Despite the warm afternoon sun bathing the palace, a sense of hushed urgency permeated John's chambers. He stood in the center of his bedchamber – the very room where an assassin had nearly taken his life only two nights before – and prepared for what was to come.
On a table nearby lay pieces of armor: a plain breastplate with minimal ornament, leather gauntlets, a half-helm with a visor. Not the gilded ceremonial armor of an emperor, but the practical gear of a common officer. Safid had provided the set to help John blend in with the raiding party.
John picked up a small pot of charcoal-black paste and a fine brush. Carefully, he began to inscribe a rune on the inside of the breastplate. It was a simple ward symbol he'd learned from Salim's folio – one meant to slightly reinforce against physical blows. His hand moved steadily, drawing each stroke with quiet focus. The paste, mixed with trace crushed crystal, would harden and form a temporary enchantment.
As he painted, his mind was calm. These small preparations reminded him of gearing up for a night raid back on Earth: checking ammo, securing gear, reviewing plans. The tools were different – runes instead of rifles – but the soldier's ritual was much the same.
A gentle knock came at the door connecting to the harem quarters. John paused. "Yes?"
To his mild surprise, it was Yvara who peeked in. She had never come to his private chamber unbidden before. Her eyes widened seeing pieces of armor and equipment scattered about.
"Oh, forgive me, Majesty," she said quickly, lowering her gaze. "Chief Eunuch Rashid sent me to deliver a tonic. He said you might need energy for a long night, and—" She broke off, clearly curious about what she was seeing.
John set down the brush. There was a moment of awkward silence as they stood in the sunlight slanting through the balcony doors. He realized he was wearing only a simple tunic and trousers, having removed his outer robes to don armor soon. Yvara's cheeks flushed at his semi-casual state of dress.
He gave a reassuring smile. "It's alright. Come in."
She stepped forward, holding a small ceramic cup steaming with some herbal concoction. Her eyes flitted to the rune he had half-finished on the breastplate. "If I may ask… are you going somewhere, my lord? You look ready for battle."
John tore a strip of linen to wrap the armor's straps and spoke vaguely. "A precautionary exercise," he said. "I need to be prepared for anything, given recent events."
Yvara offered the tonic. John accepted it and took a sip; it was bitter with a hint of honey – likely a blend of stimulative herbs to ward off fatigue. He could use that tonight.
As he drank, Yvara gently picked up one of the gauntlets from the table, running her fingers over the worn leather. "This armor… it has no crest or jewels."
"That's the point," John said. "Sometimes a ruler must move unseen."
She looked up at him with worry. "Unseen among enemies?"
John met her gaze. In those green eyes he saw genuine concern, even fear for him. It was oddly touching – he hadn't realized anyone in the palace aside from his direct aides might care personally for his safety.
He set down the cup and put a hand on her forearm. "Yvara, I will be fine. But I must ask you to keep what you see here to yourself. Can you do that?"
Without hesitation, she nodded. "Of course. I swear it."
He believed her. "Thank you."
She lingered a moment, clearly struggling with whether to say more. Finally, in a quiet rush, she added, "The girls and I… we prayed for your protection after the assassin. We lit candles in the chapel. I… I just wanted you to know."
John felt a warmth in his chest. He squeezed her arm gently. "That means more to me than you know. And it worked – I'm still here."
A timid smile crossed her lips. Emboldened, she said, "When you return from… whatever this is, you will find us waiting with more candles lit."
John found himself smiling back. "I will hold you to that."
With clear reluctance, Yvara took her leave, casting one last glance at the armor as she departed, quietly shutting the door.
John let out a breath. Attachments were forming – something he hadn't expected in this palace life. He hoped he wouldn't give Yvara reason to mourn.
He finished the warding rune on the armor, muttering a phrase of activation he'd memorized. The symbol glowed faintly then dried to a dull grey, nearly invisible on the dark metal. Next, he drew a smaller rune inside his left gauntlet – one for steadiness of hand, often used by archers.
As he worked, Rashid slipped in to assist with preparations. The dutiful eunuch helped him don the pieces of armor over his padded clothes, buckling straps tight. The chief eunuch's eyes were shadowed with worry.
