Act II – The Lion Unleashed
Chapter 1
Night's silence reclaimed the imperial bedchamber, broken only by Arslan's ragged breathing and the slow drip of blood from the tip of his sword. John stood over the fallen assassin's body, his chest heaving beneath his robe. He could smell the sharp tang of sweat and iron – some of it his own, some of it hers – mingling with the oil of the guttering brass lamp on the nightstand.
The young woman lay crumpled on the marble tiles where she had fallen. Her black cloak splayed around her slight frame, dagger still clutched in a death grip. John nudged the blade away with his boot. The assassin's eyes, glassy and half-lidded, stared at nothing. With a grimace, John knelt and gently closed her eyelids. His heart was pounding, adrenaline still thrumming in his veins, but he forced himself to steady his hands.
He scanned the shadowed corners of the chamber. The only movement was the gauzy white curtain billowing gently at the open balcony doors, stirred by a mild night breeze. That was how she'd come in. John's eyes flicked there – the rope she'd used still hung, anchored to the balustrade. A gust brought the scent of jasmine from the palace gardens outside, incongruous against the bloodshed.
A soft groan from the antechamber broke the hush. John stepped over the assassin's body, sword ready. Near the doorway, one of his royal guards lay slumped against the wall, clutching his belly. Blood seeped between the soldier's fingers. The guard's eyes widened when he recognized the Emperor approaching.
"S-sire," the man gasped, voice strained.
John sheathed his sword and dropped to a knee beside the wounded guard. "Easy," he said quietly, slipping back into old habits with calm, authoritative ease. His voice was steady, even as his mind raced. Two other guards lay still on the floor nearby – their throats slit, blood pooling black in the low lamplight. They never even had a chance to cry out.
Rage and sorrow swirled in John's chest at the sight of his slain protectors. These men had sworn to defend Arslan Rûmî with their lives, and tonight they had. Because of me, he thought grimly. And I was nearly too late to save them.
He pressed a hand against the wounded guard's stomach wound. Warm blood coated his palm. The soldier sucked a sharp breath through his teeth. "Stay still. Help is coming," John assured him, meeting the man's terrified eyes. The Emperor's presence must have been a shock here on the floor beside him, but there was no time for ceremony.
John raised his head and shouted toward the corridor beyond the antechamber, keeping his voice low but firm. "Rashid! Guards!"
Almost immediately, shuffling footsteps and clinking mail answered from beyond the door. A second later, Rashid – the chief eunuch – appeared at the threshold with a pair of wide-eyed palace guards behind him. Rashid's normally composed face went pale at the carnage.
"By the Eternal Light…" he whispered, eyes darting from the corpse of the assassin to the dead guards, then to John crouched beside the wounded man.
"There was an assassin," John said, keeping his tone measured. "It's over." His left forearm throbbed where the woman's dagger had sliced him earlier, but he ignored it.
Rashid snapped out of his shock and rushed forward. He wore only a loose night-robe; clearly, he'd been roused from sleep by the commotion. "Summon the physician!" he hissed at one of the arriving guards. The man sprinted off down the hall.
John gently eased the wounded guard onto his back as Rashid knelt opposite him. The eunuch inspected the injury with swift, deft hands. The soldier was fading, his face waxen.
John pressed the man's hand. "Hold on," he said quietly. "What's your name?"
The guard blinked, focusing on John's face. "Karim, Your Majesty," he whispered.
"Karim." John mustered a small reassuring smile despite the dread coiling in his gut. "You fought bravely, Karim. Stay with us."
The guard named Karim managed a weak nod, though his breath was shallow and rapid.
Rashid looked up at John, his expression grave as he shook his head slightly. The wound was mortal – they both could see it. John's jaw clenched. Modern medicine was worlds away; here he had only rudimentary healing knowledge and perhaps magic – but John himself knew too little of R.E.E. yet to attempt anything, and Salim the court mage was not present.
Karim coughed wetly. John kept a hand on the man's shoulder. "Rest, soldier. Help is coming," John repeated, though the words felt hollow. The metallic smell of blood hung heavy.
The guard's lips twitched in what might have been a final attempt at a smile. "Glad…you're safe, sire," he breathed. Then his body relaxed all at once, and his eyes fixed open at the ceiling. The faintest sigh left his lips.
John bowed his head. He felt Rashid's hand on his arm – a light, consoling pressure. For a moment John closed his eyes and let grief wash over him. This man died protecting me – protecting an Emperor I'm only pretending to be.
He exhaled slowly and rose to his feet. "Have the physician tend to him anyway," he ordered softly. "And see to the…others." He glanced at the two slain guards. His throat tightened, but he forced it down. There would be time to mourn later.
Rashid rose as well, inclining his head. "At once, Your Majesty." He gestured for the remaining guard to carefully lift Karim's body. Another servant had appeared and quietly draped a sheet over the two dead guards nearby.
John stepped aside as they carried the bodies away. His left forearm left a smear of blood on his silk sleeve when it brushed his robe – his wound. In the fray he had scarcely registered the pain, but now each heartbeat pumped a reminder of the cut's sting.
He finally looked down at his arm. A long slash had opened the flesh just below the elbow on the outer side. It was oozing a line of crimson down to his wrist. With all the fallen around him, John felt almost guilty thinking of his own injury. He tore a strip from the hem of the dead assassin's cloak on the floor, pulling it taut with a swift yank, and wrapped it around his left forearm tightly to stanch the bleeding. The pain sharpened at the sudden pressure, but he welcomed it. Pain meant he was alive.
The assassin's body still lay on the marble where he had closed her eyes. John realized he was standing over her now, gaze fixed on the dark sigil tattooed on her inner forearm. In the flicker of lamplight, the design was clear: a slender crescent moon entwined with a curved dagger.
