John felt a swell of affection and protectiveness. On impulse, he reached out and very lightly touched a strand of her red hair that had fallen over her shoulder, gently tucking it back behind her ear. It was a brief, respectful gesture, yet intimate in its familiarity. "And I will pray that you never have cause to fear those rules again," he said softly.
Yvara's breath caught, and she gave the slightest nod, wordless.
With that, John stepped back, inclining his head in farewell. He turned and made his way back toward the garden door, his mind already strategizing how he might discuss these matters with Rashid and what subtle moves he could make to improve conditions without sparking backlash. Perhaps begin with small adjustments – allow some letters out, ease the token penalties. Or even just gather input under the guise of "modernizing" the palace. It would require tact and care, but he had navigated more dangerous minefields. This was one he was committed to crossing.
As he reached the door, the eunuch guard Ibrahim opened it swiftly. John glanced back one last time. Yvara remained by the tablet under the archway. In the growing light, framed by ivy and roses, her figure looked almost like a painting – a symbol of hope and patience. She lifted the scissors slightly in salute and offered a radiant smile. John returned a faint smile and then stepped through the doorway back into the shaded corridor of the palace.
The door closed behind him with a thud, separating the Emperor from the harem once more. But John felt that in those quiet dawn moments, a bridge had been formed. However tenuous, it was there.
Ibrahim fell in step a respectful two paces behind him as John walked back toward the main halls. The chief eunuch Rashid was already striding briskly toward him down the corridor, no doubt to escort him to whatever was next – possibly urging a change of clothes or a quick meal. The older man's face held its customary polite concern.
"Your Majesty, I trust all went well in the Nexus?" Rashid asked, but his eyes also darted to the door John had just exited, noting the locale. John only nodded in passing. "Yes, Rashid. I'll brief you shortly. First, I need to wash up."
As they walked, Rashid subtly offered a damp towel – he must have noticed the faint blood stain under John's nose. Efficient as ever. John dabbed his face. His mind remained partly in the garden, replaying Yvara's words and the sight of those etched rules.
He felt a newfound resolve blooming with the morning light. Dawn in the Nexus, indeed. It was a new dawn in more ways than one: the city's lifeblood flowing bright again, and perhaps the dawn of change within the palace's very heart. Step by step, as a soldier and as a leader, John Sullivan would carry these burdens and transform them into hope – for himself, for the empire's future, and for those like Yvara who had placed their quiet faith in him.
And as the first golden beams spilled through a high window, illuminating his path, John allowed himself a small smile of determination. The day was young, and there was much work ahead – but he felt ready to face it, bolstered by the victories and revelations of the dawn.
Chapter 3
Deep in the Grand Nexus tower, John Sullivan braced himself against a brass railing as the lift platform shuddered and began its descent. High above, through a shattered pane in the stone shaft, a sliver of dawn light speared down, painting motes of dust in gold. Sparks still glimmered along the massive runic stabilizer embedded in the wall, but the raging energy storm of moments ago had settled to a low hum. The acrid scent of ozone and hot metal hung in the air, sharp in John's nostrils, as chains groaned and the platform carried them steadily downward.
John exhaled a breath he hadn't realized he was holding. His heartbeat was slowing now, the adrenaline ebbing. Soot and sweat clung to his face; he wiped his brow with a singed sleeve, smearing grime across his cheek. The taste of coppery magic residue coated his tongue. Around him, the small party on the lift was similarly battle-worn from the night's efforts. Master Zafir, the grizzled guildmaster who had overseen the Nexus repairs, clutched his brass goggles in one hand, his gray beard streaked with ash. Magister Salim stood with fingers still twitching from channeling arcane power, the court archmage's purple robes now scorched at the hem. And apart from them stood Minister Aru – jowly and resplendent in robes now smeared with dust – trying and failing to conceal the sour scowl on his lips.
Zafir broke the silence. He let out a coarse chuckle that echoed up the shaft. "By the eternal gears, we did it," he panted, pushing his soot-stained hair back. His eyes shone with relief as he turned to John. "The stabilizer rune is anchored, Your Majesty. Solid as bedrock."
John managed a tired smile. He felt the faint vibration in the metal under his boots, the steady thrum of contained magical current. It resonated in his bones, strangely gentle now. "It appears stable," he agreed quietly, his voice reverberating off the stone walls. Far above, the last flicker of errant lightning danced along an inlaid conduit and fizzled out. "No more surges. At least for tonight."
Salim nodded, adjusting the many rings on his fingers that still glowed with residual spellcraft. "Ley-line harmonics are holding at optimal levels, Sire," the archmage confirmed. He spoke in an even, scholarly tone, but the sweat on his brow betrayed the toll of sustained enchantment. "The Grand Nexus's heart beats evenly again." He allowed himself a small, proud smile. "Textbook execution… with Imperial initiative." Salim bowed his silver head toward John in genuine respect.
John gave a brief nod to the mage and guildmaster. "Your expertise made the difference," he said. "Thank you, both of you." He meant it. The plan had been daring and delicate – installing a new runic stabilizer deep in the Nexus core to halt the wild fluctuations threatening to tear the city's ley-grid apart. They had worked in tandem through the midnight hours: Salim weaving spells to contain the magical backlash, Zafir and his engineers hauling components and carving anchor points in the ancient stone machinery. John himself had insisted on being present in the thick of it, lending muscle and willpower where he could. Twice he had stepped in when a lesser man might have faltered – seizing a ruptured conduit with gloved hands to keep it aligned while Zafir bolted it down, and later intoning the final syllables of Salim's stabilizing incantation when the old mage's voice had faltered. Now the crisis was past, and his team looked at him not just as Emperor but as a comrade who had sweat and bled alongside them.
Not everyone shared the elation. "Promising… indeed," came a clipped voice from the rear of the platform. Minister Aru waddled forward, one pudgy hand braced on the rail as the lift jolted slightly. His round face gleamed with perspiration, and he pressed a perfumed handkerchief to his forehead. "A commendable outcome, of course." The words strained through a facade of courtly politeness. "And with the Nexus finally stabilized," Aru continued, clearing his throat, "we can at last proceed with full integration of the provinces' ley-lines without further… delays." He shot a pointed look at John, his tone oozing self-importance. In the dim magical light, Aru's eyes narrowed like a cat denied its cream.
John's faint smile faded. He had expected this. All night Aru had watched their struggle from a safe distance, contributing nothing except occasional complaints about the pace. Now the minister was eager to assert his agenda. John straightened to his full height, squaring his shoulders despite the ache in his muscles. "We will begin integration in due time," he said evenly, voice brooking no argument. "Phase by phase, as planned."
Aru pursed his lips. The platform chains rattled as if voicing the minister's irritation. "Your Majesty," he began, trying for an ingratiating smile that came out as a pained grimace, "the frontier provinces have been without central power for weeks. They clamored for action yesterday. Surely, given this success, there is no reason to prolong their wait. We should bring every regional Nexus online at once and send a message of unity across the empire." He swept a meaty arm in a grand gesture, nearly knocking into Salim's shoulder. "All can share in the City of Light's triumph by nightfall."
John's jaw tightened. He recalled that it was Aru's pressure which had nearly pushed them into a reckless early integration before repairs – a move John had vetoed. Had they listened to Aru then, tonight could have ended in catastrophe: a cascade of magical failures, perhaps explosions in distant provinces, all stemming from one unstable hub. John locked eyes with the minister. "No," he said, voice like iron. "We will do this right, not fast. The new stabilizer must be monitored under load. Each linkage to the provinces will be tested incrementally. I won't risk a kingdom-wide blackout or worse by rushing."
Zafir coughed and stepped in, nodding vigorously. "His Majesty is correct. The system needs to be rebalanced carefully. We connect the nearest provinces first, observe output thresholds, then proceed region by region. That was our plan from the start." The guildmaster's tone remained respectful but firm, leaving Aru no room for misinterpretation. Salim added pointedly, "A controlled approach ensures the safety of all, Minister. A sudden strain on the Nexus could undo everything we just accomplished." The archmage peered at Aru over his spectacles, eyebrows raised.