"Rashid, I've made arrangements," John said, catching the unspoken anxiety. "If all goes well, I'll be back before dawn. If for some reason I'm not, Safid will handle interim affairs. And you must keep things running smoothly here, as if I never left."
Rashid's throat bobbed. He tied John's cloak around his shoulders, fingers fussing over the clasp more than needed. "I will do as commanded. But please, Majesty… take utmost care. The realm can ill afford to lose you now."
John placed a hand on Rashid's shoulder. "I intend to return in one piece. I have too much work yet unfinished to die tonight."
It was meant half in jest, but Rashid only nodded solemnly. "May the Eternal Light shield you."
Shortly, John was fully outfitted. The armor fit well enough – a tad loose at the shoulders – but once he put on the half-helm and lowered the visor, even Rashid seemed taken aback at how unrecognizable the Emperor became. Just another armored figure.
Twilight had given way to night by the time John emerged through a side gate of the palace complex, accompanied by Rashid and two trusted guards. They made it look like an informal stroll, but once beyond prying eyes, John mounted a waiting horse – a sturdy bay with dark coat, not one of the flashy white stallions of the imperial stables.
Safid had arranged everything. The general awaited on horseback a short distance down a secluded lane, along with about a dozen riders cloaked in black. They looked like a band of mercenaries or scouts rather than imperial soldiers, which was exactly the idea.
Rashid held the bridle as John settled into the saddle. The chief eunuch searched his face one last time, as if committing it to memory.
John offered a final nod. "Keep the home fires burning, old friend."
"Until your return, Emperor," Rashid said softly, stepping back and bowing.
With that, John spurred the horse and trotted off to join Safid's group. He pulled up alongside the general, who wore a simple steel cap instead of his distinctive plumed helmet.
Safid gave him an appraising glance, then a small grin. "Looking like a proper ghost, Majesty."
John's visor was up for now; he returned the grin. "Let's hope we move like ghosts as well."
No more words were needed. Safid raised a hand and gestured forward. The party set off into the night at a steady canter, hooves thudding against the dirt road leading from the city's west gate.
They passed through the gate without incident – Safid had chosen the shift of guards himself, ensuring loyal men who wouldn't ask questions. The twinkling lights of the city fell away behind them as they entered the dark expanse of the countryside.
Tall cypress and pine trees flanked the road. The summer night air was heavy with the scent of resin and wild herbs crushed underfoot. Stars glittered between scattered clouds, but the moon was a mere sliver, granting precious little illumination. Fine by John; darkness was their ally tonight.
They rode in two columns, speaking rarely and in whispers. At one point, the call of an owl made a younger soldier start nervously. John could sense the mixture of excitement and fear among them. Most probably thought this was just a high-level training drill – Safid hadn't fully briefed them on the true stakes, likely to keep them calm.
After about an hour, Safid signaled a halt by a creek. The horses were watered briefly and tied off under cover. The rest of the way would be on foot, quieter.
John dismounted and adjusted his sword belt. He patted the lion pommel of his kilij – he had opted to bring his own blade, albeit disguised in a plain leather scabbard. He couldn't quite bear to leave it behind, and perhaps its latent magic might come in handy.
Safid gathered the men in a tight huddle beneath a grove of oak trees, just beyond earshot of the softly gurgling creek. He spoke in a low voice, face dimly visible by the shielded lantern one soldier held.
"Listen up. This is a live exercise simulating an assault on hostile insurgents who've holed up in the old Selhun Temple ahead. Our Emperor has ordered a test of your mettle in realistic conditions."
John stood silent at Safid's shoulder, visor now lowered, giving no indication of his identity.
Safid went on, "We have two teams: I'll lead the frontal group to the main entrance. Captain Hasan—" he nodded to a lean man with a close-cropped beard "—you'll accompany… General Karim here—" Safid indicated John with a fabricated name "—through a side entry. Yes, the Emperor has given permission for General Karim to command this flanking maneuver."