Daughters of Xesh, he thought. He'd heard Safid mention that name before, in his briefing on rebel threats. Some fanatical order sworn to the old regime… And now one had breached the palace and nearly ended him in his sleep.
Rashid followed his stare and sucked in a breath. "Moon and dagger," he muttered. "So it's true…"
John nodded grimly. "One of the Daughters of Xesh. She got in through the balcony." He nudged his chin toward the rope still hanging outside in the night air.
Rashid's eyes followed, and his expression tightened with anger and shame. "This should never have happened. The fault is mine, Your Majesty." The eunuch's voice quavered, and he lowered himself into a deep bow, forehead nearly to the blood-streaked floor. "I will accept any punishment–"
John reached down and grasped Rashid's shoulder, pulling him gently but firmly upright. "There's no time for that. I'm alive. That's what matters." He looked the older man in the eye. "I need you, Rashid. We have to figure out how she got past our security and if she had help."
Rashid swallowed and nodded fervently. "Of course, sire. At once. I will interrogate every guard on shift, every servant… She must have had inside assistance to get so far." His face was drawn with worry. "We did catch one of the stable-hands trying to slip away just moments ago. He had a grappling hook in his quarters. I've ordered him held for questioning."
John's mind flashed to the stable-hands who tended the horses – easily overlooked staff. An accomplice on the inside. He grimaced. "Good. Keep him alive. We'll see what he knows." John wasn't about to start a reign of terror by executing underlings without proof, but he would get answers.
Footsteps and the clank of armor signaled new arrivals. General Safid came striding in through the shattered door of the balcony, having climbed up the same route the assassin took. The scar-faced soldier's sword was drawn and his chestnut eyes blazed as he took in the scene. Two more of his soldiers climbed over the balustrade behind him, crossbows in hand.
"Majesty!" Safid's voice was rough with concern as he crossed the room quickly. His gaze swept John from head to toe, as if verifying he was unharmed. He did note the makeshift bandage on John's arm and his eyes narrowed.
John managed a tight smile. "I'm all right, Safid. The assassin's dealt with." He indicated the lifeless woman at his feet.
Safid nudged the corpse with his boot to ensure she was truly dead, then sheathed his blade. "We came as soon as we heard the commotion. Curse that I wasn't here sooner." His jaw muscles tensed beneath his gray-shot beard.
John shook his head. "No. What matters is no second attacker was lurking." He paused and surveyed the trashed bedchamber – a toppled side table, shredded bedcurtain from where a dagger slash missed him. A few of the delicate glow-stones that lit the corners had been knocked to the floor, one shattered and flickering with erratic light. "Secure the area. There might still be information to gather."
Safid motioned his men to search the balcony and perimeter. He glanced to Rashid. "What do we know so far?"
Rashid clasped his hands, regaining some of his poised calm. "The assassin was a woman – young. She killed two guards outside His Majesty's door and wounded a third, who…who did not survive his wounds." The eunuch's voice faltered momentarily. "We have captured a stable-hand who appears complicit in her entry."
Safid's lips pressed into a thin line. "Inside help, as suspected. We'll get the truth from him."
John stepped forward, his expression hard. "Quietly," he emphasized. "We'll handle this investigation quietly. I don't want panic in the palace or the city. Understood?"
Safid brought a fist to his chest in salute. "Understood, Emperor." His tone held a note of respect; John had proven himself calm under attack, and that was not lost on the seasoned general.
John looked between Safid and Rashid. They both waited for his command. A day ago – was it only yesterday? – he had been sitting on a throne fielding petty disputes, uncertain of his footing. But now, with blood on the floor and pain in his arm, he felt a grim clarity. Action was something he knew intimately.
"Rashid, have the bodies of our guards prepared with honor. Their families must be informed first thing in the morning – and they will be compensated generously for their sacrifice," John said.
Rashid bowed, eyes shining. "Yes, Your Majesty."
"Safid," John continued, "double the guard on all key points. Quietly. The city gates, the barracks, here at the palace – we don't know if this was an isolated strike or the first of many. And I want that captured accomplice interrogated before dawn. Use a light touch at first; promise leniency for information. If that fails…" John allowed the alternative to hang unsaid. Safid was skilled in more coercive methods, John knew, but he preferred to try cunning before cruelty.
"As you command," Safid nodded.
John ran a hand through his hair. It was damp with sweat from the fight. "Also, have someone send word to Magister Salim to come at first light. I want him to see if there were any magical signatures left behind. And he should examine this mark." He gestured at the dead assassin's tattoo. "He might recognize specific enchantments or know more of this cult."
Safid glanced at the rune-like tattoo and frowned thoughtfully. "Daughters of Xesh… If they've infiltrated the capital, there may be more hiding in the shadows."
John's eyes drifted to the open balcony and the starry night beyond, just faintly lightening with the earliest hint of dawn. Somewhere out there, the ones who sent this girl were likely watching for a signal that the deed was done. They would not be getting one.
"They'll learn their mistake soon enough," John said quietly, steel in his voice. "In the meantime, we keep this contained. Tell as few people as necessary what really happened. The official story should be… an attempted burglary by an intruder, nothing more." The last thing he needed was half the court losing their wits over a rumor that the Emperor nearly fell to an assassin's blade.
Rashid cleared his throat gently. "Your Majesty, word may spread regardless. Some servants heard a fight. But we will control it as best we can."
John conceded with a nod. "Do what you can. Now," he sighed, the rush of battle finally ebbing in his blood, leaving fatigue in its wake, "I should get this wound properly cleaned and bandaged. Safid, have your men remove the assassin's body. See if she carried any documents, poisons, anything we can use."
