Part 1
As the early morning sun bathed the ancient city of Arinthia in warm, golden light, casting long shadows across cobblestone streets teeming with life. Merchants hawked their wares in bustling bazaars, the aroma of spices mingling with the scent of freshly baked bread. Children darted between stalls, their laughter echoing through winding alleys adorned with vibrant murals depicting heroic tales of the Vakerian Empire.
At the city's heart stood the imperial palace, an architectural marvel embodying the empire's might and cultural fusion. Built upon the ruins of an old fortress, the palace complex was a harmonious blend of Vakerian and Gillyrian styles. White limestone walls gleamed under the late September sun, and red-tiled roofs capped towers that soared skyward. Intricate stone carvings of lions and griffins guarded arched entrances, while golden domes reflected sunlight like beacons. The grand courtyard featured lush gardens with softly murmuring fountains and walkways lined with marble statues of past heroes.
Inside the Great Hall, tension crackled like a brewing storm. High above, a coffered ceiling of carved wood and gilded accents drew the eye upward, while sunlight streamed through tall, arched windows adorned with delicate latticework. The polished stone floor displayed geometric patterns, and tapestries depicting epic battles and the unification of the Vakerian and Sorian peoples hung from the walls.
At the hall's center stood Grand Minister Gavril, the emperor's trusted regent. Tall and broad-shouldered, his physique bore the marks of a seasoned warrior, yet his sharp blue eyes revealed the keen intelligence of a strategist. Silver threaded through his dark hair, pulled back into a tight knot that accentuated his strong jawline and neatly trimmed beard. Clad in a tunic of deep crimson embroidered with golden lions—the symbol of imperial authority—he radiated a commanding presence.
"Esteemed peers," Prince Gavril began, his voice resonating off the stone walls like a clarion call. "We gather under dire circumstances. Our expeditionary forces, led by the Emperor himself, have suffered a grievous defeat at the Battle of Sparklestar River. A Gillyrian army of thirty thousand strong, personally commanded by Emperor Alexander, advances toward our borders. We must prepare for the worst."
A hushed murmur rippled through the hall, punctuated by gasps and whispered curses.
To Prince Gavril's right, General Boril shifted, his formidable frame impossible to ignore. A pure-blooded Vakerian warrior serving as envoy from the semi-autonomous principality of Rosagar, he stood over six and a half feet tall, muscles honed by years of combat. His armor—dark iron etched with silver runes—clung to him like a second skin. A cloak of rich sable draped over his shoulders, and a scar traced a path from his brow to his cheek, adding a rugged edge to his stern visage. His brown eyes flashed with indignation.
"How dare these puny Gillyrians!" Boril's deep voice boomed, causing nearby candles to flicker. "We should remind them why our Vakerian cavalry is the stuff of legends!"
Across the table, Duke Milen rose with fluid grace. One of the four Sorian dukes guarding the empire's northern territories, he was tall and lean, his frame more suited to diplomacy than battle. His attire reflected his taste for elegance—a tunic of forest-green velvet embroidered with silver leaves, complemented by a cloak of deep brown fur. Waves of red hair framed a face marked by high cheekbones and thoughtful amber eyes.
"Your passion does you credit, General Boril," Milen replied, his tone measured yet edged with concern. "But steppe cavalry alone may not turn the tide. We must mobilize more troops, but with care. It's late September—the harvest is at its peak. Conscripting too many men now will leave our fields barren, inviting famine and unrest. Perhaps it's wiser for each noble to oversee mobilization within their own fiefs. They know their lands best; they can raise forces swiftly while keeping disruption to a minimum."
Beside Milen stood Duke Dimitri, a charismatic Sorian duke known for his fiery spirit. Of medium height with a muscular build, he wore practical attire—a deep indigo tunic accented with silver trim, sturdy boots still muddied from travel. Sandy blond hair framed his round face, and his hazel eyes sparkled with determination.
"Duke Milen speaks wisely," Dimitri concurred, nodding firmly. "Our local lords are best positioned to handle mobilization efficiently. Allowing them to organize conscription directly ensures our armies are battle-ready without crippling our economy. The imperial court can focus on rallying forces from the provinces and urban centers."
