Act V – The Western Campaign Chapter 1: The Camp of Lions
Night had fallen upon the foothills of the Zull Framents, and the imperial camp glowed with a hundred cookfires flickering in the dark. Jagged silhouettes of the mountains loomed against a sky prickled with cold stars. The air was thin and carried the scents of spiced mutton stew and woodsmoke, mingling with the tang of iron from thousands of weapons at rest. Emperor Arslan Rûmî—born John Sullivan—stood at the center of it all, letting the sounds of his army wash over him. The crackle of flames, the low murmur of soldiers' conversations, and the occasional whinny of horses formed a familiar lullaby of war preparations.
Arslan moved among his men with a deliberate ease. He had traded his gilded armor for a plain wool cloak and simple leather boots—tonight, he wanted to be less Emperor and more soldier among soldiers. As he passed each cluster of troops huddled around a fire, they paused in their murmurs to salute or bow. He returned each greeting with a respectful nod and a clasp of the shoulder, meeting eyes and sharing a few words. These men had marched with him for days from the capital, five thousand strong, hardened by loyalty and hope. Another five thousand from the western provinces had joined en route, swelling their force to ten thousand—enough, he prayed, to tame these mountains.
He approached one of the larger campfires where a circle of veteran spearmen were ladling stew into wooden bowls. The firelight etched their faces in reds and oranges, revealing sweat, dust, and cautious excitement. The Emperor lowered himself to a free spot on a log between two soldiers, as if he were merely another weary traveler seeking warmth. A few men stiffened in surprise, but Arslan gave a disarming grin and reached for the ladle.
"Hand it here," he said, voice calm yet carrying easily. "Even an Emperor serves his turn." There was a beat of hesitation, then a ripple of relaxed laughter when they realized he meant it.
Arslan filled a bowl and passed it to the grey-bearded sergeant at his right. The old veteran—a man named Omar, with a scar running from temple to jaw—blinked in astonishment before accepting. "My thanks, Hünkâr," Omar said, using the old battlefield honorific for his leader.
Arslan just nodded and began filling another bowl for himself. "It smells excellent," he noted, inhaling the aroma of cumin and garlic. His stomach growled appreciatively; he had eaten little during the march, too occupied with scouting reports and his own thoughts.
As the men settled, one younger soldier cleared his throat. "Your Majesty, if I may… we are honored you join our humble fire." Others murmured agreement.
Arslan raised a hand lightly. "Tonight I'm simply another man under these stars, sharing food with comrades." He blew on a spoonful of stew and sipped it. The rich, peppery broth warmed him from within. "We march at first light into the Framents. A hard trail awaits. I wanted to break bread with you, hear what's on your minds."
He looked around the circle. At first, only silence met him—an Emperor's presence can freeze tongues—but Arslan's gentle approach thawed the hesitation. Finally Omar, the scarred sergeant, spoke up in a voice rough as gravel: "I've campaigned these parts before, Hünkâr. The tribes in those peaks… they fight like phantoms. Hit-and-run, vanish in the rocks. And with respect, they ain't ever faced you, sire, nor that magic I've been hearing about."
A few nearby chuckled quietly, and one muttered, "Aye, we've all heard the tales… force-shields and fire from empty air." It wasn't mocking; more like prideful wonder. They had heard rumors of their Emperor's mastery of Rune-Enscriptive Energetics, though few had witnessed it yet. Arslan's exploits in the capital—healing wounds, conjuring barriers—were spreading through the ranks as legend.
Arslan set down his bowl, feeling the weight of their expectations. The firelight danced in his eyes as he answered, "The mountains will test us. The Zull Framents are laced with old magic and new dangers. Traps can be laid in stone and soil as well as wood and rope. But remember—" he reached to a leather pouch on his belt and drew out a small flat stone etched with complex symbols, holding it up so the flickering light revealed the carving, "—we do not walk unarmed into that sorcery."
The men leaned in to see. The flat stone held a protective rune: a personal ward he had inscribed himself earlier that evening. Its lines glimmered faintly in the fire's glow. "Each of my officers carries one of these wards tonight," Arslan continued. "If dark magic is sprung on us, we have our shield." He closed his fist around the stone; a brief pulse of warm blue light shimmered between his fingers before subsiding. A few soldiers exchanged impressed glances.
"But," Arslan added, "valor and vigilance will carry us as much as any magic. Trust your training and each other. Keep your wits sharper than your swords. There's no foe we cannot overcome so long as we stand together, evet?"
"Evet! Yes!" Omar grunted, thumping a fist to his heart. Others followed, echoing agreement. The tension eased palpably; where there had been some fear of the unknown, now was a steadier resolve.
A younger recruit across the fire—a boy probably no older than eighteen—lifted his voice hesitantly. "Your Majesty… they say the tribes have never been beaten in their own mountains. That even the old kings failed to pacify them."
