle kiss on her forehead for all to see. A soft murmur rippled through the nearby onlookers at the tender gesture. Yvara closed her eyes, a tear escaping down her cheek, but when she opened them they shone with courage. She stepped back beside Rashid, who put a comforting arm around her.
John took in the faces gathered – these people who meant so much to him now. Livia the archivist was there, clutching a stack of scrolls perhaps intended for his journey. Zafir, the guildmaster, gave a thumbs-up of confidence. Even Minister Aru had come to witness, bundled in furs and nodding respectfully – his earlier trepidations seemingly set aside in patriotic front.
John drew a deep breath and raised his gloved hand in a parting salute. "Until my return – Light guard you all!"
"And you, Majesty!" came the answer from Rashid and others, voices strong.
With that, John wheeled his horse around and rejoined Safid and the commanders.
Trumpets sounded, high and clarion, their echoes dancing off the city's outer walls. The great oak-and-iron gates groaned fully open, revealing the road ahead unfurling toward distant hills.
John unsheathed his sword and held it aloft. The blade caught the newborn sunlight, gleaming fiercely – almost seeming to flare in John's grasp as if the spirit within sensed the dawn of a glorious quest.
"Forward, march!" Safid barked in his drill-ground roar.
Banners dipped and then rose. Drums struck a marching cadence. With a collective creak and shuffle, the imperial army began to move.
John led the way, spurring his stallion to a steady canter. Behind him, thousands of boots and hooves fell into rhythm. The City of Light's people cheered from the walls and parapets, showering petals and ribbons. As he passed under the gate arch, John could distinctly hear one voice – Yvara's – ringing out with a clear, hopeful cheer, until it was one among many.
He did not look back again. He kept his eyes on the horizon, where the morning fog was lifting to reveal the green and gold patchwork of the empire he protected and the lands he yet intended to bind to its peace.
Safid rode close, a fierce grin splitting his scarred face. "It begins, sire."
John nodded, heart steady, blood coursing with purpose. "It does. Let's go make a safer world."
He touched the embroidered token at his belt briefly, drawing strength from the thought of those awaiting his return. Then, with resolve, Emperor Arslan Rûmî – once John Sullivan – urged his horse faster.
The Lion of Midnight rode out at the head of his legions, into destiny.
Behind him, the sun finally breached the horizon, bathing the marching army in golden light as it vanished into the rising day.
Chapter 10 End