Part 1
Morning sunlight bathed the suburban estate in gentle warmth, highlighting its brick façade and tall windows. Set on a lush acre of manicured lawn, the two-story home—sprawling at nearly seven thousand square feet—appeared peaceful and secure. Inside, however, Bisera watched the foyer from the second-floor gallery like a hawk guarding her brood.
She had heard an unfamiliar voice downstairs, and her warrior's instincts flared. Gripping the hilt of her sword, she edged forward, pressing her back against the wall so no one below could spot her. "Who dares come unannounced?" she wondered, steeling herself for trouble despite her injuries.
From her vantage point, Bisera saw James near the open front door, speaking with a man in a brown uniform who held what looked like a flat box with glowing words. Cautiously, James scribbled his name across its surface, and the stranger wheeled a large cardboard crate into the foyer.
Bisera's brow furrowed. There were no drawn blades, no raised voices—just a courteous nod before the visitor turned and left. As the door shut, she blew out a quiet breath of relief, the tension in her shoulders unwinding. Evidently, not every stranger was an assassin.
For several heartbeats, she watched James as he stared at the box. He wore a rueful half-smile, as though amused that after all their recent tribulations, his greatest challenge at this moment was figuring out what to do with a large parcel.
Stepping back from the railing and turning her back against the wall now, Bisera's gaze met a massive chandelier hung on the ceiling of the two-story living room, its glass components refracting sunlight into tiny rainbows on the walls. Even her beloved churches in Vakeria, with their gleaming candelabras, had nothing that compared to this glittering masterpiece.
A small part of her wondered: If James's world produces wonders like these, is it already walking in the light of Seraphina, or does it merely shine so brightly it forgets the divine altogether? She fought a sardonic smile—imagine a realm so advanced it needed no divine council. Yet James had claimed his own homeworld contained enough darkness to rival any medieval battlefield. The thought made her oddly uneasy.
"Perhaps," Bisera mused wryly, "if humanity can craft a masterpiece like this, they might also forge bigger swords and bigger sins." Then again, maybe the Universal Spirit had simply taken a long break.
She returned her attention to James, now pushing the delivery box against the foyer wall. His shoulders and back flexed beneath his T-shirt as he exerted himself. The sight made her heart flutter, and she almost laughed at herself. Soldier. Focus. She was Bisera, general of the Vakerian Empire, not some maidservant prone to idle daydreams.
Still, he cut an impressive figure. Taller than her—rare in her homeland—his physique hinted at routine discipline. If his world did not demand swordsmanship, it surely required its own sort of fitness. She found herself silently thanking Seraphina that his height matched her own long-limbed frame. Back in Vakeria, noblemen with wandering eyes often found her stature intimidating. James, by contrast, seemed to relish it.
James climbed the stairs, his footsteps soft on the polished wood. Sensing her scrutiny, he looked up and met her gaze. A gentle laugh escaped him. "You were ready to defend me again, weren't you?" he called. "No need—just a delivery guy. I ordered this gaming station months ago, before…" He hesitated, a flicker of memory crossing his face. "…before everything changed."
Bisera gripped her sword more tightly, torn between relief and embarrassment. "I feared the worst," she admitted in her low, clear voice. "I've been betrayed at doorsteps more times than I care to remember."
He nodded sympathetically. "This world can be dangerous, too, but not usually in the form of package deliveries."
She let a tight smile grace her lips, then felt her cheeks warm when she noticed James eyeing her from head to toe. She followed his gaze downward and realized, with a mortified flush, that she was still wearing just a short tunic. It barely covered her upper thighs, leaving her legs fully exposed. Not exactly the formal attire of a noblewoman.
She folded an arm across her midsection, the other still clutching the sword's hilt. "I—I didn't have time to…dress properly," she said, sounding more flustered than she cared to admit.
James's smile turned reassuring, though there was a hint of heat in his eyes. "I appreciate the concern, Bisera. You've saved my life so many times, I lose count. But I don't want you risking a reopened wound for my sake." His gaze dipped momentarily to her bare legs, and he seemed to catch himself. "Shouldn't you be resting?"
Bisera's pulse kicked up. She tried to ignore how his faint flush matched hers. "I'm fine," she insisted, then grimaced at the hypocrisy of her words. Her side still ached from the recent ambush. "I just…didn't want to lose you to anything." The admission hung in the air, heavier than she intended.