Arslan studied the lad's wide eyes, seeing the flicker of dread he tried to mask with bravado. "What is your name, son?"
"Kamal, sire," he replied.
"Kamal," Arslan said steadily, "I won't lie to you. The Framents have devoured many armies. These tribes know every ridge and ravine. They use the terrain like a weapon." He paused, letting the crackle of the fire underscore the gravity of his words. "But they have never faced an army led by us. Not by me, not by General Safid, and not by brave souls like Omar here—men who've fought in worse pits and persevered." He gave Omar a respectful nod and saw the old soldier stand a bit taller.
He continued, voice gaining a quiet intensity, "We carry not only steel and spell, but justice. The mineral wealth of these hills will feed the empire's people, not line the pockets of warlords. The tribes must learn that the Lion of Rûmî protects his realm." At that, a few men murmured the moniker—the Lion of Rûmî—and Kamal's eyes lit with admiration.
Arslan managed a small smile. "Eat well and rest. Tomorrow, we'll all need our strength. And Kamal—stay close to your sergeant in the coming marches. Omar will see you through the worst of it." The young man nodded vigorously, reassured by the personal attention.
For a while, the Emperor remained by the fire as the conversation turned to lighter things: a few soldiers swapped jokes about the stringy goat meat they'd eaten the night before; another started softly plucking a saz (a long-necked lute), producing a wistful tune that drifted over the camp. Arslan listened, chuckling at their humor and letting the simple music remind him of nights long past.
He thought of other fires on other fields—memories from two lifetimes. In one life he'd been John Sullivan, crouched with U.S. comrades under desert skies, sharing canned rations and crude jokes to stave off fear before a mission. In this life, he was Emperor Arslan Rûmî, leading thousands into battle under foreign stars. Different worlds, same stars, he mused as he gazed upward. The constellations were strange here, yet in their pattern he found a comforting familiarity. War, after all, had been his companion in both existences.
After an hour, Arslan rose, clapping Omar's shoulder in thanks. "Good night, my friends. Keep the fires lit and your hearts stout."
"You too, sire," several replied. Omar gave a gap-toothed grin. "And thank you for breaking bread with us. The men will remember it."
Arslan inclined his head and took his leave, stepping away from the warm circle of light into the darkness beyond. The chill of the mountain night immediately embraced him. He drew his cloak tighter as he walked through the sprawling camp toward his tent. Around him, the camp settled. Sentries made their rounds at the perimeter, their spear tips gleaming under torchlight. Horses snorted and stamped as stable hands laid blankets over them against the dropping temperature. Here and there, men laughed softly or murmured prayers to whatever gods they believed watched over soldiers.
The Emperor's tent stood near the center of the encampment, distinguishable only by its larger size and a banner bearing the imperial emblem fluttering outside: a golden lion rampant on a field of black. Two guards in lacquered breastplates flanked the entrance, their breath visible in the cold air. They straightened at Arslan's approach.
"Sire, all is secure," reported Captain Darius, the younger of the two, his hand on the hilt of his scimitar. "General Safid made rounds not long ago. Nothing to report."
"Well done," Arslan replied. He trusted these men implicitly—handpicked from his elite Janissaries, unwavering in loyalty. "Make sure you both get some hot tea before the night's deep cold sets in."
They saluted, and Arslan ducked through the heavy canvas flap into his tent.
Inside, a bronze brazier glowed with low coals, casting a soft amber light across the space. The tent was spacious but simply furnished: a folding campaign cot piled with thick quilts, a wooden table strewn with maps and scrolls, and a stand for his weapons and armor. His lion-pommeled kilij sword rested there in its scabbard, along with a round shield and helmet. A single ornate rug from Qarthas covered the ground—its intricate blue and gold patterns a gift from the Qarthan ambassador along with… other gifts.
Arslan allowed himself a weary sigh and removed his cloak. The day's march weighed on him now that he was alone. Muscles in his shoulders and back ached. He rolled his neck to loosen them, then moved to the basin and pitcher atop a low side table. Pouring water into the basin, he splashed his face and scrubbed away the grime of travel. The water was cold as glacier melt, startling him fully awake once more.
As he dried off with a linen cloth, a faint sound pricked his ear—fabric whispering against fabric, from the back of the tent. In an instant the soldier in him was alert. He reached out without looking and quietly drew the kilij an inch from its scabbard, just enough to free the blade. The runes etched along its length caught the brazier's light with a dull gleam.
"Who's there?" he said low, authoritative but controlled. His heart thumped steadily, battle-ready.
For a moment, only silence answered. The tent's rear held only shadows—beyond the reach of the brazier's glow, near where a second entrance flap was tied shut. Arslan took one step forward, fingers flexing on the sword hilt.