The soldiers glanced at John. He had chosen the alias Karim spontaneously, remembering the guard who died that night; perhaps a small way to honor him. None objected – Safid's confidence in this "general" and the Emperor's supposed orders sufficed.
John spoke up, pitching his voice a bit lower than normal to mask it. "The enemy we face are fanatical and may have traps or magic at their disposal. Use caution. Follow my lead and stay quiet as the grave."
The men straightened. One asked, "Sir, are we to take prisoners or eliminate targets?"
John exchanged a glance with Safid. "If possible, capture at least one for interrogation. But your lives come first. Don't hesitate to cut down anyone raising a blade at you."
There were firm nods. These were elite guardsmen; they knew the weight of lethal force.
They doused the lantern. Under the canopy of night, the two teams split. Safid's group of six circled eastward, aiming to approach the temple's main gate from the front. John's team of seven, including Captain Hasan as his second, veered west toward a supposed crumbled section of wall where an entrance to the cistern might be found.
John led the way, eyes straining in the dark. But as they neared the temple grounds, faint light emerged: a sickle moon reflecting on pale stone and a few scattered torches burning within the ruins ahead.
They crouched behind a rocky outcrop at the edge of a clearing. Before them lay the Temple of Selhun, partially in ruins yet still imposing. A half-collapsed stone arch marked the old entrance gate, beyond which John could discern an open courtyard overgrown with weeds. In the courtyard's center stood the main temple – a circular domed structure. Parts of its roof had caved in, and its once-white marble was grey and black with age. The silence around it was profound.
John motioned for the others to stillness. He scanned the area. Two robed figures with spears patrolled listlessly near the gate arch, outlined by the torch they carried. They were women, he realized, even from this distance – likely low-level cult members on guard.
He signaled with hand gestures – a series of quick shapes in the air. The soldiers hesitated, unused to such silent language. He had anticipated that and quickly whispered, "Two sentries ahead. Bowmen, on my mark, take them quietly."
Two of his men with crossbows nodded, creeping up to find clear lines of fire.
John waited until the guards turned their backs and drifted a few paces apart in their patrol pattern. Then he dropped his hand in a decisive chop – the signal.
The twang of bowstrings hummed through the dark. Two bolts whistled. One struck the left guard in the back of the neck; she fell without a sound. The other guard managed a strangled cry as a bolt pierced her side. She stumbled against the archway.
In an instant, John and his team surged forward. He sprinted low across the clearing, closing the distance before the wounded cultist could scream again. She saw dark figures rushing and tried to raise a whistle to her lips – but John was there. He clamped a gauntleted hand over her mouth and drove his sword into her abdomen. Her eyes bulged in shock and pain; a heartbeat later, the light fled from them and she went limp.
John eased her quietly to the ground. His stomach tightened at having to kill a woman face to face, but he forced it aside. She would have killed him given the chance, or alerted others to kill his men.
He wiped the blade on her cloak and waved the others onward. The courtyard entrance was now undefended.
Captain Hasan whispered, "Sentries down. No alarm yet."
John peered into the darkness within. He could make out shapes of columns around the temple, and the flicker of another torch deeper inside the dome's entrance – likely more guards at the inner threshold.
He pressed his back against a fallen pillar, gesturing the men to fan out and find cover. Safid's team should be getting into position at the opposite side by now. The plan was for Safid to create a distraction at the main gate in a few minutes, drawing cultists out or at least their attention, while John's group slipped in through the side or rear.
First, though, they needed to locate the cistern entrance to gain subterranean access. According to the scribbled notes, a path to the underground catacombs might lie near a derelict well at the courtyard's west end.
John moved along the temple's outer wall, hugging the shadows. His team followed in a silent file. One soldier carried a coil of rope and grappling hook – just in case.
The well was easy to find – a circular stone lip jutted from the earth, overgrown with ivy. The wooden winch was long gone. John peered down the shaft. Stale air wafted up, and somewhere far below, water glinted faintly, reflecting star-shine.
No obvious tunnel there unless one swam. But a narrow maintenance passage beside it – half-hidden by brush – drew his eye. It was more like a drain – a low arched opening not tall enough for a man to stand, descending at a slope.