James's expression softened. "You won't," he said simply. "Not to a delivery guy, anyway." She had no idea what that meant, but the warmth in his voice made her insides twist in a pleasant way.
A silence fell, not awkward but charged. Bisera couldn't help letting her gaze wander over James's lean form. The sight set a tremor through her heart.
She exhaled slowly, releasing her sword to rest it against the wall. Both her hands free, she reached out and touched James's shoulder—cautiously at first, then more confidently when he didn't flinch away. She felt solid muscle beneath the cloth. Despite his mild demeanor, he was no fragile scholar.
"Thank you," she said, her voice dipping with sincere gratitude. "For letting me heal in this…unbelievably comfortable manor." She cast a quick, playful glance at the chandelier overhead. "In Vakeria, you'd be as wealthy as a king just by virtue of that shining marvel alone."
James let out a gentle laugh. "It's just decorative glass and bulbs. Well, fancy bulbs." When he noticed her quizzical look, he teased, "The magic fire from before, but with pieces of glasses around to amplify its light."
Her eyes widened, lips curling into a tentative smile. "Your world is full of miracles."
James stepped closer, looking almost shy, which Bisera found paradoxically endearing. "Nothing is as miraculous as you or our fated encounter."
She felt a melting warmth under his gaze. "Fated, yes," she whispered. "You are a miracle worth dying for."
He winced in mock pain. "I didn't realize I was such a hardship."
Her cheeks flamed, and she shot him a mildly outraged look. "You know what I mean!"
They both laughed, the sound echoing along the polished railing. The shared amusement eased the tautness in Bisera's chest, but it also heightened the intensity of attraction. She was suddenly very aware of how close their bodies were, how his breath brushed against her cheek when he inhaled.
For a moment, it seemed they might close the distance between them entirely, perhaps even share a kiss. Bisera's heart slammed against her ribcage. Despite trying hard to dismiss her own feelings, Bisera felt part of her yearned for that contact.
Sensing her internal struggle, James exhaled and took a small step back, although his hand lingered near her wrist. "I don't want to push you," he said gently. "Let's not aggravate your injuries—or your sense of decorum."
She raised an eyebrow, swallowing a teasing retort. "You assume I have any sense of decorum left at this point?" The wry glint in her eyes made James grin. "After all, you've already seen most of me…"
James let out a nervous laugh, then cleared his throat. "Right. Let's, uh, get some food. Maybe fry some eggs, or…" He hesitated. "You do eat eggs, right?"
Bisera's expression lit with mild amusement. "If you can crack it open, I'll eat it."
Her answer drew a broad grin from him. "That's my warrior-lady."
She turned slightly, her gaze drifting to the stairwell, her mood shifting to a more practical resolve. "By the way, where's my armor? I should at least know where I've stashed my second skin."
James chuckled at her phrasing. "Safe and sound, I promise. It's in the corner in the chamber you woke up in. I didn't want you stumbling over it while you were still healing."
Bisera felt a flicker of relief. "Good. Let's retrieve it." She hefted her sword, gesturing for him to lead the way. Yet even as she followed him, she marveled at the bizarre mix of her battered war gear and this peaceful, modern home.
"I figured you might want something more comfortable for now," James said once they reached the master bedroom, rummaging through a shelf. He produced a T-shirt and athletic shorts. "I don't exactly have anything in a lady's size. I live alone, so…"
"No maidservants or attendants?" Bisera asked, her tone tinged with disbelief. In her world, a man of his stature—clearly wealthy—would never do his own chores. "You manage all your tasks yourself?"
James shrugged, the faintest hint of embarrassment coloring his voice. "Pretty much, yeah. We have machines for laundry, dishwashing… That sort of thing."
She arched a brow but decided not to question further. Her focus shifted to the open closet behind him: amid rows of modern clothing, something black and lacy draped from a hanger. Bisera's eyes narrowed, drawn to it like a bird spotting an unfamiliar threat. She stepped closer and reached out, her curiosity piqued. "James?" she asked, voice low. "What is…this?"
His face drained of color the moment he realized she'd seen the lingerie—a flimsy piece of black lace left by a former companion. "Oh, um…" He swallowed, raising a hand to his forehead. "That's… a … garment … from someone. I guess I never cleared it out."