A murmur of agreement swept through the Sorian nobles assembled, their expressions earnest.
Lady Elena, a striking noblewoman of mixed Vakerian and Sorian heritage, stood with poise befitting her status. Clad in a flowing gown of deep crimson velvet that accentuated her statuesque figure, intricate gold and silver embroidery traced patterns along her sleeves and bodice, blending Vakerian knotwork with Sorian floral designs. Her raven-black hair cascaded in loose curls, and her eyes—an arresting shade of violet—held both warmth and steely resolve.
"Esteemed lords," Elena interjected gently, her voice slicing through the murmurs like a silver blade. "While urgency demands swift action, now is not the time to gamble with untested methods. Our centralized mobilization has been our stalwart shield. Abandoning it now for an untried alternative, hoping for a stroke of luck, is a risk we cannot afford. However, we might adapt our current system to include coordinated local efforts, thus minimizing disruption without venturing into uncharted waters."
From the crowd emerged Marquis Niketas, head of the prominent Cadramirum family—one of the ennobled former Gillyrian houses whose influence spanned most urban settlements in the former Gillyrian territories within the empire. Of average height and slender build, Niketas exuded refined intellect. His olive complexion was complemented by dark, wavy hair and a neatly trimmed beard. Dressed in robes of deep blue silk adorned with golden geometric patterns, he embodied the sophistication of Galethia's finest scholars.
"Lady Elena's counsel is sound," Niketas said smoothly, his deep brown eyes surveying the room like a hawk. "Yet, we must be cautious. Rapid mobilization—centralized or localized—carries significant economic risks. The harvest is critical. Disrupting agricultural activities now could lead to shortages come winter. Perhaps we should explore alternative strategies."
Rurik, the Norkerman general of the Arinthia's garrison force, leaned casually against a carved pillar. A towering figure with a broad chest and muscular arms, he wore a mix of chainmail and leather, accented by a bearskin cloak draped over one shoulder. His long flaxen hair was intricately braided, and a well-groomed beard framed his chiseled jawline. His icy blue eyes held a glint of practicality—and a hint of mischief.
"Then perhaps the solution lies beyond our borders," Rurik suggested, his deep voice tinged with his Norkerman accent. "For the right price, I can muster a formidable force from among my brethren. But we will need to send a caravan north to recruit these warriors. There are plenty of seasoned fighters who could bolster our ranks without pulling more hands from the plow."
Gavril stroked his beard thoughtfully. "An intriguing proposition. Mercenaries could provide immediate reinforcement."
Stepping forward from the shadows was Master Petros, the minister of finance—a scholar of Gillyrian heritage. Slight of build with keen grey eyes, his silver-streaked hair was neatly trimmed. Clad in modest robes of dark green, he held a ledger bound in worn leather.
"Your Excellency," Petros began respectfully, his voice measured but laced with concern. "While hiring mercenaries has merit, we must scrutinize the state of the treasury. Recent campaigns have drained our coffers. Tax revenues are down due to poor harvests in some regions and trade disruptions along the Danubian River."
Gavril's brow furrowed. "Are you implying we cannot afford additional expenses?"
Petros inclined his head. "Not without imposing new taxes or borrowing funds, both of which bear long-term consequences. Raising taxes may incite unrest, especially during harvest. Borrowing places us in debt, possibly to foreign lenders, which carries its own risks."
Niketas interjected smoothly, "Perhaps we can leverage existing trade agreements to secure loans on favorable terms. Master Petros, your connections might prove invaluable."
Petros cast a wary glance at Niketas. "While possible, Marquis, it would still burden the empire's future finances."
Boril exchanged a glance with Gavril. "Alternatively, we could encourage voluntary contributions from the noble houses," he suggested. "Those with means could sponsor mercenary units, demonstrating their commitment to the empire's defense."
Niketas' eyes narrowed slightly. "A noble idea, General Boril, but not all houses may be willing or able to contribute equally. It raises questions of fairness and could sow discord."
Elena raised a graceful hand. "If hiring mercenaries strengthens our forces without overburdening our people, we must find a way. But ensuring their loyalty in the heat of battle is paramount. Mercenaries fight for coin, not country."
