Chapter 25: Spoils and Oaths
A crimson sun dipped low over the victorious encampment that evening, painting the western sky in blood and gold. The imperial banners snapped proudly from the highest surviving tower of Gur-Khan's Shield, proclaiming whose hand ruled here now. Below, the fortress courtyard bustled with activity not of war, but of triumph and aftermath.
Arslan paced slowly along what remained of the rampart, surveying the scene with a weary satisfaction. His armor was off now, replaced by a simple tunic, the better to move among his men and tend to duties. On one side of the yard, soldiers piled weapons seized from the tribes: stacks of spears, axes, and curved knives glinting in the sunset. On the other, the quartermasters were dragging out chests and sacks from storage rooms that the sappers had pried open—spoils of war. Already, whispers circulated of gold and uncut gems found within, the fruits of the Framents' mines hoarded by the tribal chieftains. A trove of raw emeralds drew particular awe as fist-sized stones were held up to catch the light, sparkling green fire.
"Incredible," Captain Harun murmured beside Arslan, turning one such emerald in his callused hand. "I'd heard legends of the wealth under these mountains… It seems they were true."
Arslan nodded, though his mind was half elsewhere. "Ensure it's all catalogued. We'll distribute a share to the men. They bled for it." That earned a grin from Harun; the promise of plunder fairly shared would put a further spring in every soldier's step.
"And the rest, Majesty?" Harun asked.
Arslan's gaze traveled to the far end of the yard, where a line of sullen prisoners knelt under guard. About thirty tribesmen and a handful of women who had been caught with weapons in hand. They huddled together, clearly expecting the worst. Among them, an elderly man in tattered finery and a hawk-feather cloak stood with as much dignity as he could muster—likely the chieftain of this stronghold.
"We'll send a message of amnesty," Arslan said after a moment. "Those who swear fealty to the Empire and lay down arms will be spared and allowed to remain, under garrison oversight. Any who refuse…" He trailed off. The implication was clear.
Harun saluted and moved off to pass the word.
Yet Arslan felt a tug of obligation. Victory was not only about taking spoils—it was also about forging what came next. He strode toward the knot of prisoners, motioning for the guards to allow him through.
The captured chieftain with the hawk-feather cloak met his gaze, chest heaving from injuries and exhaustion, but his eyes remained defiant. Arslan appraised the man: elderly, but with a sinewy build and a face weathered by mountain wind. This leader had likely spent a lifetime resisting imperial rule.
The prisoners shrank back nervously as the Emperor approached, all except the chieftain. That one drew himself up despite bound hands. "Come to gloat, Lion of Rûmî?" he rasped in heavily accented Imperial tongue. "Get on with it, then. I have lived long enough."
Arslan shook his head. "I haven't come to execute you, old wolf." He used the term deliberately—acknowledging the man's tenacity. "Your fight is over. I offer you and your people a choice: bend the knee and live under my protection, or refuse and meet a final end. I take no pleasure in needless bloodshed."
The chieftain's eyes narrowed. He glanced around at the bodies of his warriors being gathered for burning, at the shattered walls of his fortress, and then back to the Emperor before him. "Mercy? From an upstart who wears a stolen crown?" He gave a bitter, broken laugh. "You are no true emperor to us. You are an outsider—an usurper of the line of kings."
A few nearby guards bristled at the insult and stepped forward, but Arslan lifted a hand to halt them. He crouched slightly to meet the old man's level gaze. "The line of kings failed this land. Where are they now? The last one died cowering, and any heir he spawned hides while his so-called loyalists throw lives away."
The chieftain snarled, revealing a gap-toothed sneer. "That heir will return. Xesh's daughters whispered it. We held these mountains for him—for the true blood." His voice cracked, whether from grief or anger. "All your power and foreign sorcery won't root out the peoples of these rocks. Others will rise, even if I fall."
Arslan studied the prisoner's face, seeing not just a stubborn enemy but a man who had anchored his life to a lost cause. It struck a chord of pity in him. He softened his tone. "Your 'true blood' sent assassins to kill me in the dark instead of facing me honorably. Is that who you'd sacrifice your kin for? I fight openly, and I would have parleyed had you offered. Now look around—was this worth it?"