The shadows moved. From behind a stacked pile of folded carpets and spare cloaks, a figure emerged, standing slowly with hands lifted to show they held no weapon. The figure stepped into the warm light of the coals—a young woman, her dark hair tumbling loose over her shoulders, her form draped in a travel-stained green cloak.
Arslan's breath caught. "Soraya?"
She pushed back the hood of her cloak, revealing delicate features and amber eyes that reflected the brazier's glow. It was Soraya indeed—one of the concubines gifted to his harem by the envoys of Qarthas only a month ago. He remembered her standing shyly in silks during the presentation at court, a rare beauty with a sharp, curious gaze. He had scarcely spoken to her then—duty had called him away—but her presence now was utterly unexpected.
Soraya bowed her head, a posture of apology, but there was steel in her voice. "Forgive my boldness, Majesty… I had to come. I could not remain in the palace wondering if you would return."
Arslan sheathed his sword fully and stepped closer, disbelief and a flare of anger warring within him. "You followed us? All this way?" He kept his tone quiet but intense. Outside, the guards were mere paces away; he did not need this conversation overheard.
"I rode with the supply wagons at the rear," Soraya said quickly. "No one noticed another veiled woman among the camp followers. I made myself useful—bandaging feet, serving bread. I learned to be… inconspicuous." A wry smile ghosted her lips.
Arslan ran a hand through his hair, at a loss. "Soraya, do you realize how dangerous this is? We are marching to war. This is no place for—"
"For a woman?" she finished, one eyebrow arched. "For a concubine?" There was a flash in her eyes—pride and hurt.
He hesitated. "For someone I am sworn to protect. You should be safe in the capital, not hiding in a war camp."
Soraya stepped forward; the light danced over her oval face. She was travel-worn, yes—dust smudged on her cheek, her braid loose—but still her presence was luminous in the dim tent. "My place is at your side, Emperor, whether in a gilded palace or a tent of war." Her voice was soft yet firm. "When Qarthas gifted me to you, it was with the hope I would serve you wholly—body, mind, and soul. How can I do that from hundreds of miles away?"
Arslan opened his mouth to retort, but she pressed on, daring to move closer until she was within an arm's reach. "You march into peril. If I stayed behind, every sunrise I'd wonder if you still lived. I would be useless, pacing the marble halls, fearing the worst. Here, at least I can know. I can help, even if only in small ways. Have I not done so already? None of your soldiers found me out—I tended their hurts and listened to their worries. I've brought an extra pair of eyes and ears where you have few you can trust."
Arslan found himself searching her face in the half-light. He remembered Yvara's tearful expression as he departed the capital—the red-haired concubine had begged him to return safely. He had left all of them behind, thinking it best. And yet here Soraya stood, a world away from perfumed chambers, having braved the same dust and danger as any camp follower. It both infuriated and moved him.
"This isn't about trust," he said, voice low. "It's about risk. If something happened to you—"
He stopped himself, surprised at the depth of feeling that choked off the words. He barely knew Soraya, and yet the thought of harm coming to her on his account was unacceptable.
Soraya's expression softened as she sensed the shift in his tone. She reached out, fingertips gently brushing the back of his hand that still hovered near his sword's hilt. "I chose this, Arslan. I chose you. I'm not some delicate blossom that wilts outside a harem's walls. My father was Qarthas's war minister—did you know that? I grew up hearing strategy and statecraft at the dinner table. I may not swing a sword, but I dare say I can advise a commander's ear as well as any man." There was playful pride in her voice now, mingled with earnestness.
He did not pull his hand away from her touch. "Your father… yes, I recall reading his name in the dossiers. Soraya bint Karim. Your family has an illustrious history." He paused. "But none of that matters if you're killed by an arrow or a misfired spell on the battlefield."
She stepped even closer. The warmth of her body now mingled with his; he could catch a hint of her scent beneath the cloak's dust—a mix of rose oil and perspiration. It was real, human, and oddly intoxicating in its honesty. "Then let me at least spend whatever days come by your side. If death is the price, so be it. Better than wasting away in loneliness and fear." Her voice dropped to nearly a whisper. "Please, John."
He flinched at the sound of his true name on her lips. She was one of the few who knew it—perhaps the only one here. It was a risk to even utter it, but the way she said "John" was intimate, a name spoken not to an Emperor but to the man inside him.
In that moment, Arslan realized his outrage had melted into something else entirely. Concern, admiration… and a rising tide of desire. Under the dirt and exhaustion, Soraya's determination and loyalty shone like a polished gem. She had given up the safety of the palace to follow him into the unknown, using her wits to adapt to camp life. How could he send her back now?
He sighed, a mix of exasperation and surrender. "You know if Safid finds out I have you here, he'll have an aneurysm," he muttered wryly. He pictured his grizzled general's face contorting in stern disapproval.