Patriarch Kyrill, the spiritual leader of the Vakerian Church, stepped forward. Clad in robes of pure white accented with gold embroidery, he held a staff topped with a crystal orb that shimmered softly. His silver beard flowed over his chest, and his pale blue eyes radiated serenity.
"Esteemed council," Kyrill began, his voice soothing yet resonant. "Perhaps there's another path. Before we commit to further bloodshed, should we not seek to resolve our differences through diplomacy? The Gillyrians are our brothers in faith. Open dialogue could prevent unnecessary loss of life and, at the very least, buy us time to fortify our defenses."
Gavril nodded slowly. "Diplomacy is always preferable to war. Yet we must be realistic about our adversaries' intentions."
Niketas stepped forward, a subtle smile playing on his lips. "If I may, Your Excellency, I've cultivated connections within the Gillyrian court through trade and scholarly exchange. I could serve as an envoy to initiate talks."
Boril's gaze hardened, his voice edged with skepticism. "And why should we entrust you with such a task, Marquis? Your loyalties seem... flexible."
Niketas met Boril's stare without flinching. "My loyalty lies with the prosperity of this empire. Peace benefits us all—economically and socially. War is a costly endeavor."
Elena intervened smoothly. "Marquis Niketas's connections could be invaluable. We must explore all avenues."
Dimitri added, "While we prepare our defenses, engaging in diplomacy is prudent. If nothing else, it may delay the Gillyrian advance."
Gavril glanced at Petros. "Master Petros, can we afford both military preparations and diplomatic efforts?"
Petros touched his chin thoughtfully. "Diplomatic missions are far less costly than war, Your Excellency. If successful, they could save us immeasurable expense and hardship."
Rurik shrugged nonchalantly. "I have little love for diplomacy, but if it buys us time to sharpen our swords, it's worth a shot."
Boril crossed his arms, his tone grim. "I caution against placing too much faith in words. The Gillyrians are cunning. They may use diplomacy to sow discord or gather intelligence."
Kyrill rested a gentle hand on Boril's armored shoulder. "Faith and caution need not be at odds. We can pursue peace while remaining vigilant."
Gavril exhaled deeply. "Very well. Marquis Niketas, you will lead a delegation to Galethia. Ensure our interests are represented firmly and our dignity upheld."
Niketas bowed slightly. "I shall depart at once, Your Excellency."
Boril muttered under his breath but said no more.
Turning back to the assembly, Gavril continued, "In the meantime, we proceed with preparations. General Rurik, coordinate with Master Petros to assess the feasibility of hiring additional mercenaries. Petros, explore financial avenues that do not jeopardize our stability. Dukes, begin organizing your regional levies while coordinating with your vassals and Lady Elena to ensure minimal disruption to the harvest."
Elena added with a reassuring smile, "I will coordinate the overall mobilization effort and personally focus on the imperial provinces and urban centers."
Dimitri offered a respectful nod. "Your efforts are invaluable, Lady Elena."
As the council began to disperse, Gavril approached Boril. "I share your concerns about Niketas," he said quietly. "But we must tread carefully. Openly questioning his loyalty could create rifts we cannot afford."
Boril grunted, his gaze distant. "I hope your trust isn't misplaced. The stakes are too high."
Meanwhile, Niketas exited the hall, a contemplative expression on his face. In a quiet corridor, a shadow detached itself from the gloom—a messenger bearing the insignia of the Cadramirum family.
"Proceed as planned," Niketas whispered, his eyes gleaming. "I knew they would need someone to scapegoat."
The messenger nodded silently and melted back into the shadows.
Part 2
In the early morning light, the Vakerian troops began their strategic retreat from Nviom, with General Bisera leading them along the rugged coastline toward Thessaloria. The air was crisp and salty, filled with the cries of seabirds and the distant murmur of waves against the rocky shore. Bisera had orchestrated a masterful deception based on James's advice: rumors had been sown among the local populace about various escape routes—through the Vale of Tempe, the dense forests near Mount Olympus, and hidden paths along inland riverbanks. These whispers reached Gillyrian ears, scattering their forces as they attempted to block multiple routes, leaving the coastal path less guarded.