The chieftain's jaw clenched as he surveyed the ruin. Tears of frustration brimmed in the corners of his eyes. "We had nothing but our freedom. Better to die fighting than live under an empire that would break us to its yoke."
Arslan nodded slowly. "I can respect dying for freedom. But know this—if you yield, I will not break your people. I will bring roads, trade, a better life than constant war. The mines of these mountains will enrich all, including the tribes, if they join us. No more raids, no more reprisals." He placed a hand on the old man's shoulder, surprising the prisoner. "The Lion prefers new allies over corpses."
For a long moment, only the distant din of the camp and crackle of fires filled the silence. The chieftain trembled, the defiance in his eyes wavering as weariness and the futility of it all set in. At last, he bowed his head. "You speak fine words... Emperor," he spat the title with a mix of sarcasm and resignation. "But words are wind. Prove to us that your rule is more than steel and greed, and perhaps my people will accept it."
It wasn't exactly fealty, but it was the closest to capitulation the proud leader could bring himself to utter. Arslan inclined his head. "You'll see proof in time. For now, you and yours will be treated fairly. Your wounded will get care. Bury your dead with honor. When you're ready, bend the knee to me and be welcomed as subjects of the Empire. If you cannot, then you will be exiled from these lands. The choice lies with you."
The chieftain grimaced, processing the offer. Slowly, shakily, he lowered himself to both knees. The guards around him tensed in surprise. He bowed his head forward, touching the ground. "The Zull tribes… submit," he muttered hoarsely, forcing the words out. Gasps rose from the other prisoners.
Arslan placed a hand atop the man's bowed head, as was the custom when accepting allegiance. "In return, I pledge justice and protection under my law." He motioned for the guards to cut the prisoners' bonds. At his nod, a medic hurried over to tend the chieftain's wounds.
Some of the nearby imperial soldiers looked astonished at such clemency, but Arslan met their gazes levelly. "See to it that all prisoners are given water and food."
As the crowd dispersed slightly, the old chieftain struggled back to his feet, rubbing raw wrists. He met Arslan's eyes one last time, his earlier fury tempered to a wary respect. "Perhaps the Lion has a heart after all," he said quietly.
Arslan only replied, "Judge me by my deeds. Help me bring peace here, and you'll not find me ungrateful." He then turned and left the prisoners, heart heavy but hopeful that a cycle of hatred might finally be at its end.
Just then, General Safid emerged from one of the gutted buildings—a former stable—alongside two soldiers carrying a wrapped bundle between them. They approached Arslan, and Safid nodded for the bundle to be uncovered. The soldiers pulled back the bloodstained cloth to reveal the lifeless face of Omar, the veteran sergeant who had shared stew with Arslan that first night. His scarred visage was now peaceful, eyes closed, grey beard matted with dried blood.
Arslan felt a punch to his gut. He knelt beside the body, pressing a hand to Omar's cold forearm. "How did he fall?"
Safid removed his helmet, tucking it under his arm. "Leading a push up the wall, Majesty. Took two arrows to the chest but kept climbing. By all accounts, he made it to the top and cut down the archer who shot him before the wounds claimed him." The general's gruff voice held a note of respect.
Arslan bowed his head. A sense of sorrow and pride warred within him. Omar had been a stranger just days ago around a campfire, yet in that short time Arslan had broken bread with him, shared hopes of victory. Now the old soldier's journey was done. "He'll have a proper burial. Him and all our fallen," Arslan said quietly. He stood, eyes on the silent form. "Mark his grave well—I will see he's honored in the capital's Hall of Heroes when we return."
"It will be done," Safid affirmed.
Arslan glanced to another stretcher nearby and was relieved to see young Kamal sitting on it, arm bandaged and in a sling, but alive. The lad gave a weak smile and a thumbs up with his good hand when he caught the Emperor's gaze. Arslan returned a nod of encouragement. Kamal would live to tell tales of this day—a living legacy of Omar and men like him who had guided the youth through battle.