Soraya's lips curved into a smile—victory within reach. "General Safid doesn't need to know. To all others, I'm just another servant. I won't be a hindrance, I promise." She placed her other hand over his, fully enveloping it now. Her skin was warm despite the chill in the tent. "Let me prove my worth, Majesty."
Arslan looked down at the hands clasping his. Her fingers were slender but bore a few fresh calluses and tiny cuts—signs she'd been working alongside the followers, not sitting idle. The sight stirred him deeply.
"If you stay," he said slowly, "you follow my every order. If there's danger, you don't throw yourself into it. You'll keep to the rear with the medics when steel meets steel. Agreed?"
Soraya nodded, a loose strand of hair falling over her cheek. "Agreed."
He realized then how close they had drifted. Her face was inches from his, eyes luminous and fixed on him. The air between them felt charged, like the moments before a summer storm.
One of the coals in the brazier popped softly, and a gentle plume of spice-scented smoke wafted through the tent. Arslan noticed Soraya shiver slightly—perhaps from the cold, or perhaps from the intensity of the moment. Instinctively, he lifted a hand and brushed that stray lock of hair behind her ear. Her breath caught at his touch.
"This is madness," he murmured, though there was no conviction in his words now, only wonder. "Utter madness."
"Often the case when hearts are involved," she replied, voice trembling just a little. It was the first hint of vulnerability from her tonight.
Arslan's heart thudded in his chest. He was keenly aware of Soraya's closeness—the rise and fall of her breaths, the faint freckles on her nose, the way her lashes cast shadows on her cheeks. Every instinct told him to be cautious—he was on campaign, he needed a clear head for battle. And yet, this woman's courage and devotion had pierced straight through his defenses.
He gently cupped her chin, tilting her face up slightly. "Soraya… if you stay, there's no going back to how things were."
"I don't want things as they were," she whispered. "I want you, as you are—John or Arslan, soldier or Emperor. That is all I have ever wanted since the day I first saw you."
He remembered that day. Amid the formal ceremony in the throne room, Soraya had met his gaze with a boldness that belied her station. He had been struck by it then—a flash of connection. Now that spark threatened to ignite into full flame.
Arslan closed the distance between them. He kissed her softly at first, testing, as if she might break. But Soraya answered with a fervor that surprised him—she rose on her toes and pressed into him, arms twining around his neck. The taste of her lips was sweet with a hint of salt from dried tears he hadn't noticed before. He realized she must have been afraid of his rejection, and those tears were of relief.
The kiss deepened. Arslan's arms encircled her waist, pulling her against his chest. Soraya melted into the embrace, a soft sigh escaping her. For the first time in months—perhaps since his strange rebirth in this world—Arslan felt a deep and genuine peace wash through him. No nagging doubts of impersonating an Emperor, no cold dread of the battles to come. Only the warmth of this fearless woman in his arms and the knowledge that, at least for this night, he was not alone.
They parted slowly. Soraya's cheeks were flushed in the dim light, her eyes shining. Arslan rested his forehead against hers and closed his eyes, savoring the quiet closeness. Outside, the sounds of the camp had dwindled; midnight approached, and with it a stillness broken only by the distant tread of sentries and the occasional neigh of a restless horse.
"You should sleep," he murmured, brushing a thumb over her cheek. "You must be exhausted."
Soraya shook her head gently. "I've never felt more awake." But as she said it, a yawn escaped—betraying her fatigue.
Arslan chuckled under his breath and guided her to the cot. "We both must rest while we can. Tomorrow will be arduous." He sat and began to tug off his boots, feeling suddenly shy as reality settled. This was no longer an Emperor commanding a subject—it was a man and a woman about to share the night.
Soraya unfastened her cloak and let it drop. Beneath, she wore a simple tunic and trousers like a common traveler, a dagger sheathed at her hip—another surprise, that she had armed herself. He gave her a quizzical look at the weapon.
She smiled softly. "I told you, I'm not entirely defenseless."
They removed the remainder of their outer garments. Arslan took care to bank the brazier, dimming the light. Then he lay beside Soraya under the quilts. In the darkness, they found each other easily. Her body curled against his, fitting perfectly. He could feel her heart racing as fast as his own.
"Thank you for letting me stay," she whispered, her lips at his ear and arms draped over him. There was profound gratitude in her tone.
Arslan held her close. "You leave me little choice," he teased gently. "Stubborn woman."
She laughed softly, a musical sound in the gloom. "I learned from the best. The Lion of Rûmî is nothing if not stubborn."