James drove his SUV—the divine wagon, as the soldiers had come to call it—following behind the marching troops. The sleek, horseless vehicle was a source of awe and speculation among the Vakerians, and many believed it was a gift from the heavens. Before setting out, James had offered Bisera a seat inside, assuring her it would be safer.
"Bisera, you should ride with me. It is safer in the SUV," James suggested earnestly.
Bisera shook her head, her eyes resolute. "I appreciate your concern, James, but as their leader, I must be seen at the front. My presence inspires them. Hiding away would only sow doubt."
He nodded, understanding the weight of her responsibility. "Just promise me you'll be careful."
She offered a faint smile. "Always."
As they advanced, Bisera rode at the forefront, her keen eyes scanning the cliffs above and the trail ahead. She had instructed James to stay within his divine wagon during any potential conflicts.
"James, if we encounter the enemy, stay inside your wagon," she had insisted. "Your safety is important."
"I can help—" he began.
"Please," she interrupted gently. "Let me handle this. Your knowledge has been invaluable, but the battlefield is no place for you."
Reluctantly, he agreed. "Alright. But if you need anything, I'm here."
After several miles, a scout returned at a gallop, his face flushed. "General, Gillyrian skirmishers spotted ahead. They're attempting to block the pass near Cape Pythium."
Bisera nodded, absorbing the information. The cape was a narrow point where the cliffs pressed close to the sea, leaving little room for maneuvering. "They're trying to bottleneck us," she mused aloud.
She quickly called for her officers, outlining a plan that showcased her tactical brilliance.
"Velika," she addressed, "Take a contingent and scale the cliffs to the east. The path is steep but navigable. Once you reach the top, flank their position and await my signal."
Velika grinned, her eyes gleaming. "Consider it done."
Bisera turned to her troops. "Prepare for engagement. We will feign a frontal assault to draw their attention. Stay sharp and follow my lead."
As the troops prepared, Bisera rode along the lines, her voice carrying over the sound of the sea. "Soldiers of Vakeria! The Gillyrians think to corner us, but we will show them the indomitable spirit of our people. Together, we turn their ambush into their downfall!"
A resounding cheer went up, the men bolstered by her confidence.
James watched from inside the SUV, his hands gripping the steering wheel. He felt a mix of anxiety and helplessness. He wanted to be out there supporting Bisera, but he respected her wishes. "Stay safe," he whispered.
The Vakerian forces advanced toward the narrow pass, banners fluttering in the sea breeze. As they approached, Gillyrian archers appeared atop the cliffs and along the blockade ahead, loosing arrows intended to sow chaos and panic. Bisera had anticipated this; she ordered her shield bearers to the front, forming a protective wall. Arrows thudded against raised shields, the Vakerians maintaining steady progress.
From his position at the blockade, the Gillyrian commander Akarios watched with narrowed eyes. He was a seasoned tactician, and the sight of the disciplined Vakerian advance unsettled him. "Increase the barrage!" he commanded. "Break their formation!"
Bisera signaled, and her troops halted just out of effective bow range. She remained composed, conserving her mana for when it would be most needed.
"Hold your ground," she ordered.
Her archers stepped forward, returning fire with precision. The exchange continued, neither side gaining a significant advantage.
Meanwhile, Velika and her contingent had begun their ascent while the Gillyrians' attention was drawn by Bisera. Scaling the cliffs with practiced ease, they moved silently, positioning themselves above the Gillyrian archers.
Back at the front, Bisera assessed the situation. The Gillyrians were holding firm at the blockade, but she noticed a slight overextension on their right flank—a vulnerability she could exploit.
"Prepare to advance," she commanded.
At that moment, Akarios decided to press the attack. He led a charge from the blockade, his soldiers surging forward to engage the Vakerians directly along the narrow path.
Bisera met his gaze across the battlefield. Recognizing the imminent clash, she steeled herself. "Now is the time," she thought.
As the two forces collided, Bisera charged forward on her horse, her posture poised and commanding. She refrained from using her mana immediately, relying on her exceptional swordsmanship. From atop her steed, she deftly parried incoming strikes, leading her men with unwavering courage.