As dusk fell, the camp prepared a modest feast in celebration. Despite fatigue and the ache of wounds, the soldiers' spirits were high. Fires were lit (this time with no need for secrecy), and cauldrons bubbled with stew enhanced by a freshly slaughtered goat found in the fortress pens. Someone produced flasks of spirits from the tribal stores—fermented mare's milk that burned like liquid fire—and passed them around liberally.
Arslan partook only sparingly, enough to wet his throat. He stood at the heart of the courtyard by the largest fire, where Safid raised a toast. "To Emperor Arslan, the Lion of Rûmî! Conqueror of the Framents!" The general's deep voice rang out, and a raucous cheer answered from hundreds of voices.
Arslan raised his cup, acknowledging his men. "To you, the brave sons of the Empire! Without your courage, these victories are but dreams. Remember our fallen tonight as brothers, and know that their sacrifice strengthens all of Rûmî. Tomorrow, we march home with our heads high and our packs full!" That drew laughter and whistles. "The bards will sing of what you did here. Be proud—each of you carries the heart of a lion!"
Another roar of approval greeted his words. In the dancing firelight, grimy, battle-weary faces shone with fierce joy. The mood turned jubilant. A drummer started a rapid beat on a stretched hide, and a few soldiers began to clap and stamp their feet. One of the imperial archers—the same who had loosed the arrow that saved Arslan from the falling boulder—produced a flute and played a lively tune. Soon, men were dancing in rough circles or at least swaying where they sat, arm-in-arm with comrades. Laughter echoed off the once-foreboding walls.
Arslan slipped away from the center of revelry after a time, leaving Safid to oversee the merriment. He found Soraya at the periphery of the firelight, just finishing tying a bandage on a soldier's leg. All day she had worked with the medics, tending friend and foe alike. She looked exhausted—strands of hair escaping her braids, dark circles under her eyes—but a quiet contentment rested on her features.
He approached quietly. "Nightingale, you've been at it for hours. Come, take a moment for yourself."
Soraya glanced up and managed a smile that sent warmth through him. She secured the bandage knot and patted the soldier's shoulder before rising. "Only if you join me, Majesty."
They walked together through a breach in the wall out onto a narrow ledge that overlooked the valley beyond. Night had fully fallen; above, the sky was an infinite canvas of stars. Below, in the distance, they could see the faint glow of the imperial campfires and hear the dull echo of celebration.
Soraya shivered slightly in the mountain night chill, and Arslan draped his cloak around her shoulders. They stood in comfortable silence for a while, side by side, gazing at the constellations that wheeled overhead. Different stars than those John Sullivan grew up with, Arslan mused, yet he felt more at home under this sky than he ever had under Earth's familiar patterns. These stars were the witnesses to his transformation, to his rise and trials, and to this moment of victory.
Soraya broke the silence softly. "When I was a little girl in Qarthas, I used to climb to the palace roof at night to look at the stars. My nurse would scold that a proper lady should fear the dark, but I never did. The night sky always felt like a promise."
"Of what?" Arslan asked, turning to study her face in the starlight.
She looked at him, eyes reflecting the heavens. "That there's more to the world than what we can see. That beyond our small lives, something grand waits." She reached out and took his hand, intertwining her fingers with his. "I think that promise came true. I never imagined when I was wishing on those stars that I would end up here—beside an Emperor, sharing in conquest and... so much more."
Arslan squeezed her hand gently. "Nor did I imagine, when I was a soldier looking up at alien stars, that I would find someone like you. You've been my guiding star through this."
Soraya flushed with happiness at his words. She leaned her head on his shoulder, and he savored the simple closeness. For a while, they just listened to the night: a chorus of crickets in the distant brush, the faint rush of the mountain stream below, the muffled songs of soldiers enjoying hard-won peace.
After a time, Soraya spoke again, hesitantly. "John… or should I say Arslan? I wonder, which name do you prefer now?"