Aru's forced smile twisted, the corners of his mouth quivering with frustration. He dabbed his handkerchief against the roll of his chin, struggling to maintain a diplomatic expression. "Naturally, naturally," he lied through his teeth. "Prudence is always wise." His gaze flicked away from John's, unable to hold it. "No one is suggesting recklessness."
No one but you, John thought grimly. He kept his face neutral, imperial, though inside he felt a bite of impatience with the man. Aru had no genuine concern for caution – only for the political capital of delivering quick results. Now, with no catastrophe to exploit, the minister had been robbed of leverage. John intended to keep it that way.
The lift reached ground level with a final clank. The platform settled into its cradle, and a pair of waiting palace guards sprang forward to unbar the gate. Beyond the iron lattice, the corridor lights glowed steady and bright – already the Grand Nexus's renewed stability was feeding consistent power to the palace complex. John stepped off the lift, boots touching solid ground, and took a moment to savor the quiet triumph of that steady glow. Promising, he thought, but provisional.
Zafir was practically beaming as he strode out behind John. He flexed a kink from his back with a wince. "We'll have crews on watch around the clock, Majesty, to ensure the stabilizer holds. I'll draft status reports at every bell." The guildmaster's voice brimmed with pride and exhaustion in equal measure.
"You've earned some rest first, Master Zafir," John replied, allowing a hint of warmth into his tone. He clasped Zafir's shoulder, feeling the grit of stone dust on the man's work apron. "All of you have. It was a long night."
Zafir ducked his head in gratitude, and Salim offered a courtly half-bow. "As you say. We'll reconvene at midday to begin the phased integrations," Salim said. The archmage's eyes were alight – for all his measured composure, it was clear he too was thrilled by the magical feat they'd just pulled off.
Aru lumbered out last, smoothing his rich burgundy robes over his belly. He forced a conciliatory smile toward John. "Your Majesty, if I might suggest—perhaps a formal announcement of this development to the court? It would quell rumors and highlight your leadership in resolving the crisis." The words were innocuous, but John heard the subtext: Aru angling to spin the narrative to his advantage as the Emperor's loyal facilitator.
John gave the minister a cool, appraising look. Aru's gaze skittered away. "In due time, Minister," John said at length. "Right now, our priority is ensuring the fix remains stable." He let a beat of silence pass. "We will announce success when success is fully assured."
Aru bowed his head, cheeks flushed. "Of course, Majesty," he murmured.
John allowed himself a thin smile. "Get some rest, Master Aru. I know I will." It was a gentle but pointed dismissal.
Aru had no choice but to accept it. He executed a shallow bow – the flesh under his chin trembling with barely contained indignation – and backed away. "Your Majesty," he said through gritted teeth, then turned on his heel and walked off down the corridor, his entourage of scribes and attachés (who had been hovering at a deferential distance) scrambling to follow. John watched the minister's broad back recede into the shadows, the lantern-light dancing on the silk of Aru's robe. A self-serving man, John reflected, so used to having his way – now left stewing in impotence. Aru likely had wanted a different outcome: perhaps a failure he could use to undermine John's authority, or a premature integration he could claim credit for. Instead, he'd been silenced by the Emperor's success. For now, at least, John reminded himself.
As the last echo of Aru's footsteps died away, John finally let out a slow sigh. The tension in his neck and shoulders announced itself with a deep throb. He rolled his shoulders gingerly. Pain flared in his left forearm – a reminder of an old wound reopened during the night's labor, where a piece of jagged metal had caught him. A thin red stain had seeped through the bandage beneath his sleeve. John flexed his hand and ignored the sting. There would be time later to have Rashid or the physician tend it. For the moment, fatigue was a far louder voice in his body.
Zafir and Salim had already departed, each off to ensure their subordinates followed through on post-repair procedures. The corridor grew quiet. Two White Lion Guards remained at attention by the Nexus gate, their polished breastplates gleaming. One of them – a young sergeant with soot smudged on his cheek – looked ready to collapse from exhaustion but still snapped to rigid salute as John turned.
John raised a hand in a gesture of ease. "Stand easy. You and your men have done well," he said kindly. The guard had been stationed here all night in case something went awry. The sergeant's eyes brightened at the Emperor's acknowledgment. "Thank you, Your Majesty," he said hoarsely.
John gestured to the pair of guards. "Get yourselves some water, some air. Keep an eye on things from outside for a moment. I'll secure this hall for now."
The men glanced at each other, unsure if they should leave the Emperor unattended. John managed a tired chuckle. "I'll be perfectly safe here." After all, he thought, what assassin or saboteur would choose this moment – in this place, reeking of burnt ether and sweat? The danger had passed.
With grateful bows, the guards withdrew to a side door to catch a breather, leaving John momentarily alone in the broad marble corridor outside the Nexus chamber. He leaned back against the cool stone wall. A wave of weariness threatened to swamp him. He closed his eyes just for a second. Sweet silence. In that silence, his mind replayed the night's events – the gut-clenching moment when the Nexus nearly buckled, the way he had felt raw power surging and had stepped in to steer it. There was deep satisfaction in knowing he'd met this challenge head on and prevailed. The city would wake to light instead of darkness thanks to what they accomplished.
But John knew this victory was only one move in a longer game. Aru's reaction made that clear. The minister would bide his time, waiting for another pressure point to leverage. And beyond Aru loomed greater uncertainties – the ripple effects of tonight's work across the empire, the secrets still coiled in the palace's corners. Even triumph came with shadows attached.
He reopened his eyes and pushed off the wall, fighting a tug of dizziness. Amber light from a nearby lantern haloed his vision. Perhaps he'd stolen more than a second of rest. If he stood still much longer, his body would insist on sleeping right here on the marble floor. John scrubbed a hand over his face, feeling days of accumulated stubble rasp under his palm. A hot bath and a soft bed sounded like paradise. Yes, rest, he resolved – a few hours at least, before the next chapter of duty began.
John strode quietly down the corridor toward his private chambers, footsteps echoing in the dimness. Outside a narrow arched window, the sky had lightened from black to deep blue. He realized with a start that he'd worked through the entire night. It was nearly morning. Servants would be stirring soon; the palace's daily rhythms would resume on cue. If he hurried, he might slip into his apartments before the dawn bustle found him.
He passed a row of carved columns where the corridor bent toward the residential wing. The air here was cooler, carrying the faint scent of lilies from the palace gardens beyond. As he walked, John rolled up the soot-stained sleeves of his tunic. His forearms bore fresh scrapes and charcoal smudges. Hardly the image of an Emperor, he mused wryly – but appearances could be tended to later.
Just then, a whisper of movement flickered at the edge of his vision. John halted mid-stride. His hand fell to the hilt of his lion-headed kilij by instinct. In the dim light he saw a slender figure emerge from behind the last column, silent as a cat. A cascade of red hair caught the glow of a wall-lantern, and familiar emerald-green eyes met his.
It was Yvara.
John's tension eased in an instant, replaced by surprise. Yvara was one of the palace concubines – the very one whose gentle presence had comforted him through recent nights of turmoil. She wore a simple wrap of midnight-blue silk around her curves, far plainer than the fineries he'd seen her in at courtly evenings. The bare soles of her feet peeked from under the hem; she had come shod in silence. Yvara lifted a finger to her lips, a plea for quiet.
"Your Majesty," she whispered, dipping her head in a quick token of respect even as she stepped closer. Her voice was soft and urgent, barely above a breath in the still hall. "Forgive my impudence in approaching you like this." In the faint glow, John could see concern etched on her elegant features – and something determined in the set of her jaw.
John glanced over his shoulder. The corridor was empty save for distant shapes of the retreating guards. No one else to witness this clandestine meeting. He looked back to Yvara and offered a small, tired smile. "It's all right," he replied quietly. "What is it, Yvara? Is something wrong?"
She studied him a moment, as if gauging his state. Her eyes flicked to the drying blood on his sleeve, then back to the exhaustion she could surely read on his face. Worry creased her brow. "You're hurt," she breathed, reaching out a hand before catching herself.