John knelt and inspected it. Runes were carved around the perimeter of the archway, and they glimmered with a pale blue light. He felt a slight tingle on his skin being near them.
A ward – likely an alarm that would trigger if intruders crossed it.
He motioned for the others to hold back. From a pouch at his belt, he drew a small vial of powdered iron filings mixed with a pinch of crushed glow-stone. Another trick from Salim's notes: often, tossing such dust could reveal invisible trip-line spells or break minor wards by shorting them.
He carefully sprinkled a pinch at the threshold of the drain passage. The filings danced in an unseen field, outlining a thin lattice of force stretched across the entrance. John quietly murmured a counter-phrase he'd memorized and scored a line through the nearest glowing rune with the point of his dagger.
There was a soundless ripple, and the blue glimmer faded. The filings fell inert. The path was clear.
John allowed himself a tight, pleased grin behind his visor. The training paid off.
He slid into the passage first. It was a tight fit, forcing him to crouch and half-crawl. The passage sloped downward, carved from damp stone. The air smelled of mildew and something fouler – likely rotted offerings or stagnant water.
One by one, the six soldiers followed, their breathing controlled and quiet. They drew short swords or daggers; long weapons were unwieldy in the confined space.
After twenty yards, the passage leveled and broadened slightly, dumping them into knee-deep water. They had reached the cistern. It was a cavernous chamber under the temple, supported by mossy pillars. The water came up to John's knees and rippled with each step.
Dim light filtered from cracks in the dome above, giving just enough visibility to make out the far side where stone steps led upward, likely into the catacomb tunnels.
John raised a hand to halt the group, listening. The muffled sound of voices echoed from somewhere up those steps – female voices chanting softly in unison. A ritual? They seemed distant, possibly in an inner sanctum.
He also heard a sudden muffled boom from above-ground, toward the front. That would be Safid initiating the diversion – perhaps blowing a gate or using a grenade of black powder. (Safid's troops occasionally used small firepowder charges for breaching).
Faint shouts reverberated. The cult was alerted, but hopefully focusing on the frontal assault.
John signaled to move. They waded carefully across the cistern, trying not to splash. Thankfully, Safid's ruckus masked any small noise they made.
They reached the steps and ascended single file. At the top, a heavy wooden door barred their way – likely an interior entrance to the labyrinth.
One soldier produced a slim pry bar and worked it into the crack. John placed a hand on the door, ready to push in as soon as the bar quietly lifted the latch. He glanced back at the men and nodded. Weapons ready.
The latch gave with a soft clunk. John eased the door open.
A torchlit hallway stretched before them, walls carved with faded reliefs of moons and maidens. Immediately to their left, the corridor bent toward what sounded like the main dome – flashes of light and footfalls suggested cultists rushing out to fight Safid's team. To the right, the passage delved deeper under the temple.
John's objective was to reach the inner sanctum and capture or neutralize the leadership. Safid would handle those in the courtyard.
He pointed right. The team slipped through, closing the door behind.
As they crept down the hall, a figure suddenly emerged from a side alcove—a cultist running toward the front battle, dagger drawn. She nearly collided with John.
Both were startled. John recovered first. He slammed his shield (he carried a buckler strapped to his arm) into her face. The woman crumpled with a muffled cry, nose shattered. Before she could scream, another soldier stabbed her in the chest with a short sword. They eased her down silently.
Heart pounding, John pressed on. They encountered a few more cult members, but these were hurrying the opposite way and paid the price of surprise—quick, brutal dispatches by John's silent hunters.
At last, they reached a chamber from which the chanting clearly emanated. It was a broad, circular crypt lit by dozens of candles. The walls were lined with alcoves holding old sarcophagi, now draped in black and silver banners bearing the moon-and-dagger sigil.
At the chamber's center stood an altar of polished obsidian. Around it knelt six robed women, chanting in a strange tongue. Their voices rose and fell in hypnotic cadence. In their midst, a tall figure in elaborately embroidered robes held a curved ceremonial blade aloft. She wore no hood – her hair was long and white as bone, though her face looked no older than forty. A black tattoo of a crescent marked her forehead.