Safid signaled to his soldiers. They moved to lift the slight corpse and wrap it in a carpet to conceal it. John turned away as they carried the dead woman out – it didn't sit right with him to just dump her in a rug, but expedience was king tonight.
He gingerly flexed his wounded arm, wincing as pain flared anew. Rashid was instantly at his side, ready to support him if needed. John appreciated the gesture but stood firm on his own. "I'll live," he said, offering a faint smirk. "It's just a scratch."
The chief eunuch's lips twitched in a weak attempt at a smile, though concern still etched his brow. "Shall I send for the physician to tend you, Majesty?"
"After he's done with more urgent matters," John replied, thinking of the guards who needed tending – though likely only corpses remained to tend. "For now, just help me wrap it tightly."
Rashid nodded. He fetched a clean linen strip from a cabinet – the eunuch was always prepared – and together they unwound John's makeshift bloody rag. The cut was indeed shallow but long. Rashid quickly cleaned it with watered wine and bound it snugly. John inhaled sharply at the sting, then muttered his thanks.
Dawn was creeping in pale and pink now, chasing away the night's stars. The muezzins in the city would soon call the first prayer, and the Palace of Light would stir with its usual morning routine. John realized he had not slept at all – and now would not get the chance.
He straightened his back. Though bone-tired, he felt a hard resolve crystalizing inside him. Last night, death had come for him in the form of a silent, determined girl. She'd nearly succeeded. If John hadn't been a light sleeper, if his Special Forces reflexes hadn't kicked in just in time… He pushed the thought away. Nearly wasn't enough. He was still here. And he would not wait like a sitting duck for the next attempt.
"Safid, Rashid," John addressed the two men, "you have your orders. By tonight I want a full report on how this breach happened and who was behind it. And discreetly increase the watch on the royal family's quarters as well."
He had no family of his own here – Arslan's parents were gone, no siblings mentioned, and no children – but protocol required safeguarding any nobles of the blood, and it would be a sign that he cared for more than just his own life.
The general and the eunuch bowed in unison. "It will be done," Safid said.
Rashid hesitated. "Perhaps, sire, you might try to rest an hour or two? You've had an ordeal…"
John gave a mirthless chuckle. "Rest? Not likely. There's too much to do. I'll be fine." He placed a hand on Rashid's shoulder kindly. "You've served me well under terrible circumstances. I know you'll make sure nothing like this happens again."
Rashid's eyes glistened. "I swear it, Emperor."
John stepped toward the balcony, where the first sun rays were touching the east. He felt the bandage on his left forearm, remembering how easily the assassin's blade had sliced past his guard. He'd won last night by a hair's breadth, in close quarters without guns, without backup. It had been a stark reminder: he was a stranger in this world, alive thanks to skills from another life and pure luck. That luck could run out.
Softly, almost to himself, John murmured, "No more close calls." He touched the lion-head pommel of the kilij at his hip – the sword he'd been given as Emperor. The runes along its scabbard glinted faintly in the new daylight. He thought of the humming power he had sensed in them once before. There were tools here he barely understood yet – magic, runes, energies swirling through this empire like unseen currents.
If he was to survive, if he was to truly become Arslan Rûmî in more than name, he would have to seize every advantage this world offered.
He would learn the ways of R.E.E., master the runes and the strange energies that powered glow-stones and climate charms and lethal traps alike. He would sharpen his mind and body both, become someone these fanatics would fear to cross.
John turned back to Safid and Rashid, who stood awaiting his leave to carry out his commands. "By tomorrow," he said quietly, "our enemies will know nothing of what transpired here – but we will know more of them. We'll root them out, one by one."
His hazel eyes, still John Sullivan's eyes behind Arslan's face, hardened with resolve. "They wanted to see the Emperor weak and afraid. Instead, we'll show them an Emperor strengthened – bonded with his men and armed with knowledge."
He inhaled the morning air deeply, catching a hint of smoke from last night's struggle and the fragrance of blooming gardens beyond. A new day was unfolding, bright and clear over the City of Light, and John intended to greet it not as prey, but as a predator on the hunt.
"Onwards," he said, voice low but firm. And as Safid and Rashid departed to do his bidding, John remained on the balcony a moment longer, the rising sun glowing on the horizon like a beacon. He flexed his bandaged arm gingerly and whispered a vow only he could hear: "I will not let this world take me. I'll carve my own destiny here – or die standing."
Chapter 2
A hush lay over the Imperial Archive that night, broken only by the scratch of John's quill and the soft crackle of a rune-lamp's flame. High shelves of leather-bound codices and scrolls loomed around him like silent sentinels. The library's grand hall was lit by clusters of glow-stones ensconced along the marble pillars, their usual brilliance dimmed to a gentle azure at this late hour. In the stillness, John could hear the faint pop of oil lamps and the distant chirr of crickets outside the palace walls.
He sat at a broad oak table strewn with parchment, quills, and several hefty tomes. His bandaged forearm twinged whenever he moved too suddenly, but he paid it little mind. Spread before him was a scroll titled Fundamental Glyphs and Their Energies, neatly copied for him earlier by Livia's assistants. Next to it lay the very primer Magister Salim had delivered that afternoon: a compact codex bound in green leather – Imperial Rune Standards, Vol. I.
John ran a hand over the spidery script of the scroll. The symbols – runes – drawn there were unlike any alphabet he knew on Earth: intricate geometric designs, each composed of delicate strokes and curves radiating from a common pattern. They seemed to dance before his eyes in the lamp's flicker.
He took a deep breath, savoring the scent of old paper and ink. This place, with its towering cases of knowledge, reminded him faintly of libraries back home – except no library on Earth contained instructions for bending reality itself.