He huffed a quiet laugh and fell silent, simply enjoying the sensation of her fingers tracing idle patterns on his arm. In that tender silence, other thoughts crept in: Yvara. He felt a pang of guilt at how easily he had given in to Soraya's embrace. Yvara had been his first friend among the harem, her kindness a balm in those early confusing days. He still remembered the pain in Yvara's eyes when he left for war. I will return, he had promised her. But what would he return as? The bond he was forming now with Soraya—how would it change things? There would be courtly complications, no doubt. Yet at this moment, as Soraya's breathing evened into sleep against him, Arslan let those worries drift away.
He pressed a light kiss to Soraya's brow, silently vowing to protect her. Outside, a lone wolf howled somewhere in the far distance on the mountain slopes, and Arslan found his eyelids growing heavy.
Tomorrow would bring blood and strife. But for the remainder of this night, the Emperor allowed himself to savor a rare happiness. In the heart of the encampment, beneath the indifferent scatter of stars, Arslan Rûmî—John Sullivan—held Soraya close and slipped into a deep, dreamless sleep, ready to face the dawn together.
Chapter 2: The Red Gulch
Dawn broke pale and cold over the encamped army. A thin mist clung to the ground as Arslan emerged from his tent, Soraya discreetly slipping out a moment before him to mingle with the waking camp followers. The first light painted the crags of the Zull Framents in hues of rose and gold. In the distance, an eagle's cry echoed off the cliffs, a sharp herald of the day's arrival. Arslan took a deep breath of the crisp air; it smelled of dew on stone and the lingering smoke of last night's fires.
Within the hour, the imperial column was on the move. The camp struck tents with practiced efficiency. Men buckled on armor still cold from the night frost and checked the edges of swords and spearpoints. Arslan donned his scaled cuirass and riding cloak, the gilded lion insignia at his breast catching the dawnlight. General Safid rode up to join him at the vanguard—the general's craggy face unreadable beneath his helm, save for a faint approval in his eyes at seeing the men ready and spirits high.
Safid surveyed the ranks and gave a satisfied grunt. "The men are eager, Majesty. Morale is good after your visit among the campfires." He did not explicitly mention it, but word had spread swiftly of the Emperor breaking bread with common soldiers.
Arslan mounted his warhorse, a tall dapple-grey charger named Kismet. "They'll need that morale for what lies ahead," he replied. The Emperor's breath puffed in the chill as he spoke. He glanced surreptitiously toward the middle of the column where the supply wagons rolled into formation and the noncombatants traveled. Somewhere among them, Soraya would be riding, perhaps on one of the spare horses or walking with a hood drawn. He trusted she would keep her head down as promised.
With a cry of horns, the column set off. Ten thousand strong wound their way along a dirt road that soon narrowed into a rocky trail hugging the mountainside. The path was just wide enough for four men abreast or a single wagon. Steep slopes rose to the left, dotted with gnarled pines and thorny scrub. To the right, the ground fell away into a deep gorge where a ribbon of river glinted far below. The sound of flowing water reached them as a distant roar, competing with the clank of armor and the creak of wagon wheels.
Arslan rode at the front with Safid and a contingent of the Imperial Guard. Behind them trailed companies of infantry in tight blocks, cavalry units leading their horses on foot for now due to the treacherous path, and finally the baggage train. The additional five thousand provincial troops—hardy men accustomed to these frontiers—took point on the flanks and rear under their local captains, scouting the higher ridges.
As the sun climbed, its warmth dispelled the clinging mist. What began as a promising, clear morning grew sweltering as the narrow pass trapped the heat. By mid-morning the men were sweating under their armor. The pine trees above offered little shade; the air smelled of resin and dust. Arslan rode in silence, eyes constantly scanning the heights. The locals expected trouble sooner rather than later—the first day in hostile territory was often ripe for an ambush.
Safid cleared his throat. "We'll reach the Red Gulch by noon, if these maps hold true," he said, tapping the rolled chart in his hand. "Nasty bottleneck there. Ideal spot for the enemy to make a stand."
Arslan had studied the same maps in detail. "I'm counting on it," he replied quietly. "If I were the tribal chieftain, I'd test us early—try to bloody our nose at the first narrow gulch to gauge our strength."
Safid grunted in agreement. "We'll be ready. Scouts are ranging ahead. Our archers have arrows nocked. If those bastards show, we'll give them a volley they won't forget."
They pressed on. By late morning, the column entered a region where enormous boulders flanked the trail, fallen long ago from the cliffs above. The passage snaked between these stones, forcing troops into an almost single-file line at points. The towering rocks cast merciful slices of shade, but also looming threats—each one a potential hiding spot for foes.
Arslan felt a knot of apprehension tighten in his gut. His right hand drifted to the hilt of his sword, and he caught Safid's eye. The general had raised a fist quietly, signaling a halt. Silence fell over the troops, broken only by the clop of horses who sidestepped restlessly. Everyone listened.
A faint thrumming hum, just at the edge of hearing.