Bisera lifted it gingerly between her fingers, baffled by its delicate shape and meager coverage. Her brow furrowed. "Garment… from someone?" She repeated the phrase, not quite grasping his meaning. "You claimed you live alone. Yet you have—" She gestured to the lingerie, lips pressed tight in confusion.
James cleared his throat, color creeping back to his cheeks in a furious blush. "I did… She was an ex-girlfriend. Meaning, we were—together—but we broke up before all this happened with your world."
Bisera's mind spun. In her culture, when a man spoke of being together with a woman, it typically implied marriage, concubinage, or something akin to a thrall arrangement. James had never mentioned a wife or concubine—so who was this woman? Ex-girlfriend meant nothing in her vocabulary. An unwelcome mix of jealousy and confusion coiled in her stomach.
"Is this…some leftover garment from your former mistress?" she asked evenly, doing her best to hide the tremor in her voice. If James was a man of faith, or if he intended to become her husband, the possibility that he had kept a mistress unsettled her. In her homeland, noblemen might keep paramours, but devout families strongly disapproved.
James's eyes went wide. "No! Absolutely not. She wasn't a mistress—just someone I was dating. In my world, it's normal to live together without necessarily being married, and sometimes people part ways." He paused, wincing at how alien that must sound. "I guess…like courtship, but less formal than your betrothals."
Bisera blinked, her throat tightening. Courtship without marriage? That bordered on scandalous in her mind. She tried to banish the thought and lifted the skimpy lace in her hand, her expression dubious. "So she was a… a loose noblewoman? Who lived here with you and wore this as her usual garment?" A flicker of distress crossed her face. "I see."
A twinge of envy made her chest tighten. She believed James to be honorable—yet she couldn't help wondering if he had shared this house, and his bed, with that other woman. Am I merely another in a line of women? She swallowed the thought, half-hearing her confessor's voice in her head, cautioning against covetousness.
"Not her usual garment, but like occasionally, but it's in the past," James insisted, his cheeks flushed. "She left it behind. I honestly forgot it existed. I'm sorry if it offends you."
Bisera frowned at the lace. "Offends? I'm…not certain." Though her tone had gentled, an undercurrent of tension remained. "Perhaps I'm more concerned with how the Spirit might see such…provocation." The idea of a woman purposely wearing so little, just to tempt a man, jarred her devout upbringing. At the same time, a tiny part of her wondered what it might be like to don such a garment, purely to entice. Her cheeks heated at the thought.
James coughed, awkward. "Right. My life then was…messy. But that's behind me now." Gently taking the lingerie from her, he stuffed it into a bag. "I'll get rid of it. You'll never see it again."
She exhaled a measured breath, reminding herself that James had offered her marriage—he wasn't some callous libertine. Still, the revelation left her uneasy. "I suppose men in your world have many… girlfriends?" she ventured, trying to appear casual.
"Never at the same time," James promised, pulse pounding under her gaze. "I haven't had that many either—just a few…attempts."
Bisera nodded slowly, processing his answer. She told herself that if Seraphina had chosen James, she ought to trust him, yet a pang of uncertainty nagged at her heart.
Sensing his discomfort, she managed a tentative smile, though her lingering doubts were far from gone. "I think I prefer steel and leather to…whatever this is," she said, gesturing toward the bagged lingerie. "If Seraphina brought us together, then it must be for a reason." A sudden blush spread across her cheeks, and she added in a whisper, "But don't expect me to wear that."
Almost instantly, a flicker of anxiety crossed her eyes—she worried James might find her to be judgmental. "It's just… I fear the cold," she blurted in hasty explanation, though her heated face betrayed the real blend of emotions swirling beneath her calm exterior.
Part 2
The wind from the Thermaic Gulf swept into Emperor Alexander's command pavilion, rustling the edges of the parchment in his hands. He tightened his grip, as though the weight of the words might escape him. Outside, the campfires of the Gillyrian encampment flickered weakly in the dim evening light, casting an orange glow against the damp ground. Yet inside, within the stark, grand tent, Alexander stood alone, his thoughts churning over the implications of the two letters before him.
The first was from Governor Nikolaos, written in his deliberate and precise hand:
Your Imperial Majesty,
I write from Thessaloria, where our forces have taken the city at great cost. However, there is troubling news: the Vakerians believe themselves guided by a man named James—a supposed "Great Mage." He vanished from the battlefield alongside General Bisera in a phenomenon that defies all known sorcery or cunning. His weaponry is beyond imagination, capable of cutting through our lines in an instant.