John's gut told him: this was the leader.
On the altar, something – or someone – was bound. As John edged closer, keeping to shadows behind pillars, he saw it was a young man, perhaps twenty, gagged and wide-eyed. Alive.
Not what he expected. The man bore a striking resemblance to… John's heart skipped. Could it be? He had the aristocratic features, the pale complexion of the old line. Perhaps a captured noble or… the rumored prince?
The white-haired leader spoke, interrupting the chant. "On this night of the Dark Moon, we call upon Xesh to accept this sacrifice and return to us the rightful heir!" Her voice echoed.
She raised the dagger over the struggling man on the altar. The kneeling cultists chanted louder, fervently.
This was moments from a ritual execution – possibly to empower a spell or send some signal. John could not let that blade fall.
He broke cover and rushed forward, bellowing, "Stop!"
The element of surprise might have been better served by a silent takedown, but the urgency made him shout. His men surged behind him.
The circle of cultists erupted in astonishment and fury. The nearest two women spun to attack the intruders, drawing short swords.
John parried one slash and riposted with a clean cut across a cultist's midsection, felling her. His soldiers engaged the others; steel clanged and echoes screamed off the stone tombs.
The leader shrieked, not in fear but rage. She aborted her sacrifice and leapt back from the altar, brandishing her curved blade. With her other hand, she traced a rune in the air, fingers leaving a trail of red light. A firebolt materialized and shot toward John.
He threw himself aside. The firebolt singed past, smashing into a pillar behind him in a burst of heat and sparks. Chips of stone rained down.
So she was a mage as well.
Captain Hasan lunged at her from the side, but she hissed an incantation and a wave of invisible force flung him back as though struck by a mule. He crashed into a candle-laden sconce, toppling it.
Chaos filled the crypt. Two of John's men were battling three cultists near the altar, trading blows amidst spilled candles and spreading pools of blood. John faced off with the leader, circling warily.
She looked at the insignia-less armor and scoffed, "Hirelings of the Usurper? You're too late. The true heir will have your head. Xesh shall—"
John didn't bother with banter. He feinted low then slashed high, testing her. She was fast, parrying deftly with her sacrificial dagger and countering with a slicing cut at John's visor.
He jerked back; the tip scraped his helmet with a metallic screech. She fought with a manic intensity, bolstered by fanaticism.
Meanwhile, at the altar, one cultist fell to a soldier's sword, collapsing across the bound young man. Another cultist, instead of fighting, rushed to drag the young man away through a back exit. Seemed they wanted to preserve him – confirming he was important, likely the heir.
"Stop that one!" John barked, pointing. One of his men disengaged to pursue the escaping cultist carrying the prisoner. They vanished through an archway.
The leader used John's momentary distraction to unleash another spell. She slapped her palm to the ground, yelling guttural words. Snaking tendrils of shadow crept from under the altar, wrapping around John's legs and arms, holding him in place like living ropes.
John struggled, rage flaring as he realized she'd ensnared him. The leader gave a victorious grin and stepped forward, reversing her dagger to plunge it into his throat seam.
At that instant, a lion's roar – or something like it – sounded faintly. John's sword, the lion pommel, vibrated in his grip, resonating with an unseen power. A surge of warmth ran up his arm.
Without fully understanding, John reacted. He channeled all his will and let out a shout, slicing his kilij in a broad arc despite the clinging shadows.
To his shock, the blade glowed faintly gold and cut through the shadow bindings as if they were cobwebs. The leader's eyes widened in disbelief.
Freed, John drove forward. His sword met her dagger and knocked it aside with brute strength augmented by whatever force had awoken in the lion blade. Off-balance, she snarled and reached for a talisman at her neck – perhaps to conjure something dire.
John didn't give her the chance. He rammed his shoulder into her chest, slamming her against the altar. The breath whooshed out of her. Her head cracked against the stone and she crumpled, dazed.
Seizing a length of the shadow rope still dissolving away, John improvised, looping it around her wrists. Though ephemeral, it solidified at his mental command – some instinct or remnant of magic responding to the sword's influence.