John shook his head. "It's nothing. A scratch from the repairs." He straightened, drawing on his remaining strength. "What brings you here? If you're seen outside the Harem at this hour—"
"I was careful," Yvara interjected. There was a hint of pride under the whisper. "No one saw me. I… I have something to show you, Majesty. Something important. It cannot wait." Her throat bobbed as she swallowed, eyes never leaving his. "Dawn is the only time we can do this without others prying. Please – come with me."
John hesitated. The prudent part of him was keenly aware of decorum – an Emperor wandering the halls alone with a concubine before sunrise would ignite gossip like a brushfire. And yet, he trusted Yvara. In the weeks since John had assumed Arslan's place, she had shown a perceptiveness and quiet courage that set her apart. She had even gently questioned him about his newfound kindness, not out of defiance but genuine curiosity. In her presence he found a strange solace – a glimpse of humanity amid the gilded cages of court. If she believed something was urgent enough to risk meeting him in secret, John would listen.
"All right," he whispered, inclining his head. The answer lit a brief spark of relief in Yvara's eyes. "Lead the way."
Gratitude flickered across Yvara's face. Without another word, she turned and glided along the corridor, beckoning him to follow. John fell into step a pace behind her, mirroring her silence. His boots tread lightly on the mosaic floor, but he could not match Yvara's near-weightless footfalls. Together, they slipped around a corner into a narrower passage that John knew led toward the Harem's outer gardens.
This was a servants' route, less traveled at night – the walls here were bare stone, and the air carried a slight draft. They passed shuttered alcove windows that peeked into dark courtyards. John kept alert for any sentries or early-rising attendants, but they encountered none. Only the distant trill of a nightjar bird outside accompanied them. Yvara moved with confidence, one hand occasionally brushing the wall as though counting familiar doorways in the gloom.
She paused at a small iron-bound door tucked in a recess. A thick wooden bar secured it. With sure, quiet movements, Yvara lifted the bar and eased the door open just wide enough for them to slip through. John realized this was a postern gate into the women's garden – one seldom used, likely meant for discreet exits or by gardeners. The scent of damp earth and jasmine wafted through, and with it a faint silver of pre-dawn light.
Yvara stepped through; John followed, and she gently closed the door behind them. The sudden change of scene was disorienting in its beauty. Moments ago John had been surrounded by cold stone and flickering torches. Now he found himself in an open-air garden where dawn's first blush revealed silhouettes of cypress trees and trellised vines. The sky overhead was a soft indigo, the last stars dissolving.
He drew a deep breath. The air felt cool and alive. It smelled of wet leaves, night-blooming flowers, and the mineral freshness of a fountain. Indeed, at the heart of the garden he could make out a low fountain basin, its water silent and glassy in the early light. White lilies floated on its surface. Beyond, flowering shrubs and carefully tended rose bushes lined gravel paths. This was a secluded Eden, encircled by high palace walls – a world within a world, made for the women of the Harem to take the sun and air in privacy.
John had never entered this garden before. Few men besides the Sultan and eunuch guards ever did. The last time he had glimpsed it was in Arslan's inherited memories – and those were hazy impressions at best. Now he walked in as an interloper by invitation, acutely aware of the sanctity of this space.
Yvara wasted no time. She took John's hand lightly – an electric touch – and guided him along a pebble-strewn path skirting the fountain. Her palm was warm despite the morning chill. John could feel her pulse quicken; whatever she meant to show him clearly weighed on her heart. He followed in silence under an arbor of grapevines that cast filigree shadows in the growing light. A lone bird chirruped from a magnolia tree to greet the dawn.
They approached a venerable cedar tree that towered near the garden's eastern wall. Its branches spread wide, guardian-like, and at its base stood a series of three large wooden tablets mounted on stone plinths. The tablets were nearly as tall as John, side by side, their surfaces smoothed by artisans long dead. In the half-light, he could discern lines of script carved deeply into the golden-brown cedar wood. Some characters were gilded, others darkened with age. A few ivy tendrils crept around the edges of the plinths, as if nature itself sought to soften the stark words engraved there.
Yvara drew John to a halt before the tablets. She released his hand and folded her own nervously at her waist. Her gaze fixed on the carved writing. "These are the Rule Tablets," she said quietly. "They contain the laws of the Harem, set down generations ago." Her voice took on a formal cadence, as though reciting scripture. "Every woman who enters these walls is required to learn them by heart."
John stepped closer to the central tablet. The cedar wood was old yet well-oiled and cared for. A faint resinous fragrance still emanated from it. He squinted to decipher the script. It was written in archaic High Arkhani. John's heart thudded as he recognized certain phrases and realized exactly what he was looking at. He had heard of these rules in passing – an Emperor rarely bothered to read them himself – but John was no ordinary Emperor. He moved his lips silently as he read the first lines chiseled into the wood:
"1. No concubine, once entered into the Imperial Harem, shall depart the Inner Palace grounds unless by direct command of His Imperial Majesty."
John felt a tightening in his chest. He continued:
"2. No concubine shall have contact or correspondence with any man outside the Harem (save appointed eunuch guardians or physicians) upon pain of death."
The words stared back at him, uncompromising and cold. Yvara's gentle voice picked up where his eyes left off, reciting from memory:
"3. Any concubine who bears the Emperor a son shall thenceforth cease all intimate relations with the Emperor and devote herself to the upbringing of said child. She shall be granted release only upon that child's ascension or death." Yvara's voice faltered slightly as she spoke that line. In the growing light, John saw her mouth tighten.
She continued, each rule falling like a stone into a still pond:
"4. All personal property, dowry, and gifts of a concubine are to be held in trust by the Imperial Harem. Dispensation of such property lies solely at the Emperor's pleasure."
"5. Absolute obedience is expected to the Imperial Family and to appointed Harem officials. Rebellion, theft, or moral transgression shall be met with exemplary punishment."
By the time Yvara fell silent, John's hands had curled into fists at his sides. He forced them open, fearful he might splinter the ancient wood with his sudden anger. He read some lines over again to ensure he hadn't misunderstood through the haze of his rising outrage.
The rules left little room for interpretation: these women were imperial possessions, bound within these walls by law and threat of violence. One clause promised that any concubine who broke faith – through an affair or disobedience – would be punished by death, a fate as final as it was casually decreed. The edict about dowries caught his eye, too. "Held in trust by the Imperial Harem" – he could well imagine what that meant in practice. It would be all too easy for those valuables to vanish, with no recourse for the women who brought them.
John inhaled slowly, trying to master himself. His temples throbbed – not only from exhaustion, but from a mounting moral disgust. After everything he had experienced in this world – assassins, cults, battlefields – it was these carved words that truly turned his stomach.
"It's… barbaric," John said at last, voice low and taut.
Yvara looked at him, surprised by the raw condemnation in his tone. Dawn light was creeping steadily into the garden, touching the auburn strands of her hair with fire. In that light John saw her eyes glisten. She nodded once, a tiny motion heavy with meaning. "Yes, Majesty. It is."
John stepped closer to the tablets, reading further down where smaller text elaborated on the punishments and protocols. His mind rebelled at each twist: concubines who failed to please after a certain number of years could be "retired" to remote provinces (in effect, exiled to a lonely existence). Those suspected of adultery – even unwillingly – were to be "sewn in a sack and cast into the sea," as one chilling line described. He had to read that twice to believe his eyes.
"They would really—?" he whispered, unable to finish the question.
Yvara lowered her gaze. "It has happened," she murmured. "Perhaps not in our lifetime, but the eunuchs still whisper the cautionary tale of a girl long ago… caught with a page boy. They say the Valide Sultan of that era had her drowned in the Bosphorus." Yvara swallowed hard. "Whether it's true or just a ghost story to frighten us, the effect is the same. We live in fear of testing those boundaries."
John felt a hot spike of shame – not at Yvara or the other women, but at the lineage of emperors whose will (or negligence) had enforced this misery. He wore the face of one of those emperors, and until now he had not fully grasped what that meant for the hundreds of souls in his Harem. They were canaries in gilded cages, every one.