Arslan's pulse quickened. He knew that sound—magic. The ward-stone in his belt pouch vibrated in resonance with something ahead. "Safid—" he began, but it was too late.
Up front, one of the scouts shouted an alarm. The cry reverberated off stone: "Trap! It's a—"
His warning was cut off by a deafening crack. The ground beneath the leading file of soldiers erupted as a hidden rune sigil flared sky-blue then detonated. Earth and rock sprayed upward in a vicious hail. Men and horses were flung back screaming.
In the same heartbeat, Arslan yanked the ward-stone from his pouch and hurled a pulse of protective energy forward. A translucent blue shield shimmered over the front ranks just as a second explosion boomed to their left—another rune triggered on a boulder, sending shards of stone scything through the air.
Arslan's hastily cast shield deflected the worst of the shrapnel, but the force still knocked several men to the dirt. Ears ringing, Arslan swung down off Kismet. "Form up! Shields high!" he roared. Soldiers were already scrambling to raise shields overhead, eyes wild. The horses whinnied in panic; a few broke free from handlers and bolted down the line.
Safid bellowed orders with battlefield calm. "Steady, hold ranks! Archers forward to cover!" Though dazed by the blast, the troops responded, discipline taking over where shock left off.
The dust slowly settled. Two craters smoked in the road ahead, and broken bodies lay nearby. Arslan's stomach clenched at the sight. A scout's limp form hung half off the edge of the path, blood trickling from his temple. Another man was down groaning, clutching a mangled leg. The ward-stones had saved many from worse, but not all had escaped harm.
Arslan rushed to the nearest injured soldier—a pikeman whose arm was shredded by rock splinters. The man was pale, choking back a scream as blood pulsed through his fingers. Arslan knelt and slapped his palm over the wound. He summoned the glyphs for a basic healing array from memory, sketching them in the air with two fingers. As he did, he focused his will until a soft green glow emanated beneath his hand. The flow of blood slowed, then stopped, flesh knitting over the torn muscle.
The soldier's eyes widened in astonishment and relief. "Th-thank you, Majesty," he gasped.
Arslan nodded tersely. "Stay with the medics." He stood, adrenaline still surging. Around him, corpsmen hurried in to tend the remaining wounded, including one carrying a rune-etched stretcher for a cavalryman who lay motionless.
General Safid exhaled a breath as he surveyed the carnage. "Damn clever. Traps were set off by our own weight on the trail. Likely pressure runes keyed to heavy steps." He kicked a chunk of smoldering stone aside, face twisted in anger. "We lost at least four good men, maybe more."
"And more injured," Arslan muttered, voice grim. His ears still rang from the blast, but he kept his composure. He would not show hesitation when every pair of eyes was looking to him. "Those ward-stones prevented a massacre." He glanced to Safid. "We have your caution to thank for halting before the entire vanguard was over the trap."
Safid shook his head. "It was your sensing, sire. I barely saw the scout wave before it went off. Magic's never been my field." The general knelt to pick up a fragment of a rune-inscribed clay tile from one of the craters. "They must have planted these sigils days ago, buried under the road."
Arslan turned and raised his voice to carry down the line. "Engineers to the front! Sweep the path for more surprises!" At once, a team of imperials carrying long poles and detection glyphs hustled forward. They began prodding the earth and scanning with crystal pendants that glowed in proximity to ensorcelled objects.
The Emperor's jaw tightened. So it began—the war of traps and nerves. He beckoned to a nearby captain. "Double the scouts and put our mage sentinels on point. No more blind marching. We'll flush out any other runes before they flush us out."
As orders relayed and the troops carefully reformed, Arslan took a moment to walk the site. The damage was confined to a roughly circular blast zone. Soot streaked the rocks; one pine tree at the trail's edge was charred and smoking. He knelt by one of the fallen—the scout who'd tried to warn them. A jagged shard of stone had pierced the young man's chest. His lifeless eyes stared skyward, surprise frozen on his face. Gently, Arslan closed the man's eyes and murmured a quiet benediction in Turkish, "Huzur içinde yat," an old phrase from Earth that felt appropriate—rest in peace.
A shadow fell across him as he stood. It was Soraya. She had come up the line accompanied by one of the medics, her hood thrown back. Strands of her dark hair blew loose in the canyon breeze. Arslan's first instinct was irritation—she should have stayed back—but as he looked into her concerned face, he realized she had come to help, not to gawk.
She took in the scene with wide eyes, but to her credit, she did not blanch at the blood. Instead, Soraya knelt by a wounded man, helping the medic wrap a bandage tightly around a gashed thigh. Her fingers moved surely and her voice, though quiet, carried a reassuring tone. The soldier visibly calmed under her care.
Arslan approached as they finished, and Soraya rose to meet him. "Majesty, are you hurt?" she asked softly, eyes searching him up and down as if to assure herself.