Amidst the chaos, she spotted Akarios astride his own warhorse, cutting through her soldiers with alarming strength. Each swing of his gigantic sword cleaved through armor and flesh as if they were nothing. His mana-enhanced power was devastating, leaving a trail of destruction in his wake.
James watched from a distance, seated inside his SUV. His hands gripped the strange steering wheel tightly, knuckles white. The horrific spectacle unfolded before him: soldiers sliced in half, their lifeless bodies crumpling to the ground. A wave of nausea washed over him. This was no sanitized history book or reenactment; it was brutal, visceral, and terrifyingly real. The dark side of the medieval world lay bare before his eyes.
Bisera realized she had to confront Akarios. She urged her horse forward, carving a path through the fray until she faced him. Their horses reared slightly as they drew near, the tension between them palpable.
"General Bisera," Akarios greeted with a cold smile, his eyes glinting beneath his helmet. "Come to test your mettle?"
"I've come to put an end to this," she replied, her voice steady.
They circled each other on horseback, eyes locked. The surrounding soldiers instinctively gave them space, recognizing the gravity of the encounter.
Akarios wasted no time, swinging his sword in a powerful overhead arc. Bisera channeled her mana, feeling the surge of energy heighten her senses and quicken her reactions. She guided her horse to sidestep the blow with incredible speed, the blade slicing through the air where she had been moments before.
His missed strike continued downward, crashing into the earth and sending shards of rock flying. The ground trembled under the impact, and a nearby Vakerian soldier was thrown to the ground by the force.
Akarios swung again, a horizontal slash aimed to cleave her in two. Bisera leaned low against her horse's neck, evading the deadly arc. The blade sliced cleanly through the lance of a soldier behind her, severing it effortlessly, and continued into a stone outcrop, splitting it with a thunderous crack.
She retaliated with swift thrusts, her mana-enhanced speed allowing her to strike at openings before he could react. From horseback, she was a blur of motion, her sword glinting in the sunlight as it darted toward him. Akarios deflected most of her attacks but grunted as one cut grazed his arm, a thin line of crimson appearing.
"You're fast," he admitted, eyes narrowing. "But how long can you keep it up?"
"As long as necessary," she retorted, determination blazing in her gaze.
He pressed on, his strikes relentless. Each missed attack caused devastation—stones shattered, and unfortunate soldiers who didn't move in time were felled by the sheer force, their armor offering no protection against his might. James watched in horror as one Vakerian warrior was struck by a stray swing, his body cleaved in half as if made of parchment. The sight made James's stomach churn, and he fought the urge to look away.
"Dear God," James whispered, his voice barely audible over the clamor of battle. "I prefer the video games."
Bisera remained focused, using her agility to evade and searching for an opportunity. She noticed that Akarios's powerful attacks left him momentarily off-balance. Timing was crucial.
Meanwhile, Velika and her forces launched their assault from above. With fierce cries, they descended upon the Gillyrian archers atop the cliffs, swiftly overwhelming them. Then, turning their attention below, they attacked the Gillyrian forces from the rear. The sudden onslaught threw the enemy into disarray. Velika's relentless momentum was wearing them down, and Akarios realized his forces were at risk of being overwhelmed.
He scowled, frustration evident in his features. "Our mission isn't worth needless losses," he thought grimly.
"Your plan has failed," Bisera stated, her voice cutting through the din, gaze unwavering.
Akarios's jaw tightened. "Our mission was never to defeat you outright. Only to hinder your retreat and inflict casualties."
He raised his sword high, signaling a retreat. The Gillyrian soldiers began to withdraw in an orderly fashion, covering each other's escape with practiced discipline.
Bisera kept her eyes on Akarios, her sword still at the ready but slightly lowered. Her guard eased as she watched them leave, the immediate threat dissipating. Then, she turned her head in the direction of the SUV, her gaze searching for James.
Suddenly, with a swift movement, the retreating Akarios seized a composite bow from a nearby archer—a weapon favored by Gillyrian soldiers. Channeling his mana into the shot, he notched an arrow and drew the bowstring back with immense force, the wood creaking under the strain.
"Bisera!" Velika shouted from a distance, seeing the danger too late.
Bisera turned just as Akarios released the arrow. The projectile flew with blinding speed, a streak of deadly intent too fast for her to react.