By day, John had worn the mask of the Emperor – receiving condolences in hushed tones from the few advisers who learned of the "intruder incident," issuing calm directives to tighten security, and outwardly appearing unfazed. But the moment night fell and his official duties waned, he slipped away to pursue a more personal mission.
He flexed his left hand; the bandage across his forearm pulled taut. A constant reminder. If he had known more about magic, about Rune-Enscriptive Energetics, perhaps he could have sensed the assassin's approach or fortified his chambers with wards. That ignorance nearly cost him everything. He would not let it remain a weakness.
John dipped his quill in ink and carefully copied one of the basic glyphs from the scroll onto a blank sheet. His hand was steady, military-steady, as he drew the angular lines of a simple illumination rune. According to the primer, this glyph – three interlocking triangles – when charged with one's will, would produce light akin to a small torch flame. A straightforward cantrip by this world's standards, perhaps, but for John it would be the first true test of magic he performed alone.
He finished the final stroke and set the quill down. The black ink glistened on the parchment, the rune stark and elegant. John wiped a bead of sweat from his brow that had nothing to do with the archive's mild warmth. It felt almost like arming a grenade back in his old life – heart pounding with the weight of what might happen if he did it wrong.
He cleared his throat in the empty hall, feeling a little foolish. It's just drawing on paper, he chided himself. But of course, it was more. The book had said intent and focus were as crucial as form. Enscriptive Energetics was part art, part science, requiring mental discipline to channel energy into the rune.
John placed two fingers on the drawn glyph. It was said one could trace a rune in the air or on any surface, as long as the mental image was clear, but he felt better having the physical sketch.
"Alright," he whispered, bracing himself. He inhaled slowly, then exhaled, letting his muscles loosen. He remembered the breathing techniques from sniper training – slow the heart, drown out distraction, narrow your world to a single point of focus.
Eyes fixed on the rune, John concentrated. He envisioned a spark igniting at the center of the interlocking triangles, the way Salim had demonstrated in the nexus chamber days before – coaxing energy from the ambient ley around them.
At first, nothing happened. The rune sat inert under his fingertips. John furrowed his brow and focused harder. He pictured the lines he'd drawn not as ink but as channels for current, like wiring that needed power. Light, he urged silently. Come forth.
A tingling warmth blossomed in his fingers. John's pulse quickened – he felt something. The inked lines on the page started to glow a faint orange, as if lit from within. It was dim and flickering, but undeniably there: light, conjured by his will.
He nearly laughed in relief and excitement, but held it in. The glow subsided after a few seconds as his concentration wavered in amazement.
John removed his fingers and flexed them, a grin breaking across his face. The library seemed a shade less dark than before, the rune-lamp's flame reflected in his triumphant eyes. It had only been the feeblest glimmer, but it was proof. Proof that he could do this.
He sat back in his chair, letting out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding. Outside, a breeze tapped a branch against the arched window, and the night continued indifferent to his small miracle. But John felt a surge of confidence warm him from within.
So absorbed was he in his success that he didn't hear the soft approach of footsteps until a polite cough sounded from the shadows beyond his table.
John's hand shot instinctively toward his belt where a dagger should have been – but he'd left his weapons aside, thinking himself safe in the heart of his own palace. Still, old habits died hard. His eyes narrowed, searching the gloom between shelves.
"Peace, Your Majesty," came a familiar gentle voice. Livia, the imperial archivist, stepped into the pool of lamplight. She carried a stack of rolled parchments in her arms. Her silver hair was pulled back in a tight braid, and she wore a modest linen gown suitable for a night's work organizing the archives.
John eased, offering a slight smile. "Livia. You gave me a start."
"I am sorry, Emperor," Livia said, inclining her head. She set the scrolls down on a side table. "I did not mean to interrupt. I noticed the lights and thought perhaps you might need assistance…or more materials." Her keen eyes drifted to the primer and the copied scroll on the table. The faintly glowing rune was still visible on John's parchment, slowly fading now. Livia's eyebrows lifted a fraction. "Working through the fundamentals again, I see?"
There was a note of curiosity in her tone. Emperor Arslan had been known as a scholar, yes, but he was already well-versed in many aspects of R.E.E. – at least, the Arslan she remembered had been tutored from youth in basic sigils. Why would he be laboring over the introductory glyphs as if a novice?
John's mind raced for a justification. He tapped the Imperial Rune Standards book lightly. "Even a master must occasionally return to basics," he said smoothly. "Given recent events, I realized I should refresh my foundational knowledge. Gaps in understanding can be fatal." He gave her a meaningful look, and her face registered a flash of sympathy – she doubtless knew of the attempt on his life, since nothing escaped the archive's gossip network for long.
"Of course, Majesty," Livia nodded. "Wisely said. The pursuit of knowledge is never complete." She stepped closer, examining his face in the lamp glow. "Though if I may be frank, you look exhausted. Understandably so."
John raked a hand through his hair. "I'll rest soon. This can't wait." He gestured to the open codex. "Salim's primer here outlines the standard glyphs used in our infrastructure. If I'm to oversee the repair and protection of the Grand Nexus and beyond, I need complete fluency."
It wasn't entirely a lie – it was a convenient strategic reason for his late-night study, one likely to satisfy a fellow scholar.
Livia's stern features softened with admiration. "Your dedication to the empire's well-being is admirable, Emperor. Many sovereigns leave the arcane details to their mages and engineers, but you…" She allowed herself a small smile. "You have always had a hunger for learning."
John returned the smile politely. Inside, he felt a twinge of guilt; he was trading on Arslan's scholarly reputation to mask his ignorance. Yet at the same time, maybe this was exactly what Arslan would have done too. The continuity comforted him – perhaps he wasn't so out of place in these midnight studies.