Yvara reached out and lightly touched the third tablet, tracing a carved line with her fingertip. "This one," she said softly, "is the first thing the Chief Eunuch made us recite when I arrived here: 'You are jewels in the Emperor's crown, to be guarded and never removed. All that you were before is forfeited; all that you are now is by the Emperor's grace.'" She gave a bitter little laugh. "Even our names can be changed at a whim. We belong to the palace utterly, even after death."
John could hear the restrained anger and sadness in her voice. It resonated with an anger of his own. He realized his breathing had grown ragged and forced himself to take a calmer breath. He had to remind himself to unclench his jaw.
"How have you endured this?" he asked quietly. It was not a rhetorical question – he genuinely wanted to know how Yvara and the others lived day by day under such smothering edicts. Yvara, who loved music and coaxed life from the palace gardens; Yvara, who spoke now with a fierce honesty – how had a spirit like hers not withered?
Yvara's green eyes met John's. "We endure because we must," she said. "We find small freedoms – friendships, books in the library, stolen moments under the open sky like this." She lifted her shoulders in a small shrug, a gesture of resignation and defiance all at once. "And we hope… we pray that perhaps one day a Sultan will come who sees us as more than chattel."
John's heart panged. The unspoken addendum hung in the cool air: We dared to hope that Sultan might be you. Since John had assumed Arslan's identity, he had treated the concubines with a gentleness entirely foreign to the old Emperor. That had not gone unnoticed. These women were perceptive; they felt the change in him even if they didn't understand its cause. And Yvara had now risked everything to act on that perception.
John turned fully to face her. "Yvara," he said, and his voice nearly cracked with intensity, "I am sorry. Sorry that it has been like this for so long." He lifted a hand, hesitated for a heartbeat, then gently rested it on her slim shoulder. He felt her tremble at the contact, but she did not pull away. "You were right to show me this. I needed to see it with my own eyes." He glanced at the forbidding tablets again, then back to the woman before him – the living, breathing refutation of those oppressive words.
"This will not stand," John said firmly. It was almost a growl. "I swear to you, Yvara, things will change. I won't let these rules damn an entire generation to misery." Each word he spoke with quiet, simmering conviction.
Her lips parted slightly in surprise. Clearly, she had not expected such a direct pledge. A dawn breeze stirred the garden, rustling the leaves above, and a strand of her coppery hair blew across her face. On impulse, John reached out and gently brushed it back behind her ear. His fingertips grazed her cheek; she was warm, vibrantly alive, and in that instant achingly human to him – neither "jewel" nor pawn, but a young woman who had bled and dreamed in the shadows of a tyrant's court. Yvara's eyes widened at his touch, and a faint blush rose in her cheeks.
"My Emperor," Yvara whispered – and for the first time since he'd known her, he heard tears in her voice. "Thank you." Two simple words, yet she invested them with a depth of emotion that humbled him. She lowered her gaze, blinking rapidly. When she looked up again, her lashes glistened. "We feared you would never truly see us. That no one ever would."
John felt a knot in his throat. He realized how much courage it had taken for her to bring him here. If he had reacted poorly – dismissing her, or worse, punishing her for this clandestine rendezvous – she would have paid dearly. Yet she had taken that risk for the sake of her sisters and herself. In that moment, John saw Yvara not as a concubine but as one of the bravest souls in his realm.
He found himself gently cupping her face with one callused hand. The dawn light was strengthening; in it her eyes shone like twin pools, brimming now with cautious hope. "You have my word," John said softly. "I'll find a way to make this right. Maybe not all at once – but step by step, as surely as we fixed the Nexus." He managed a wry smile, and that conjured a small, shaky laugh from her.
"Your Majesty… John," she said, using his true name in a tentative breath. It felt like a benediction on her lips. "If anyone can, it's you. We all sense it. You're not… not like the others before."
John's pulse quickened. Did she truly know? Or was it simply that he behaved differently? It hardly mattered. He was determined to justify that faith she placed in him.
A sudden raucous cawing shattered the hush. A peacock perched on the garden wall unfurled its emerald tail with a clatter of feathers and gave a loud cry. The sky had brightened to a pearly rose; sunrise was imminent. From elsewhere in the palace came the faint stirrings of activity – distant voices of servants, the clang of a kitchen bell. The Harem and the rest of the court would soon be awakening.
Yvara stepped back reluctantly from John's touch, duty and caution flooding back into her expression. "We should go," she said, casting a wary glance around the garden's perimeter. Already, John could imagine eunuch guards making their early rounds within the women's quarters, handmaids preparing morning meals. This secret interlude was nearly over.
"Yes," he agreed, though he wished he could give her – and himself – a few minutes more in this tranquil oasis. But he would not repay her trust by getting her caught in a compromising situation.
Yvara quickly led him back along the path toward the small door. Her bare feet moved swiftly over the dew-cool stones. John memorized the sight of those cedar tablets in the morning light – each cruel line now illuminated, as if to ensure he would not forget them in the day's comfort. He would not.
They slipped out through the postern gate and returned to the dim servant corridor. Before they parted, Yvara turned to John one last time. There were no words – only a look, an exchange of vows unspoken. John inclined his head in promise, and Yvara answered with a grateful, courageous smile. Then, gathering her robe tightly around her against the early chill, she hurried off down the corridor, back towards the Harem's inner sanctum before her absence could be noticed. In moments, she vanished around a bend, as silent as she had come.
John remained a moment in the shadows, watching until she was gone. He realized his heart was pounding, his emotions swirling in a way they hadn't in a long time – fierce protectiveness, righteous anger, and a budding affection he dared not name. The first rays of the true sunrise spilled through a high window, turning the corridor's dust motes to floating gold. He took it as an omen.
Exhaustion tugged at him anew, but John's mind was afire with resolve. There were wrongs to right in this palace beyond the obvious threats of cults and conspiracies. The women's plight, the missing dowries, the theft of freedom enshrined in cedar wood – these, too, were battles he would fight, quietly or openly.
He made his way back toward his chambers. The palace was coming alive: he passed a pair of yawning scullery maids who hastily bowed, none the wiser about where their Emperor had been. John offered a distracted nod in return. Already he was formulating the beginnings of a plan – subtle changes to ease the women's lives, discreet inquiries into the handling of their property, perhaps a reshuffle of trusted staff in the Harem. He would consult Rashid carefully; the Chief Eunuch was loyal, and perhaps he could be convinced to help institute reforms or at least not hinder them. And Yvara – John allowed himself a small smile – Yvara would be his eyes and ears among the women, if she were willing. He trusted she would be.
As John entered his private chambers at last, the full sun peeked above the horizon, flooding the City of Light with morning brilliance. From his balcony, he could hear the distant sounds of the capital stirring: vendors calling, the clatter of hoof carts on cobbles, a thousand lives continuing under the newly stable glow of runic street-lamps that, for once, hadn't flickered out at dawn. It was a new day in an empire he was slowly, surely remaking.
John gently closed his door and leaned against it, fatigue crashing over him like a wave now that the adrenaline had ebbed. In the hush, he allowed himself one deep, shuddering breath. He thought of Yvara's brave smile and the tenuous trust those concubines were beginning to place in this new Emperor. He thought of the cedar tablets and their merciless edicts.
He pushed himself upright. One step at a time, he reminded himself – just as with the Nexus, just as with everything else. But he vowed then and there that he would see those tablets rendered obsolete. The lines of light he intended to weave across the empire would reach even into the darkest, most private corners of the palace.
John ran a hand through his unkempt hair and summoned a servant to draw a bath. There was much to do and only a short respite in which to gather his strength. As he stripped off his soiled tunic, his eyes strayed east, toward the Harem quarters hidden beyond layers of marble and tradition.
"Things will change," he murmured under his breath, the vow echoing in the quiet room. Outside, the sun climbed higher, bright and unblinking, heralding the promise of daylight. John silently swore to himself – and to all those still watching from the shadows – that he would be their dawn.
Chapter 5
The morning sun spilled across the barracks yard in a honeyed flood, glinting off breastplates and the polished tips of lances. A line of Imperial cavalry cantered through the low haze of dust, their horses kicking up golden motes that hung in the cool air. The smell of horse-sweat, leather, and oiled steel mixed with the crisp scent of dew evaporating from the training field. General Safid sat astride his bay charger at the yard's edge, hawk-like eyes observing every move. Even at this early hour, the battle-scarred veteran cut an imposing figure – ramrod straight in the saddle, arms calmly folded, the morning light etching deep lines in his tanned, angular face.