"I'm fine," he said. The anger in his tone wasn't directed at her, but at the situation. "You shouldn't be here… but thank you. Your aid is welcome." His words were formal, for the benefit of any onlookers, but he gave her a subtle nod of gratitude.
Soraya dipped her head. "They will try to break our momentum early. If we falter now—"
"We won't," he interjected, finishing the thought he knew she had. He understood: an early blow could demoralize the army if handled poorly. Raising his voice, he addressed the nearby men who were tending to the area and watching him anxiously, "The enemy thinks us cowed by tricks. They think wrong. We mourn our fallen today—" he gestured to the bodies now being covered with cloaks, "—but we press on. Every trap they set is a sign of their fear. They know the Lion comes for them."
A few soldiers nodded grimly, and one shouted in ragged defiance, "For the Lion!" A small cheer went up from those within earshot. Arslan knew the entire army hadn't heard, but ripples of morale work in mysterious ways; those few would carry the tale down the line that their Emperor did not flinch, and others would take heart.
Soraya's eyes lingered on him, pride evident in her gaze. She opened her mouth as if to say more, but Safid strode over, dusting off his gauntlets. The general gave Soraya a brief, puzzled glance—perhaps not recognizing her in this context—then returned focus to Arslan. "Path ahead is clear now, sire. Two more runic plates found and disarmed. We're lucky we halted when we did; another few yards and half the vanguard might've been blown to bits."
"Good work," Arslan said. He caught Soraya's eye and ever so slightly tilted his head, a silent command for her to withdraw back. She understood, stepping away quietly to rejoin the medics. Safid's brow furrowed as he watched her leave, clearly storing questions for later, but wisely he said nothing at the moment.
The march resumed with greater caution. Engineers and scouts now walked at least fifty paces ahead of the forward ranks, eyes peeled for any unnatural markings on the ground or suspicious piles of stones that could hide explosives. Muscles remained tense, but as mile followed mile without incident, a guarded confidence returned. They had survived the first trap—albeit at painful cost.
By early afternoon, the column reached the Red Gulch that Safid had spoken of: a narrowing of the pass where sheer walls of crimson rock pressed in from both sides. High above, narrow ledges and overhangs looked ominously down, offering perfect cover for archers or slingers. The troops instinctively closed ranks, shields at the ready.
Arslan called a brief halt just out of range of the gulch's entrance. He and Safid, along with a few officers, rode ahead to survey. The path through the gulch ran perhaps two hundred yards, twisting so one could not see the far end from the entrance. There was no alternative route—the mountains on either side were too steep to climb with an army. If an ambush was going to happen, it would be here.
The Emperor's heart thudded with anticipation. He felt for the reassuring weight of his sword and the collection of rune stones secured in pouches along his belt. He had prepared several offensive glyphs that morning, ready to unleash if needed. He might soon have the chance.
Safid's eyes narrowed at the silent cliffs. "Too quiet," he muttered. "If I were them, I'd be up there now with bows drawn."
Arslan nodded. "They likely are. Time to see how bold they are."
He signaled and a runner brought forth a handful of men carrying large rectangular pavise shields—tall, portable wooden shields nearly as high as a man. These were set in a line at the head of the column. Behind them assembled the archers, nocking arrows to strings. Infantry raised their own shields overhead as an extra precaution.
Arslan decided to lead by example. He dismounted Kismet, handing the reins to an aide, and took up a position behind one of the pavises at the front. Safid protested, "Majesty, there's no need for you—"
"I won't hide while my men bleed," Arslan said firmly. "Stay or go as you will, General, but I'm going through first."
Safid grimaced and dismounted as well, taking his place at Arslan's side. "You'll be the death of me from worry, sire," he growled, though there was a hint of respect behind the frustration.
On Arslan's order, a company of swordsmen formed up immediately behind, ready to surge forward. The plan was simple: draw any ambush into revealing itself with the front guard, then counterattack swiftly.
They advanced into the gulch at a measured pace, each step echoing off the rock walls. Sweat trickled down Arslan's brow despite the gulch's shade; every nerve was taut. He scanned the heights, and for a moment he thought he saw a shadow shift against the red stone. Yes—there, a silhouette of a head peering over an outcrop, gone in a blink. They were not alone.
Halfway through the defile, the trap was sprung. A keening horn blast sounded from above, followed by a chorus of ululating cries. At once, dark shapes popped into view along the cliffs—tribesmen rising from concealed perches. The afternoon light glinted off metal as dozens of spearheads and knife-blades appeared. Then came the arrows.
"Shields!" Safid roared, though none needed the reminder. A rain of iron-tipped shafts fell upon the imperial troops. Many clattered against the propped pavises with dull thuds; others glanced off raised shields. A few screams indicated where arrows found flesh despite the precautions. One man fell beside Arslan with a cry, clutching at an arrow lodged in his shoulder joint.