He closed the codex for now and rolled up the practice parchment to tuck away. The rune had fully dimmed. "Thank you for bringing these materials, by the way," John said, indicating the scrolls Livia had dropped off. "More treatises on Energetics?"
"Yes, sire," Livia responded, launching into librarian mode. "One is a treatise on rune catalyzation techniques from the Fourth Age – a bit dense, but perhaps useful for advanced theory. Another is Magister Salim's own commentary on ley-line harmonics – he delivered it earlier as well, thinking you might find it enlightening background for the Nexus work. The third is an older scroll on defensive warding, as you requested."
"Excellent." John felt a spark of eagerness – the defensive warding text especially. "I appreciate your efficiency."
Livia inclined her head modestly. "I live to serve knowledge…and the Emperor."
She hesitated a moment, then spoke more quietly. "If I may, my lord… The palace staff are unsettled by what happened last night. Whispers are running about. Some fear dark magic was involved. I have tried to quell wild rumors here in the library and scriptorium."
John's jaw tightened slightly. Unavoidable, he supposed. "It was a single assassin, not a sorceress," he said, careful to keep his tone measured. "No dark magic, just a dagger and unfortunate lapses in security. We are addressing those lapses. There is no cause for panic."
"Understood, Majesty. I shall relay your reassurance subtly where I can." She paused, then added, "And… there is word that the assassin bore a certain mark. The scholars have long memories; some recall the Cult of Xesh from old histories. They are worried such ancient feuds have resurfaced."
John pressed his palm on the table, feeling the grain of the wood steady him. The shadows seemed to loom a bit darker at the mention of Xesh. "The Daughters of Xesh are indeed behind this," he admitted softly. He trusted Livia – a mistake not to trust a keeper of secrets, he suspected. "But they will be dealt with. Quietly. The less said, the better for now."
Livia's eyes flickered with concern but she nodded. "As you will. If you need any information from the archives on that cult or the old dynasty…" She trailed off, the offer clear.
John realized such records might exist – in these very shelves could lie accounts of the fallen royal line or their supporters. "Actually, yes," he said. "Tomorrow, please compile whatever you find on that cult or any references to a lost heir of the previous regime." He managed a wry grin. "Think of it as historical research for me."
Livia permitted herself a brief chuckle. "History often repeats, Your Majesty. I'll see what I can uncover."
She then glanced at the tall clock by the entry arch. It was well past midnight. "I should let you continue in peace. Or better yet, let you rest."
"I'll wrap up soon," John promised. "Thank you, Livia."
She gave a deep nod and retreated into the gloom as quietly as she'd come.
Alone once more, John gathered up the scroll he'd been copying from. His stomach rumbled – he had skipped dinner, pushing his plate around distractedly while his mind anticipated these studies. Now the physical toll of the day and night was catching up to him.
One more exercise, he told himself. He wanted to test the light rune once more, this time without a drawn aid. According to the primer, a competent runecaster could will the glyph into being in their mind or trace it in the air with a finger.
John stood, stretching his stiff limbs. He picked up the rune-lamp from the table – a small bronze dish with a crystal embedded, its flame fueled by enchantment rather than oil. He carried it over to a broad open area between shelves where the floor was a mosaic of blue and gold tiles depicting the sun and moon. Appropriately mystical, he thought.
Holding the lamp in one hand to illuminate his work, John raised his other hand and used his forefinger to draw the same illumination glyph in the air. He moved slowly, imagining a faint trail marking each line he drew. In truth, he saw nothing visible, but he pictured it strongly.
At the same time, he summoned that earlier feeling – the tingling warmth – and pushed, as if exhaling willpower through his fingertips.
A bead of light sputtered to life in the air before him, floating where he had sketched the rune. John's heart leapt. It was about the size of a candle-flame, hovering, casting a gentle glow.
He let out a surprised laugh. The orb of light wavered and nearly winked out as his concentration slipped. Quickly, he refocused, and it stabilized, bobbing slightly. It worked – no parchment, no ink, just his intent and the pattern held in his mind.
For a full minute John maintained the conjured light, walking slowly around it, marveling like a child witnessing a firefly for the first time. The knowledge from the scroll and book, the demonstration Salim had given of a similar concept back in Act I – all of it coalesced into this simple but profound achievement.
Eventually, fatigue demanded its due. The glimmering orb began to flicker as John's energy waned. Sweat dampened his back under his tunic. He gently released the spell, and the light blinked out, leaving only the steady illumination of the rune-lamp in his hand.
In the sudden relative dimness, John noticed his breathing was heavy, as if he'd run a mile. So it takes physical or mental stamina, he noted. Magic wasn't an effortless cheat; it drained you in its own way. But like muscles, he assumed, his capacity would improve with training.
He returned the lamp to the table and cleaned up his workspace. He carefully tucked Salim's primer and the copied scroll into a velvet satchel Livia had provided. The other treatises he would tackle later. For now, he had pushed his mind enough.
As he stepped out of the archives, the brisk night air in the corridor hit him, cooling the sweat on his neck. Two guards at the far end snapped to attention upon seeing him, but he waved them at ease. They must have wondered what the Emperor was doing wandering about at such hours with ink-stained fingers.
John made his way through the quiet halls toward his chambers. His arm throbbed dully, and his head felt full of new information – heavy, but satisfying. He allowed himself a small smile in the darkness. In one day, he had survived an assassin, set plans in motion to strike back, and taken the first steps into magic that he'd only dreamed of until now.
It was a start – a humble one, but a start nonetheless.
He thought of the assassin's tattoo again, the moon and dagger. The Daughters of Xesh lurked somewhere in his city, perhaps plotting their next attempt. Next time, he would not be caught off guard. He would be stronger, not just in steel but in the arcane arts as well.