John stood a short distance away, rolling his shoulders to loosen up. He wore light training armor – a simple cuirass over a linen tunic, forearms braced in leather vambraces. The weight felt familiar and reassuring. Despite the dramatic events of recent days, he had made a point to continue his dawn exercises with the troops whenever possible. It grounded him, and it strengthened the bond he'd begun forging with the army. Around him, a few dozen cavalrymen were dismounting now that their warm-up laps were done, their breath and their horses' breaths steaming gently in the cool of the new sun. Laughter and jests drifted on the air as they bantered about who rode fastest or who nearly ate dust at the last turn.
John took a deep breath, savoring the scene: the rhythmic clink of bridles, the satisfied snorts of horses being led to water troughs, the tail end of a bawdy joke drawing hoots from a knot of young riders. This camaraderie reminded him of mornings on Earth spent among fellow soldiers – different uniforms, different world, but the same easy brotherhood born of shared trials.
General Safid swung down from his saddle with a fluid motion belying his years. Leaving an aide to attend his horse, he walked over to John with a faint smile tugging at his scarred lip. "Your Majesty," Safid greeted, bowing his head. "We're ready when you are."
John returned a crooked grin. "I appreciate you humoring me with this experiment, General." He patted the sheaf of papers tucked into his belt – Salim's meticulous notes on the rune John was about to test. "If it works, it might give our cavalry an edge."
Safid's dark eyes glinted with skepticism and amusement. "And if it tosses you on your imperial backside, I'll be sure to note which part of the yard needs softer sand." The general's tone was respectful, but John didn't miss the twinkle. In the weeks since John had begun these training sessions, Safid had grown comfortable enough to tease him on occasion – an unthinkable liberty with the old Arslan, but one John welcomed.
"Fair enough," John chuckled. He turned to face the assembled soldiers. At Safid's barked command, they fell into a loose semicircle to watch. There were lieutenants here and rank-and-file lancers – all curious to see what their Emperor had up his sleeve this morning. John caught sight of Sergeant Timur among them – the same grizzled instructor he'd bested in a sparring bout at dawn some time ago. Timur gave him an encouraging nod now.
John drew a deep breath and knelt to touch the ground. With a piece of chalk, he sketched a quick symbol on each of his leather boots – the rune known in Salim's manuscripts as "Ghost-stride." It was a compact bind-array, a tangle of directive sigils that, if activated, would grant the wearer a brief burst of preternatural speed and phasing. In theory, a man could sprint the length of a jousting list in the blink of an eye, passing through obstacles like a specter. In theory.
He stood and brushed dust from his knees. The soldiers watched in intrigued silence. John rolled his shoulders once more, then looked to Safid. "Two hundred paces to the far fence, is that right?" he confirmed. At the end of the yard, a row of straw dummies and a waist-high wooden fence marked the finish line they'd set.
Safid nodded. "About that. We've cleared the track for you." The general stepped aside, arms behind his back. "On your mark, sire."
John paced to the start line drawn in lime on the dirt. He felt his heart pick up speed. It wasn't battle – just a training yard stunt – yet his nerves hummed. He hadn't fully mastered Ghost-stride in practice; in fact, this would be his first live attempt at full power. Slow is smooth, smooth is fast, he reminded himself, recalling an old sniper mantra. Ironic, given he was about to move anything but slow.
He drew in a lungful of morning air. The sun was in his eyes now, just cresting the barracks roof, but he didn't mind – he had run into worse glare before. He planted his feet, feeling the grit under his boots. At least the ground was hard-packed and flat here. Good footing would be essential when… or if he regained solidity after the burst.
General Safid raised an arm. "Ready… go!" he barked, slashing his arm down.
John exhaled and willed energy into the runes on his boots. For an instant nothing happened – then a jolt like quicksilver shot up his legs. Move! John launched himself forward. The world contracted to a blur. One moment he was at the start line, the next the entire yard lurched in his vision. The wind of his own passage roared in his ears, and the faces of the watching cavalry smeared into streaks of color. John felt his body become light, too light – as if he might float off the earth. Ghost-stride was living up to its name.
In a heartbeat, John covered half the distance to the fence. It's working, he thought in triumph. The rune's power coursed through him, and he flashed a wild grin to realize he was nearly invisible, a ripple of motion scarcely discernible to the human eye. He leaned into the rush, boots barely skimming the ground. The fence rushed at him – he'd cross it in another blink – and beyond that, the solid stone wall of the barracks loomed.
End the rune, end it now, a survival instinct warned. John tried to arrest the magic flow, but Ghost-stride was like a horse bolting: not easily reined in mid-gallop. His body blurred across the finish line. He released the rune with a panicked yank of will. Instantly, time snapped back to normal speed – and inertia took vicious hold.
John stumbled as he rematerialized fully, boots slamming into the dirt at a dead sprint. The fence that had been a distant line a split-second ago was suddenly underfoot. He cleared it – almost. His trailing boot caught the top rail, and the world tilted violently. John lurched forward, arms windmilling. This is going to hurt, flashed through his mind.
He hit the earth shoulder-first with a thud that drove the air from his lungs. An explosion of dust enveloped him as he rolled once, twice, then sprawled flat on his back. He skidded to a stop mere paces from the barracks' stone wall, blinking up at a sky now spinning with motes of dust.
For a heartbeat, the yard was silent in shock. Then a chorus of shouting erupted and dozens of booted feet pounded toward him. John coughed, sitting up in a cloud of dust. His shoulder armor had absorbed most of the impact, but he felt a stinging scrape on his cheek and something warm trickling from his hairline. Damn, that wall came up fast, he thought, a little dazed.
General Safid was the first to reach him, boots sliding in the dirt. The old soldier's face hovered above John's, etched with alarm. "Majesty! Are you hurt?" Safid's hands were already under John's arm, prepared to haul him upright or lay him flat as needed.
John spat grit and managed a raspy chuckle. "Only my pride, General." He grasped Safid's forearm and let the man help him to his feet. All around, cavalrymen stood in a loose circle, concern and suppressed mirth warring on their faces.
John brushed dust from his dented cuirass and looked down at the smear of blood on his forearm where it had scraped bare earth. He couldn't help it – he laughed. A full, booming laugh of sheer exhilaration and absurdity. The Emperor of Sevahn was standing in the mud, scuffed and bleeding from a pratfall that any novice might envy.
The soldiers exchanged incredulous glances, then relieved grins broke out. A ripple of laughter followed, respectful yet genuine. One lean cavalryman slapped his thigh, unable to contain himself. "By the Lion, Your Majesty – if that was flying, you stuck the landing like a wounded duck!" he blurted, then clamped his mouth shut, suddenly pale at his own impudence.
John laughed harder, waving off any need for formality. "An astute observation, soldier," he managed between chuckles. His ribs ached, whether from impact or mirth he wasn't sure. He took the man's jape in good humor – it was exactly what he would have said had their roles been reversed. "Clearly I'll need to improve my dismount."
That unleashed a gale of laughter from the gathered men. Even Safid's stern composure cracked; the general pinched the bridge of his nose, hiding a grin. Sergeant Timur stepped forward, a wry smile under his thick mustache. "Permission to speak freely, sire?"
"Go on, Timur," John said, catching his breath.
The grizzled sergeant crossed his arms, pretending to appraise the long skid mark John's body had carved in the dirt. "I'd say ghost-striding works splendidly, Emperor – you'll strike terror into the hearts of our enemies. They'll hear you coming and see only a dust cloud… followed by a mighty thump." His tone was deadpan but his eyes danced.
The yard roared with laughter. John put his hands on his hips and hung his head in mock chagrin. "Noted, Sergeant. Perhaps I should practice stopping before I attempt that on a battlefield."