The Vakerians have not lost heart; they rally around the legend of his divine favor. If Bisera returns healed, it will cement James's status as an emissary of the Universal Spirit.
Faith cannot be killed by swords alone.
In unwavering loyalty,
Nikolaos.
Alexander's brow furrowed as his gaze shifted to the second letter, penned by Adelais, the spy he had placed among the Vakerians.
Your Majesty,
I write to you from the Vakerian encampment west of Thessaloria. James—known as the Great Mage—vanished with General Bisera before my eyes. He wields great power of destruction that can annihilate entire armies. The Vakerians believe him an emissary of Seraphina. They await their general's return with unshakeable faith.
Exercise caution, for James is not a simple imposter.
Yours truly,
Adelais.
He set the letters aside, his mind returning to the map pinned to the pavilion wall. Every inch of inked territory represented hard-won ground, every marker a testament to Gillyrian might. Yet tonight, as he surveyed the stronghold of Thessaloria, the lines felt less like evidence of triumph and more like fragile defenses against an unseen force.
Faith. The Vakerians' belief in James was spreading like wildfire, and history had taught Alexander that faith could topple empires. If James truly carried the favor of Seraphina, the archangel of the Universal Spirit, then Gillyria's military supremacy might not be enough to prevail. The Spirit's will had always seemed to align with Alexander's vision of unity and restoration. Why, then, would it now favor his enemies?
Stepping outside, Alexander inhaled deeply, the salt of the gulf mixing with the acrid tang of campfires. Soldiers moved about the camp with weary efficiency, their faces drawn from the long campaign. They believed victory was near, yet Alexander's unease lingered. He knew that morale was as delicate as glass—once shattered, it could not be mended.
He turned back into the pavilion, passing the guards without a word. Sitting at the wooden table, he opened a carved box containing relics his wife, Empress Irene, had insisted he keep. A weathered cross, a fragment of parchment bearing a prayer for guidance—they were symbols of the Spirit's enduring presence in his life. For years, these relics had comforted him, reminders of the Spirit's favor. But tonight, as doubts crept in, they felt heavier than ever.
"Why would the Spirit favor him?" Alexander whispered, his voice barely audible over the rustling wind. He had always believed his cause was righteous. Every conquest, every decision, had been a step toward restoring Gillyria to its former glory, uniting the fractured lands under one faith. Yet now, the reports of James's miracles threatened that certainty.
He dipped a quill into the inkwell and began to write, his strokes steady despite the storm within him:
Adelais,
Remain embedded with the Vakerians. Observe James closely. If his powers have a source, uncover it. If he is truly guided by Seraphina, learn her intent. The fate of our empire hinges on this knowledge.
—A.
He paused, staring at the parchment, then added:
If Seraphina walks among them, we must understand why.
The words hung in the air as he pressed his signet ring into the wax, sealing the letter with the eagle of Gillyria. He set it aside, but his thoughts did not rest. The Spirit had always seemed a silent guide, shaping events subtly, never overtly. James's presence, however, was anything but subtle. If the Spirit had chosen him, what did that mean for Alexander's empire? For his faith?
Rising, Alexander began to pace, his boots grinding against the dirt floor. The map loomed before him, the lines of his conquests clear and orderly. Yet no marker could capture the intangible power of belief. He reached for a figurine—a silver eagle symbolizing Gillyria—and placed it near Thessaloria. Then, from another set, he selected a small carved flame, representing the growing faith in James. He set it beside the eagle, the two locked in silent conflict.
"Spirit, guide me," Alexander murmured, his voice low and resolute. "If I have strayed from your will, show me the path. If James is your chosen, grant me the strength to accept it. But if he is not…" He trailed off, unwilling to complete the thought.
The wind howled outside, rattling the canvas walls. Alexander stood still, a ruler caught between the weight of his ambition and the haunting question of divine judgment. If the Spirit had truly turned its favor to James, then the empire he had built—his life's work—might crumble beneath the weight of its own contradictions.
As the lamp's light flickered and shadows danced along the walls, Alexander clenched his jaw. The morning would come, bringing its demands of strategy and leadership. But for now, in the stillness of the night, he felt the heavy presence of his own doubt. The Spirit's silence had never been so deafening.