As John reached his chambers, he found Rashid dozing on a chair just outside the door, clearly having insisted on personally keeping vigil. The older man jolted awake when John approached.
"Majesty," Rashid mumbled, standing quickly and rubbing sleep from his eyes. "I—I must have closed my eyes just for a moment—"
John shook his head with a soft chuckle. "No apology needed. It's late. Go get some proper rest, Rashid."
The chief eunuch looked ready to protest but then bowed. "If you insist. Will you be retiring now? Shall I have breakfast brought early?"
John realized he was starving but also bone-tired. "At first light, send something light up. And coffee, strong," he said, recalling the bitter brew they made here spiced with cardamom – an Ottoman luxury he was grateful existed in this world too.
"As you wish." Rashid gave a last concerned glance. "And I'll be right outside again before dawn."
John clapped the man's shoulder gently. "Your dedication humbles me."
Inside his chambers, the scene of last night's violence had been scrubbed clean. New rugs replaced the blood-soaked ones, the broken furniture removed, even the torn drapery sewn up. It was as if the attack had never happened. Only John's bandaged arm and the weariness in his bones gave truth to it.
He barred the balcony doors – they'd been repaired and reinforced with a fresh latch and, John noted, etched with a warding rune by Salim's people. A wise precaution.
Setting the satchel of books on a desk, John finally collapsed onto the bed. Normally, sleep would claim him swiftly after such exhaustion. But for a moment he stared up at the dark canopy, thoughts spinning despite fatigue.
He felt a cautious pride. A single orb of light – a tiny victory. Yet it symbolized so much more: that he could adapt, learn, and potentially thrive in this world.
In his mind, he saw again the little golden sphere of light he had summoned. In the gloom of his curtained bed, he imagined doing the same and lighting up the entire room effortlessly. One day, perhaps, it wouldn't be a struggle at all.
John closed his eyes, finally surrendering to sleep's pull. His last thought before slumber was not of Earth or the life he'd lost – it was of lines of glowing runes, a path of light he would follow to whatever end awaited in this new life.
Chapter 3
Morning sunlight poured over the palace barracks yard, gilding the dust motes that swirled around stamping boots. The clamor of steel striking steel rang out in steady rhythms as dozens of soldiers sparred in pairs. Some trained with curved sabers flashing in the sun, others with spears or bows under the watchful eyes of their drill captains. The smell of sweat, leather oil, and yesterday's horse dung hung in the warm air—a familiar perfume of soldiery that brought a faint smile to John's lips.
Dressed in a light training cuirass and loose trousers tucked into high boots, John stepped into the yard with purposeful strides. General Safid walked at his side, helmet under one arm. The chatter and grunts of the men faltered as one by one they noticed the Emperor's presence. Normally, Arslan Rûmî observed drills from a shaded pavilion or not at all; an Emperor had little need to frequent the practice grounds personally. Today would be different.
"Continue your exercises," Safid barked to the gawking troops, restoring order. He led John toward an open space near an archery butte. "Majesty, the men are honored by your visit," he said quietly to John, a note of pride in his rough voice. "Though I admit, this is unexpected."
John rolled his shoulders, already feeling a pleasant tautness in his muscles at the prospect of a workout. A thin linen bandage still wrapped his left forearm beneath a leather bracer, but he'd tested his range of motion—it would hold. "I needed to move a bit, Safid. Clear my head. And I want to see what our soldiers are made of first-hand."
Safid's scarred eyebrow arched, but then he chuckled. "They will be eager to show you. Just try not to break too many of them, sire."
John grinned. He appreciated that Safid didn't coddle him. The general had seen him kill an assassin with his bare hands; he knew the Emperor could handle himself. But most of these rank-and-file likely thought of Arslan as a distant figure, a royal who commanded from gilded halls. Time to change that.
As John stepped forward, the nearest cluster of soldiers parted to make way. Dozens of eyes – young recruits, veteran sergeants, and officers alike – were stealing glances at him. Some faces showed concern at his bandaged arm, others open curiosity at what he intended.
He stopped near a rack of practice weapons. The soldiers in that circle hastily stood at attention. John gave a casual wave. "At ease, men. This isn't a formal inspection."
They relaxed slightly, though an excited tension still electrified the group. Safid cleared his throat and addressed them louder, "Our Emperor wishes to train alongside us today. You mangy dogs better give him a worthy session!"
A ripple of laughter and cheers moved through the onlookers. John noted the genuine affection behind their voices. Safid's men were loyal and battle-hardened – likely veterans of recent campaigns. If he won them over fully, his rule would be that much more secure.
John removed his outer cloak and handed it to an attendant. Underneath he wore a plain padded gambeson without the usual imperial emblems. He wanted to be just another swordsman for now.
He walked toward the center of the ring that had formed. "Who's the best with a saber among you?" he asked, tone friendly but carrying across the yard.
The soldiers glanced at one another. A few smirked and looked toward a tall, broad-shouldered man with a shaved head and impressive mustache. He stood a head higher than most, arms crossed confidently.
Safid nodded in that man's direction. "Sergeant Timur is our finest blade master, Your Majesty. He trains the palace guard in sabre-fighting."
Sergeant Timur thumped his fist to his chest. "My Emperor," he acknowledged, stepping forward. There was a mix of pride and caution in his eyes. "It would be my honor to spar with you, if that is your wish."
John sized him up. Timur's forearms were corded with muscle, and faint scars crisscrossed his knuckles and arms – signs of a life spent mastering weapons. A worthy opponent. John felt a familiar thrill stir in his blood, akin to stepping onto a familiar dojo mat or a training ring back in his past life.
He selected a blunted training saber from the rack – a practice version of the kilij, with a curved, single-edged blade. It had weight and balance similar to his own lion-pommel sword. John gave it a few test swings; it whistled through the air.