Safid clapped John gently on the back (careful to avoid the shoulder that had hit the ground). "In all seriousness, Majesty, that was impressive until the end. You crossed two hundred paces faster than any stallion could." He peered at the still-settling dust and the distance John had tumbled. "If we can harness that properly…"
John blew out a breath, nodding. "I felt like I'd been shot from a cannon, General. The rune worked a little too well." He gingerly flexed his right shoulder. It would blossom into a bruise by midday, no doubt. "I lost control trying to shut it off."
One of the younger lieutenants piped up, eyes shining with excitement. "Even so, sire, you… you vanished! One blink you were there, the next you were plowing up half the yard at the fence!" This earned him a good-natured shove from his fellows for his bluntness, but many of them were nodding and grinning in agreement.
John found himself grinning as well. The fall had embarrassed him, true, but it had also humanized him further in the eyes of these warriors. He wasn't some untouchable demigod sneering from a dais – he was right there with them in the dirt, willing to risk a broken bone to test a new edge in battle. And when he'd failed, he'd laughed first, before anyone else could.
"I appreciate the play-by-play," John told the wide-eyed lieutenant with a wink. "Next time I vanish, I'll aim to reappear on my feet."
"Aye, next time perhaps warn the wall to get out of your way," Safid added dryly. That drew another round of chuckles.
John rotated his arm and winced only slightly. "The wall put up a good fight, but I'll heal. More importantly – we've seen this rune's potential." He raised his voice a bit, addressing the men at large. "Imagine a wedge of our riders ghost-striding through an enemy line – straight through shields and pikes – to strike at their rear. Or a scout slipping through a gate before it's opened."
The cavalrymen murmured with thoughtful enthusiasm. They hadn't forgotten the comic spectacle of their Emperor careening through the dust, but they recognized a tactical boon when they heard one.
"It will take training," John continued. "I clearly need a bit more practice myself." That drew some good-natured guffaws. "But if it can be mastered, it could save lives. Surprise an opponent where he feels safest, and you break him."
Safid nodded approvingly. "Spoken like a seasoned commander, sire." The general's gaze swept the men. "You heard His Majesty. I expect each of you to not imitate his tumble – otherwise your fellows will never let you hear the end of it."
A trooper quipped loudly, "We'll be sure to line the yard with pillows, General!" and the whole company dissolved in mirth again. Safid shook his head, lips twitching.
John held up his hands in surrender. "All right, all right. That's enough spectacle for one morning. Dismissed to the stables – rub down your mounts and then breakfast."
With salutes (and a few lingering grins), the cavalry dispersed in twos and threes, leading their horses away or clapping each other on the back as they rehashed what they'd just witnessed. John caught bits of jovial commentary trailing off: "Fast as a djinn, I tell you!" – "Did you see His Majesty's face right before he tripped?!" – "I thought he might truly sprout wings for a second!"
Safid remained by John's side as they walked back across the yard. The general's boots left firm prints beside the long groove carved by John's slide. "In all seriousness, Majesty, I'll have the war mage corps review that rune with Magister Salim," Safid said quietly. "Perhaps they can devise a safer shut-off or anchor for it. The concept is sound, but a rider or soldier needs to be able to stop on command."
John nodded, pleased at Safid's practical response. "Agreed. And maybe don't inscribe it on the soles of boots next time – nearly lost those when I phased." He glanced back and saw a single chalk rune had indeed been scuffed off one boot where he'd dragged it. "A gauntlet or belt buckle might be better for activation control."
Safid rubbed his chin, considering. "And a shorter distance to test until the technique is mastered."
"Lesson learned," John said ruefully.
They reached the troughs where a few horses still drank noisily. Safid paused, turning to John with a look of respect tempered by concern. "Majesty, you continue to surprise me – and these men – in the best of ways. They'll follow you to the ends of the earth if you keep this up." Then he allowed a ghost of a smirk. "Just try not to kill yourself during morning drills. You gave us a scare."
John clapped the general on the shoulder. "I promise to survive my own training, General." He gestured for Safid to attend to his duties. "Go on – I'm sure you have a busy day ahead. And I've scuffed up enough of your yard for one dawn."
Safid bowed, relief and admiration mingling on his face. "As you will, Majesty." As he turned away, John overheard him mutter toward a captain, "And get a medic to fetch a salve for His Majesty's scrapes, before he bleeds on his armor." Ever the mother hen when it came to his Emperor's well-being, John thought with fond amusement.
John lingered a moment by the water trough, letting the cold water from the hand-pump sluice over his dirt-caked hands and splashing a bit on his face. He examined his reflection in the trough's rippling surface: a shallow cut on his brow, some dust in his hair, but otherwise intact. Not so bad. The laughter lines at the corners of his eyes were new, though. He realized he had smiled and laughed more in the past few weeks – living as Arslan – than perhaps he had in years as John Sullivan back on Earth. In forging these bonds, in caring for these people, he was rediscovering a piece of himself long buried under wariness and duty.
A stable-hand rushed up with a clean cloth and a vial of herbal salve, stammering that General Safid insisted. John thanked the lad and applied the stingy ointment to his brow, then wiped the sweat and dust from his face and neck. His shoulder and back would protest soon enough from that tumble, but it was a good pain – the kind that meant he was alive, learning, growing.
He took one last look around the brightening yard – the grooved dirt, the leaning fencerail he'd nearly broken with his boot, the sun now fully peeking over the barracks roof – and he smiled. Humility, persistence, slow mastery. He was on the right path, bruises and all.
With that, John handed the cloth back to the stable-hand and strode off to change and attend to the next matter of the day. The buoyant mood of the training yard stayed with him as he entered the palace halls: servants who passed him were startled to see their Emperor limping slightly, dust still on his boots, but wearing an irrepressible grin like a junior cadet who'd pulled off a daring prank.
By mid-morning, John was once again every inch the Emperor in appearance – bathed, dressed in a crisp emerald-green kaftan, his cut tended to and the earlier scrapes neatly bandaged or hidden. But internally, he remained in that energized, optimistic headspace from the yard. It was in this frame of mind that he found himself heading toward a quieter corner of the palace complex – the Harem Library.
Situated adjacent to the women's quarters but accessible through a side gallery, the Harem Library was a high-domed chamber filled with filtered light and the perfume of old paper and ink. Unlike the vast Imperial Archive elsewhere in the palace, this library was more intimate – curated over centuries to educate and occupy the concubines. It held volumes of poetry, history, illuminated manuscripts of classical romances, and shelves of calligraphy practice scrolls. Potted ferns and hanging silks gave the room a feminine grace. This morning, however, the library was empty of its usual readers. At Yvara's quiet arrangement, it had been reserved for a private imperial visit.
John stepped through the carved teak doors and found Yvara waiting just inside, alongside another woman – Livia, the silver-haired archivist who managed the palace libraries. Livia bowed deeply. "Your Majesty honors us with this visit," she said, her voice a polished murmur. John recalled that Livia had helped him discreetly in the past with arcane texts. She was a woman of keen intellect, proud of her domain.
"Good morning, Livia," John replied kindly. "I've been eager to see this library. With all that has happened, I realize I've neglected it."
Livia beamed, clearly pleased. "Of course, sire. It is a humble collection compared to the Imperial Archive, but we are proud of it." She gestured to the sunlit alcoves. "We have works in four languages, copies of all the great epics… Many ladies spend hours here honing their letters or reading poetry."
"I'm glad," John said. He cast a conspiratorial glance at Yvara. "I suspect knowledge thrives best where it's nurtured quietly."
Yvara gave the barest hint of a smile, understanding that he referred to the secret reason for this visit. John had asked her to guide him today – through a different kind of exercise. The playful man from the training ground was gone; in his place stood the Emperor with a purpose behind his eyes.
"Livia," John continued, turning back to the librarian, "I desire some time alone to peruse a few volumes." He let his gaze wander across the shelves. "I have matters of… culture and courtly life I wish to better understand. Lady Yvara will remain with me to assist."
Livia hesitated, faint surprise in her eyes that the Emperor should want privacy in such an innocuous setting. But she was too seasoned to question. "Certainly, Majesty. I shall ensure you are not disturbed." She motioned to an attendant to leave, then personally departed with a final bow, closing the heavy door behind her.