Arslan pressed his back to the pavise and shouted, "Archers, return fire! Infantry, on my signal we push through!" He risked a glance around the edge of the large shield. The cliffs looked alive with movement—perhaps a hundred tribal warriors, lean figures in ragged cloaks and leather, armed with shortbows and slings. They whooped and hollered, emboldened by having stopped the column's advance.
Arslan felt fury flare hot in his chest. This was their land, yes, but these tribes had waylaid imperial caravans for years and enslaved travelers. He was determined to break their stranglehold here and now.
He pulled one of the rune-etched stones from his belt—a flame glyph inscribed on obsidian. He had charged it with energy earlier, and now he fed it a spark of his will. Leaning out from cover, he hurled the stone up toward a cluster of archers on a ledge. The glyph detonated in a burst of scarlet flame mid-air. A wave of fire whooshed outward, searing across the ledge. Several of the ambushers screamed as flames engulfed them, their bowstrings snapping in the heat.
The return fire from the imperial side was growing. Archers shot upward, peppering the cliffs. Arslan saw at least two tribesmen tumble from their perches after being struck. But the enemy was not yet deterred; more arrows whistled down, and a sling-stone smashed against the pavise near Arslan's head with a loud crack, splitting the wood. Dust rained on him from the impact.
"Now! Charge and clear the heights!" Arslan bellowed. He pushed the broken pavise aside and surged forward, sword drawn. Safid yelled for the infantry to follow. With shields raised, imperial soldiers poured through the defile at a run, shouting battle cries.
The sudden aggressive move surprised the ambushers. Many of the tribesmen skittered back from the edge as arrows and spells came at them. Arslan channeled energy into his free hand and sent a ripple of kinetic force up the steep slope. The invisible blast knocked a pair of bowmen off-balance, one toppling off the ledge entirely with a shriek.
Within minutes, the imperial vanguard emerged out of the gulch's far end onto wider ground. A rocky slope to the right led up toward where the enemy had been positioned. Small knots of tribal warriors were visible retreating up the mountain, realizing the imperials would soon reach their position. They were fast, like mountain goats leaping from rock to rock.
"Don't let them escape unscathed!" Safid roared, signaling a group of his best climbers. Those soldiers threw off heavy packs and began scrambling up the red rocks in pursuit, arrows zipping past them from a few stubborn tribesmen still firing from cover.
Arslan did not join the chase; his role was to secure the pass and move the bulk of the army through. Already, the main force was marching double-time behind to reinforce the vanguard. Instead, he focused on silencing the last pockets of resistance overhead. Spotting a trio of tribesmen taking cover behind a crag to loose arrows, Arslan extended his palm and traced a sigil in the air. He spoke a single word of power under his breath. A crackling lance of sapphire energy shot forth, striking the rock beneath the enemy's feet. The stone exploded, and the three figures were flung down in a cloud of debris.
Moments later, the impromptu skirmish was over. The remaining ambushers melted away into higher reaches where heavily armored soldiers could not easily follow. A few distant cries and the clatter of dislodged rocks echoed as Safid's climbers chased them a short way before prudence halted the pursuit.
Arslan stood at the edge of the battlefield, chest heaving from the adrenaline. His men gathered, and he quickly took stock. Several soldiers sported minor arrow wounds; two had been slain outright in the ambush, their bodies being carried out by comrades. Another sacrifice. But the enemy had been driven off with at least equal losses and a stinging lesson.
One of the provincial captains approached, saluting with a fist to his heart. "Sire, the pass is ours. The cowards flee. Do we push on or make camp beyond the gulch? There's a good flat expanse here by the river bend."
Arslan looked around. The trail beyond the gulch widened into a grassy slope that descended toward a turbulent mountain stream. The afternoon sun was still high, but they had marched hard and fought twice already today. Pushing further now might risk walking into another trap with weary troops.
He nodded. "We camp here for the night. Secure the high ground, post double sentries. And get the wounded seen to immediately."
"Yes, Majesty!" The captain hurried off, relaying the orders.
As the soldiers began setting up a new camp, Arslan finally allowed himself a long breath. Soraya emerged from the trailing units, having kept to the rear during the fight as promised. She rushed toward him across the rocky ground, lifting her skirt slightly to keep from tripping. When she reached him, she did something unexpected: she threw her arms around him in a fierce embrace, heedless of sweat and dust and the presence of others.
Arslan stiffened in surprise—public displays from a harem woman were certainly not protocol—but he quickly returned the embrace, wrapping one arm around her while still holding his sword loosely in the other hand.
"I'm all right," he assured her quietly, mindful of soldiers passing by respectfully averting their eyes. "It's over."