"Sergeant," John said, falling naturally into a relaxed ready stance, one foot forward, saber held low. "Show me how an elite of Rûm fights."
A grin split Timur's mustache. He drew his own practice blade and saluted. "As you command!"
They began to circle each other on the packed earth. The spectators pressed outward to give them room, forming a wide ring. The clamor of other training around the yard quieted as more men paused to watch their Emperor duel one of their best.
John felt the sun warm on his neck and smelled dust as his boots scuffed the ground. He rotated his sword wrist, loosening up. Arslan's body was strong, trained from youth in swordsmanship. John could sense that ingrained muscle memory coiling, ready to spring. He hoped it would cooperate with what he knew – which was mostly modern close-quarters techniques and an instinct for improvisation.
Timur struck first – a testing slash aimed at John's left shoulder. John's blade flashed up to parry, steel clanging. The force of the blow jarred his arm, a reminder that this man was much larger. But John deflected it neatly, sliding the strike off and twisting to riposte toward Timur's flank.
Timur anticipated it; he was quick for his size. He spun and brought his saber down in a heavy overhead chop. John sidestepped, boots kicking up dust, and felt the rush of air as the blade whistled past his ear.
A few "oohs" sounded from the audience at the narrow miss. John's heart hammered with exhilaration. It had been a long time since he'd been in a swordfight, if ever – but combat was combat, and he found himself slipping into the flow. Everything beyond the ring – the men, the morning, his worries – faded, leaving only Timur's stance, the angle of his blade, the next move.
They exchanged a flurry of blows. Timur came in aggressive, leveraging his strength. John gave ground carefully, blocking and redirecting. The sergeant's style was disciplined – likely an orthodox palace style with roots in Sipahi cavalry training. John recognized patterns from historical fencing manuals he'd once skimmed: cuts numbered and precise.
John, by contrast, had no formal fencing schooling beyond some bayonet drills. But he had brawled in alleys and cleared rooms in Afghanistan – he knew how to read an opponent, how to exploit an opening.
Timur advanced with a sweeping cut at John's legs. John wasn't there – he had darted forward instead of back, surprising Timur. Inside the arc of the swing, John delivered a sharp elbow strike to the sergeant's chest.
The impact made Timur grunt and stumble back, more startled than hurt. A chorus of laughter and cheers erupted from the troops, delighted at the unorthodox move. No one had expected their Emperor to use his off-arm as a weapon in a duel of swords.
Timur recovered, eyes alight now with renewed respect. He gave John a toothy grin. "Cunning, sire!"
John just winked. "Again."
They closed once more. Timur feinted high then lunged low, blade thrusting for John's midsection. John twisted aside, letting the blade graze his leather cuirass harmlessly. He responded with a slash toward Timur's thigh. The larger man blocked, their sabers clashing loudly and locking together.
For a brief moment, they strained, face to face, blades bound. Timur was strong – he began forcing John's sword back with brute power. John grimaced, feeling his bandaged forearm flare with pain under the strain. The watching soldiers held their breath as their Emperor seemed about to be overpowered.
But John had no intention of winning a pure test of strength. Instead of resisting directly, he suddenly disengaged – yielding a step and pulling his blade free. Without the expected resistance, Timur's weight lurched forward, off-balance for half a second.
John capitalized instantly. He dropped to a low crouch and swept his leg around in a sharp kick, scything Timur's feet out from under him.
A collective gasp went up as the burly sergeant crashed onto his back in the dust, his sword flying from his hand.
John sprang up and pounced, planting a knee on Timur's chest and bringing the tip of his practice saber to hover a hairsbreadth from the man's throat.
Everything went still. Timur panted beneath him, eyes wide in surprise. John himself breathed hard, adrenaline singing through his veins. His arm throbbed fiercely now, but he kept the blade steady and his face calm.
Yield cheers erupted around them. It took John a second to process the roaring voices – soldiers hollering in triumph and pounding weapons on shields in approval.
John stood and immediately offered a hand down to Timur. The sergeant accepted it, laughing as John helped haul his bulk back up.
"That was… not in any of the manuals, Majesty," Timur said between breaths, dusting himself off. His expression was equal parts chagrin and admiration. "I concede."
John clapped the man on the shoulder. "You fight exceptionally well, Sergeant. I had to get creative." He wasn't about to explain that a leg-sweep was a common MMA move where he came from. Let them think it imperial ingenuity.
Safid stepped forward through the throng, shaking his head with an incredulous grin. "By the gods, Arslan, you never cease to amaze." He called out loudly, "Victory to the Emperor!"
Another cheer rang out. John raised Timur's hand with his own as if they were both champions. The gesture earned applause – it showed magnanimity and camaraderie.
As the adrenaline ebbed, John became aware of the sheen of sweat on his brow and the sun beating on him. Timur's elbow had clipped his chin at one point, and he felt a slight sting there. It was a small price for the morale he'd just won.
"Back to training, you lot!" Safid barked good-naturedly to the assembled soldiers. "Don't let your Emperor be the only one working up a sweat today!"
The men laughed and gradually the clashing of arms resumed in pockets around the yard, though many still stole awed glances at John as they continued their drills.
A water skin was thrust toward John by a young standard-bearer, hands shaking with excitement. "Sire, water?"
John accepted it gratefully and took a long swig. The water was cool and tinged with mint – a thoughtful touch, likely thanks to Rashid's provisioning. He handed it to Timur, who also drank deeply, then to Safid.
"That was a fine bout," Safid said quietly, careful that only John heard. "The men will be talking of it for days. You've won their hearts even more, if that's possible."