The moment the latch clicked, Yvara sprang into action. "This way," she said under her breath, beckoning John toward a secluded nook behind a latticework divider. Here, cushions were arranged around a low sandalwood table scattered with scrolls and quills – a spot where concubines might gather to share poems or gossip away from watchful eyes.
The filtered morning light fell in soft beams through a screened window, illuminating dust motes above the table. Yvara knelt and gingerly lifted a section of the table's carved top. To John's surprise, a hidden compartment lay beneath, shallow but wide, containing a dozen or more rolled parchments tied with faded ribbons.
"These aren't library inventory," Yvara explained quietly as John knelt opposite her. The faint fragrance of cedar oil and dried rose petals emanated from the secret cache. "They're what we spoke of… complaint scrolls, letters, verses the women wrote but could never send or speak aloud. We hid them here over the years."
Carefully, Yvara took one and unrolled it. The parchment crackled softly. John leaned closer to read. It was a poem, penned in a delicate cursive hand:
"Caged bird in gilded night,
Your song is heard by none.
Bars of silk and rule of might
Obscure the rising sun.
Yet still you sing, though hope be slight,
And wait for day to come…"
The poem trailed off into smudges, as if the writer had wept onto the ink.
John swallowed against the sudden tightness in his throat. Yvara offered him another scroll. This one was a letter, never sent, from a concubine to her mother:
"…They took my turquoise earrings today, the ones father gave me. Said they needed resetting but I know I'll never see them again. I have so little of home left. At night I tuck the memory of your voice around me like a blanket and cry where no one sees. Please pray for me, Mama. I remain your dutiful daughter, though I fear I will die here unknown, uncherished…"
John closed his eyes briefly. The words blurred as he tried to contain the anger and sorrow rising in him. He gently rolled the letter back up with reverence, as if handling the writer's very heart. "How many such scrolls…?" he asked softly.
"Too many." Yvara's voice quavered. "Some from women long gone – sent away or passed on. A few of us younger ones found them hidden in books or furniture, left like messages in a bottle. We started collecting them here, to remember. To witness each other's truth, even if the world wouldn't." She offered him another, a briefer note in a bold hand:
"Stolen: One gold locket, inset with ruby. Given by my brother at our parting. Missing after laundry day. Suspect foul play. Complaint lodged with Mistress Halima – dismissed. I will not forget this theft, even if none else cares."
John's jaw tightened. Here was tangible confirmation of a concern that had gnawed at him: that items of value – dowries, keepsakes – were being pilfered from the Harem under the guise of routine.
He set the notes aside carefully. "Yvara," he said, looking her in the eyes, "I need to speak to some of the senior women. Those who might know about these… disappearances. The dowries, the jewels, anything that's gone missing."
Yvara nodded at once. "I thought you might." She rose smoothly. "I took the liberty of inviting three of them here, on the pretext of a private poetry reading for Your Majesty." A wry glint touched her eye at that. "They should be arriving presently."
John managed a small smile. "Efficient as ever." He stood as well, dusting off his knees. "Who did you call?"
Yvara ticked the names off on her fingers. "Halima – she's effectively the head of the concubines, oversees discipline and household tasks. Safiye – she handles the Harem's ledgers and valuables, works closely with the Chief Eunuch on inventory." A hint of bitterness entered her tone at that. "And Soraya – one of our ladies of noble birth. Her dowry was famously large and, quietly, famously vanished after she arrived."
John nodded. He recognized Halima by sight – a matronly woman in her mid-thirties who often arranged the concubines during formal events. Safiye he knew less, but recalled a sharp-eyed, astute lady perhaps a decade older than Yvara. Soraya he remembered as well, a shy young woman with soft features, only a year or two into the Harem. If anyone had reason to resent lost dowries, it would be her.
No sooner had they finished speaking than a knock came at the library door. Yvara hurried to admit the guests. John straightened, instinctively slipping into his Emperor bearing – shoulders squared, face composed yet approachable.
Halima entered first, gliding forward in a rustling gown of deep violet. She had a dignified air and held herself with practiced grace, but John noted tension in her eyes. Behind her came Safiye, a willowy woman with a keen gaze that flickered analytically over the room and its occupants. Finally Soraya stepped in, wringing her hands nervously. Soraya's doe-like brown eyes widened when she saw John, and she dropped into a hasty curtsy. The other two followed suit more fluidly.
"Your Majesty," Halima intoned, her voice honeyed and deferential. "We are honored by your summons." The faintest question lurked beneath her polished exterior; clearly, an informal poetry reading with the Emperor was unprecedented.
John offered a mild smile. "Thank you for coming. Please, be at ease. This is an informal… conversation." He gestured to the cushions around the sandalwood table where the hidden scrolls had been swiftly tucked away once more. "Sit, if you will."
They complied, arranging themselves in a semi-circle. Yvara remained standing slightly behind John's right shoulder, a silent support. Halima assumed the seat nearest John, smoothing her skirts and offering a practiced smile. "Majesty, would you care for some selected verses? I have a Rumi quatrain in mind that—"
John held up a gentle hand. "Thank you, Halima. But I have a different topic to discuss today." He let his gaze travel over each of them. Halima's polite mask faltered just a hair; Safiye tilted her head, intrigued; Soraya kept her eyes down, twisting the fabric of her sleeve.
John decided directness, tempered with empathy, would serve best. "I've become aware," he began, "that certain… injustices may have occurred within the Harem. Particularly regarding personal possessions – dowries, gifts – belonging to you ladies." He saw Halima's eyes dart sharply toward Safiye, and Safiye purse her lips. Soraya simply closed her eyes as if pained. John pressed on. "I want to hear, in your own words, what has happened. No repercussions – only truth. Help me understand so I can make it right."
There was a heartbeat of silence. Halima was first to speak, her voice smooth but cautious. "Majesty, truly, there is no need to trouble yourself with such trifles. The women are well provided for. If one or two items have been misplaced over the years, I assure you the Harem administration—"
"Misplaced?" Safiye interrupted, unable to keep a tart edge from her tone. "Is that what we call outright theft now, Halima?" She turned to John, inclining her head. "Forgive me, Majesty, but as keeper of our ledgers I can confirm: many dowry pieces have 'gone missing' these past years. Far beyond one or two."
Halima shot Safiye a warning glare. "Safiye, please. The Emperor does not need to be bothered with the minutiae of women's quarters bookkeeping."
John fixed Halima with a steady look. "On the contrary, I do. No injustice is too small if it befalls my people under my own roof." The firmness in his tone brooked no evasion. "Continue, Lady Safiye."
Safiye folded her hands, gathering confidence now that she had license to speak freely. "Your Majesty, when a new concubine arrives, her personal effects – jewelry, heirlooms, coins – are catalogued and stored under lock in the Harem treasury. In theory, they can request items to wear on occasions and have them returned to storage. In practice, many items simply… disappear from the inventory over time."
Soraya raised her face, emboldened by Safiye's boldness. "My dowry included a set of emerald bangles that belonged to my grandmother," she said softly. "I wore them only once, on the day I presented myself to… to you, Sire." A blush of embarrassment, perhaps at the memory she had never actually met John that night but Arslan – John's predecessor in this body. She hurried on. "Afterwards, they were taken 'for safekeeping.' I've asked after them for two years. Always some excuse. 'They are being cleaned.' 'They have been lent to the treasury for display.'" Soraya's voice shook. "I know it's not true. They're gone."
John clenched his fist in his lap under the table. He looked to Halima. "What was done when Lady Soraya raised these concerns?"
Halima's smile had evaporated. She wrung her bejeweled hands. "We… I forwarded her inquiries to the Chief Eunuch's office, Majesty. The answers that came were as she stated. I had no reason to question the eunuchs' accounting."
"No reason?" Safiye interjected, one eyebrow arching. "With respect, Halima, we've all heard the whispers. Fine things filtering out of the palace, turning up in the bazaar or on the fingers of distant courtiers' wives." She turned to John. "Sire, I have quietly kept notes. In the past five years, at least thirty significant pieces – necklaces, bangles, silk parcels of coins – have vanished from our records. Always with plausible excuses: a fire in a storeroom (no evidence of one, mind you), a break-in by a 'servant who was punished' (no details given), or a convenient miscount that discovers nothing in the first place."