The cult leader came to, finding herself bound by her own dark magic turned against her. She shrieked in frustration, thrashing but unable to free herself.
By now, the skirmish was nearly over. The last cultist in the room fell to Captain Hasan's blade, leaving only whimpers and the flicker of scattered candles.
John yanked the leader up by her collar, breathing hard. "It's over," he growled. "Call off your people, if any remain."
She spat at him, eyes burning with hatred. "You know nothing. The true king will have your head. Xesh shall—"
John clouted her across the temple with the hilt of his sword, not in the mood. She slumped, not unconscious but dazed enough to silence her vitriol.
He became aware of distant sounds: the clash of weapons in the corridors and faint shouts. Safid's team likely had pushed inside by now, mopping up what remained.
One of John's men returned, dragging the unconscious body of the cultist who had tried to escape with the prisoner. "Got her, sir. The young man is secured – he's alive," he reported.
John exhaled deeply, relief flooding him. He surveyed the scene. Three of his own were injured but alive, binding wounds and propping each other up. Four cultists dead here, plus those outside. And their leader captured. It was a hard-won but clear success.
"Secure her," he ordered two soldiers, shoving the bound leader into their arms. "And get that young man out safely – he may be the lost prince."
The soldiers exchanged astonished glances but obeyed, carrying the gagged prisoner gently.
John was about to move when an echoing rumble shook dust from the ceiling. He tensed – was the structure coming down?
Safid's voice echoed from the hall, "John! Are you alive in there?"
John's shoulders sagged in relief. "Here!" he called back, using his name since only Safid would hear.
Moments later, Safid appeared, helmet gone and a gash on his forehead, but very much alive. Behind him a few of his men fanned out, wide-eyed at the carnage.
"We have the temple," Safid reported, breathing hard. "Some fled into the woods. We'll hunt them down by daylight."
His gaze fell on the captured cult leader and the bound young man being carried out. His eyes widened as he noticed the youth's features even in the dim light. "By the heavens… that lad looks like…."
"I suspect," John finished grimly, "we just found the lost prince."
Safid let out a short incredulous laugh. "Then tonight's victory is even greater."
John nodded, though inwardly he knew this complicated matters. A legitimate heir in hand – it could be a political time-bomb. But that was a concern for tomorrow. They had done what they set out to do: crush the immediate threat.
He glanced at his sword. The runes on the scabbard slowly faded back to dormancy, the strange surge of power ebbing. He wasn't even sure exactly what happened, but it seemed the blade – or perhaps John's own emergent magic – had saved him. A mystery for another time.
"Burn these banners, collapse whatever tunnels you safely can," John instructed. "We'll send a message that the Daughters of Xesh are finished here."
Safid barked orders to start torching the chamber. The cult leader, regaining some of her venom, began cackling. "Fools…cut off one head, another shall—" A gag was promptly shoved in her mouth, silencing her.
As John and Safid led the way out of the labyrinth, guiding their teams and prisoners back towards the surface, John felt a weight lift off his shoulders. Not the weight of responsibility – that remained – but the immediate fear of an unseen dagger in the dark.
He had gone into the shadows and emerged victorious.
Outside, dawn was hinting at the horizon, a pale glow through the trees. The night's cool air felt like a benediction on his sweat-streaked face as he removed his helm to breathe freely.
Birdsong was just beginning, oblivious to the violence that had transpired. John took a moment to close his eyes and simply exist in that early morning hush, alive and triumphant.
"Majesty," Safid said quietly at his side, not using the name now that others milled nearby. "We should get you home."
John opened his eyes. Yes, home. Back to the palace, where a new day waited – one in which his enemies were fewer and his reputation would soon be greater, even if only through whispers of a "mysterious night operation."
He wiped a streak of blood from his cheek – not his own, luckily – and nodded. "Let's go."
They departed the ruined temple grounds as the sky lightened. Behind them, the old stones of Selhun smoldered with the flames of burning cult banners – a beacon to any who might find the courage to follow in Xesh's footsteps.
And ahead, the City of Light awaited its Emperor's return, secure in the knowledge that its shadows had been scoured, at least for now.