John wiped his face with a cloth an attendant offered. He felt an unexpected swell of emotion at Safid's words. As a leader on Earth, he'd commanded small teams; never an army, and certainly he'd never had men cheering him as a hero. He realized just how much he wanted their respect not just because it solidified his power, but because it meant he was becoming part of this world, not just acting the part.
"Good," John replied. "They should know I'm not afraid to stand beside them. And I expect them to push me to be better as well."
Safid smiled, a fierce glint in his eyes. "They will, Emperor. These lads admire you already – now they'll follow you to the gates of hell and back."
John's gaze swept over the yard. Sparring had resumed, more vigorous than before. Perhaps seeing their ruler sweat and struggle had invigorated them to train harder. A couple of younger soldiers even mimicked the leg-sweep move they'd seen, laughing as one tripped his friend. John chuckled.
He noticed a few older veterans nodding in approval and saluting informally as he caught their eyes. Battle recognizes battle – even if he wasn't in their last campaigns, he had proven himself in the universal language of combat.
While the drills continued, John took a few minutes to walk among the men. He stopped to observe an archery line, offering pointers on stance – his keen eye from rifle marksmanship translated well enough to bows, and the archers listened eagerly. He moved on to the cavalry stables where a trio of horsemen practiced mounted combat with blunt lances at rings. John praised their skill and even joked that he might try riding against them when his riding leg recovered (Arslan's horse riding was fine, but the idea amused the troopers).
Everywhere he went, he offered a word of encouragement or a question about their well-being. The soldiers, initially astonished by such casual attention, soon responded warmly. John learned a few names, clapping backs, making a mental note of who was from where. In this way, he planted seeds of loyalty that would spread in the barracks gossip chain by nightfall – the Emperor knew my name, the Emperor fights like one of us.
Finally, as the sun climbed toward noon, John knew he had to return to his other duties. His muscles were pleasantly sore from the exertion, and his wounded arm, while aching, held up fine. It would scar, but likely not impair him.
Before he left, he reconvened with Safid and the core officers. Many of them looked at him with new eyes now – some had been skeptical of Arslan's softer approach these past days, but seeing his ferocity on the field dispelled any notion of weakness.
"That will be all for today, gentlemen," John announced. "Resume the normal schedule. My thanks for allowing me to crash the party."
A ripple of laughter. One captain bowed, sweat dripping from his brow. "Your Majesty honors us. You are welcome among the troops any time."
John nodded. "You'll see more of me. I plan to make this a habit, when duties permit."
Safid beamed. "We'll hold you to that, sire."
As John prepared to depart, he gestured for Safid to walk with him. They exited the yard together, accompanied by the respectful salutes of tired but enthused soldiers.
Crossing under a stone colonnade back into the palace proper, John slowed his pace. "Any news from this morning's… interviews?" he asked, wiping residual dust from his neck. He referred to the interrogation of the captured stable-hand, which he had left to Safid and Rashid while he engaged the troops.
Safid's face grew more serious, business reasserting itself after the thrill of training. "Yes. The stable-boy finally cracked. Fear not – we used the Emperor's promised leniency as leverage rather than harsher means."
John gave an approving nod. "And what did he say?"
"He confessed that he was recruited by a woman months ago. Paid him small fortunes to pass along information about palace guard rotations, and to leave that balcony rope prepared last night." Safid's voice hardened at the last part.
John felt a flicker of anger. Of course it had been an inside leak. "Did he know who she was, this woman?"
Safid shook his head. "He never knew a name. Described her as 'veiled, with an accent from the eastern mountains'. Could be nothing, but possibly points to one of the hill clans loyal to the old dynasty."
John absorbed that. "The Daughters of Xesh have recruits from outside the city then. Did he mention where they might be based or meet?"
A grim smile touched Safid's lips. "He revealed that just before we stopped – eager to save his hide, that one. There's an old shrine complex in the hills to the west of the city – the Temple of Selhun, once devoted to the moon goddess, long abandoned. He was instructed to go there once, to deliver a message under a specific stone near the entrance."
Moon goddess, John thought. The cult's moon-and-dagger motif made perfect sense now. An abandoned moon temple sounded precisely like the kind of haunt zealots of a lost cause might use.
"Well done," John said. His pulse quickened; they had a lead. "We'll discuss our next steps soon. For now, keep this very quiet. Only your most trusted men should know."
"Of course. I've already confined the stable-hand somewhere secure under guard. Word won't get out."
They reached a junction where Rashid waited to escort John to lunch or his next engagement. Safid bowed, and John clasped his shoulder briefly in thanks – another gesture that left the old general pleasantly surprised.
"Take a breather yourself, General," John said. "We'll speak at length this evening. I have ideas on how to handle that temple."
Safid thumped his chest in salute. "Until then, Padishah." He used the old Turkic word for Emperor in a rare show of personal respect, then turned on his heel and marched off to oversee the remaining drills.
John headed inside with Rashid trailing a respectful two steps behind. His body was tired, but his spirit felt renewed. The training yard had proven something to his soldiers and to himself. He could command through inspiration, not just fear or tradition. He could be both ruler and warrior, the iron hand and the open hand in one.
And now, with the cult's lair possibly uncovered, he had the chance to demonstrate that his reach extended beyond palace walls into the darkest corners where his enemies skulked.
As he toweled off and changed into fresh robes for the afternoon, John caught sight of himself in a bronze mirror. Dust streaked his dark hair, a faint bruise was forming on his jaw from Timur's near miss, and sweat still dampened his chest. He looked human, a bit battered – not a distant untouchable sovereign.
He found he rather preferred it that way.
John Arslan Rûmî smiled at his reflection, a fierce and genuine smile. Let the Daughters of Xesh plot in their shadows; he was coming for them soon, armed with steel, newfound magic, and an army's devotion.
Chapter 3 End