Halima bristled, cheeks reddening. "If you suspected this, Safiye, why did you not come to me formally or raise it at a council?"
Safiye gave her a hard look. "I did, multiple times. Each time I was told not to make waves, that it would 'reflect poorly' on our internal management if we accused the eunuchs without proof. You were more concerned with avoiding scandal than seeking the truth."
Halima opened her mouth, then closed it, guilty realization creeping into her eyes. "I… feared to cause friction with Rashid and the eunuch staff. We rely on them for so much."
John held up a hand to forestall further bickering. "I appreciate each of you speaking candidly." He turned to Soraya. "Your emerald bangles – and all the other items – will be accounted for, I promise you."
Soraya's eyes filled suddenly with tears. She bowed her head. "Thank you, Your Majesty," she whispered, voice choked.
John felt a swell of protective anger on her behalf. He looked again to Halima, not unkindly. "Halima, I do not blame you personally. Fear of stirring trouble can paralyze even well-meaning souls. But understand: we must root this out."
Halima nodded, abashed. "Yes, Majesty. I will cooperate in any way."
John leaned back slightly, gathering his thoughts. "It seems clear some individuals – likely among the eunuchs who handle laundry or the treasury – have been running a petty theft ring, exploiting the women's inability to speak out." He glanced at Yvara, who gave a subtle confirming dip of her chin; she had long suspected as much, he knew. "They have relied on silence and fear. That ends now."
Halima, Safiye, and Soraya each straightened, hope kindling on their faces at the Emperor's decisive tone.
"I will personally oversee a thorough investigation," John continued. "Quietly at first. We'll catch these culprits unawares." He looked to Safiye. "Prepare for me a detailed list of every missing item you've noted, with approximate dates and any circumstantial details – however small. For example, if something vanished after laundry day, note it."
Safiye's face lit with purpose. "I have much of that already recorded, sire. I'll compile it neatly by this evening."
"Excellent." John shifted his gaze to Halima. "I need you to discreetly identify which eunuchs or servants had access to those items. Particularly laundry staff, treasury scribes, anyone who moved in and out with trunks or garments."
Halima nodded vigorously. "I will make inquiries under the guise of routine audit. Rashid – the Chief Eunuch – is diligent; if he's not involved, he may prove an ally in this."
John considered that. Rashid was indeed loyal and competent. It was possible the thieves operated under his nose rather than with his blessing. John would determine how best to involve him soon.
Finally, he turned to Soraya. "And you, my lady. You've been most brave to share your grievance. I ask a bit more courage: should we require an eyewitness or a formal statement when the time comes, would you be willing to speak about what you know, to help ensure the guilty are punished and no one else suffers as you did?"
Soraya looked astonished to be asked her will so directly. She wiped a tear that had escaped down her cheek and nodded. "If… if it will help stop this, yes. I will do whatever you command, Majesty."
John smiled gently. "Not command – request. And I thank you for it."
Soraya managed a shy smile in return, relief evident in her young face.
A weight seemed to lift in the room. Halima looked as though a long-held breath had been released. Safiye was already mentally organizing her data, her fingers twitching with impatience to get to work. Even Soraya now sat a little taller, a spark of validation in her eyes.
John rose, and the women followed suit. "You have all been heard today," he said solemnly. "And you will have justice. I ask that, for now, you keep this discussion and our intentions in strict confidence. The thieves must not suspect we're onto them."
"Of course, Majesty," Halima said. "Our lips are sealed."
"Good." John inclined his head in a gesture of informal respect to each of them. "I am grateful for your honesty. Together, we will shine a light on this shadow."
With that, he took his leave, Yvara trailing a step behind as escort. The three concubines sank into respectful curtsies as John departed. Out in the corridor, Yvara closed the door and walked alongside him. The moment they were out of earshot, she couldn't resist a grin.
"You handled that masterfully," she whispered. "I thought Halima might faint when you demanded the truth so plainly."
John arched an eyebrow. "Did you doubt I would?"
Yvara shook her head, red tresses catching the light. "No. But it was gratifying to see." Her expression turned admiring and just a touch impish. "It appears the Emperor's reformist instincts are as strong as ever this morning – bruises and all."
John laughed under his breath. He'd nearly forgotten the dull ache in his shoulder from the training yard folly. "Yes, well, nothing like a tumble and a cause to fight to keep one humble and motivated."
They walked on through the vaulted hallway. Servants they passed could not help but notice the Emperor's unusually bright mood – and the way the concubine Yvara by his side looked at him as if seeing the sun rise. Whispers would spread, no doubt, of a new spring in Arslan's step.
"Yvara," John said thoughtfully, "I'll be relying on you in the days ahead. To keep an ear open among the women, to see if the eunuchs behave any differently once we quietly start sniffing around."
Yvara dipped her head. "I will. They trust me well enough – I can feign casual chatter, perhaps hint that Halima's doing stricter inventory checks. See if any get nervous."
"Excellent idea." John felt a surge of pride in her quick thinking. He was coming to value her counsel greatly.
They paused at a juncture where their paths diverged – John back to the administrative wing, Yvara toward the Harem proper. John lowered his voice, though the corridor was empty. "Remember: absolute discretion. We want them relaxed until we have evidence in hand. Then…" He didn't finish the thought; the steel in his voice made clear what fate awaited the betrayers of his trust.
"They won't suspect a thing," Yvara assured him. Her eyes gleamed with satisfaction. "For the first time, we feel hope, John. I feel hope. You have no idea what that means."
John felt his heart give a strange, happy lurch hearing his name on her lips, hearing hope in her voice. He reached out and gently squeezed her hand – a brief, bold gesture there in the semi-public hall. "I promised change, and I intend to deliver."
With a final warm smile, Yvara slipped away to join a cluster of women down the passage, leaving John to watch her go for an extra heartbeat. Then he squared his shoulders and strode off, intent on summoning Safid and Rashid discreetly to lay the groundwork for the coming investigation.
In the days that followed, a subtle hunt would begin in the palace – quiet as a cat's paw, methodical as a bloodhound. John would coordinate it, armed with lists and ledgers, matching them against guard shifts and eunuch postings. Already, in his mind's eye, he envisioned how it might unfold: a sting operation, perhaps, planting a tempting piece of jewelry and watching who tried to pocket it, or tracing a known stolen bangle to the bazaar and seeing which insider had fenced it.
But that was all yet to come. For now, John allowed himself a moment of gratification. In the span of a morning, he had strengthened two halves of his world: in the yard, he had earned the laughter and loyalty of his soldiers; in the library, he had earned the trust and gratitude of his harem's women. Both victories were vital, and both were deeply personal in their own way.
As he stepped out into a sun-drenched courtyard, John lifted his face to the light. It was high noon, the sun almost directly overhead, flooding the white marble around him with brilliance. Lines of light, he thought, recalling the grand notion that had given Act III of his journey its name. He was weaving those lines day by day – between Emperor and army, between ruler and harem, between justice and the oppressed. Each connection strengthened his tapestry of rule and made the empire a little brighter.
John touched the faint bruise on his brow and let out a contented breath. There was much yet to do – a petty theft ring to dismantle, a magical nexus to fully integrate, a realm to steer toward fairness and modernity. Challenges aplenty. But he felt ready for them.
After all, he reflected with a grin, if he could literally fall on his face in front of his troops and rise to laugh about it, he could certainly handle a few crooked eunuchs. And if he could convince fearful concubines to speak truth and then move to protect them, what court intrigue or ancient secret could he not face in time?
In the gleam of midday, John Sullivan – Emperor Arslan to the world – walked onward to his next appointment, a man with dust on his boots, purpose in his heart, and the laughter of newfound allies echoing softly in his ears. The first act of the day was done, and the next was already unfolding – and John was determined to meet it head-on, whether at full sprint or ghost-like stride, unafraid of the occasional tumble on the path to a better tomorrow. The reformer Emperor's march had truly begun, and not even the shadows lurking in laundry baskets would be left unchallenged by the light he carried.