He thought for a moment. Hearing his Earth name on her lips felt intimate, but here in this world, he was Arslan Rûmî to all others. "I am both," he answered. "John is the man who learned war in another world, who values every soldier under his command. Arslan is the Emperor who must wield power and shape the future. I cannot forsake either identity, but…" He turned and placed a hand under her chin, lifting her face to look into her eyes. "Arslan is the name of my destiny. And it's as Arslan that I will build a life with you."
She smiled, a hint of relief in her expression. "Then Arslan it shall be." A playful glint came to her eye. "Though perhaps, once in a while, I might whisper 'John' when it's just us."
He chuckled softly. "I'd like that."
Soraya's smile faded to a more serious mien. "When we return to the capital… what then? I am—" She bit her lip. "I am just a concubine, a gift from a foreign city. You owe me nothing, and I know there are others… Yvara, for one, who cares for you. I don't wish to cause strife or make you feel—"
Arslan placed two fingers over her lips gently, silencing her anxious ramble. "You are not 'just' anything. You are brave, intelligent, compassionate—everything I could ask for and more. I owe you a debt I can never fully repay. You stood by me in the fire of war. You've earned your place at my side a hundred times over."
Soraya's eyes glimmered with moisture. "And Yvara? I feel guilt when I think of her. She's been waiting for you, hoping—"
A pang shot through Arslan at the mention of Yvara. He pictured the red-haired young woman awaiting his return, perhaps composing music on her lute to quell her worry. Before Soraya's arrival, Yvara had been a solace in her gentle way—a friend, maybe more. He would not deny he felt affection for her too. But what he felt for Soraya now was like a blazing sun to Yvara's candle.
"I won't lie," he said quietly. "Yvara is dear to me. I won't cast her aside cruelly. But she must remain in the harem. With you…" He brushed a thumb across Soraya's cheek. "With you, I feel something deeper. I won't hide it."
Soraya closed her eyes at his touch, a tear escaping down her cheek. "I just fear that in the politics of court, I'll cause you trouble. Others might resent any rise in my station."
Arslan set his jaw, a flash of resolve in his eyes. "Let them resent. I am Emperor. I decide whom I honor." The confidence of Arslan Rûmî the Conqueror resonated in his voice. "Soraya, when we return, I intend to make your importance clear. No matter any whispers, you will have my protection and my esteem openly."
Soraya gave a small nod, hope coloring her features. "Perhaps… perhaps I could serve as something like an advisor. Officially, I mean. My father taught me statecraft, after all."
"A brilliant idea," Arslan agreed. "I will have you by my side not just in chambers but in council, if you wish it. It will scandalize some—" he chuckled, imagining the looks on stuffy ministers' faces, "—but they will adapt or fall by the wayside."
She laughed lightly through her tears. "The world truly is changing, isn't it?"
"For the better, I hope," he said. He drew her into an embrace, and they stood on the ledge with his cloak wrapped around them both, sharing warmth against the creeping chill of night.
Below, a new sound drifted up. A lone voice singing—a deep, mournful ballad in the tongue of the western provinces. The men were winding down from revelry to reflection. The song was taken up by others in gentle harmony, a memorial for lost friends. The tune tugged at Arslan's heart; it spoke of home fires waiting and comrades whose journey ended too soon.
As the last note faded, Arslan felt Soraya's hand tighten on his. He knew both of them were thinking of the coming days: the return to the capital, the announcements and adjustments, the balancing of personal happiness with public duty. It would not be simple. But he felt a calm certainty that together they could weather it.
He placed a kiss on Soraya's lips, slow and tender. "Thank you," he whispered, "for choosing to be at my side."
She smiled against his lips. "Always."
When they parted, Arslan kept her hand in his as they turned back toward the firelit courtyard. A few soldiers saw them and straightened, saluting casually—no shock on their faces, just respect and maybe a bit of knowing pride that their Emperor had found love in the crucible of war. News would spread through the ranks and soon beyond: Emperor Arslan Rûmî returned not only with spoils of gold and victory, but with a lioness of his own at his side.
Later that night, Arslan retired to what had been the chieftain's hall, a sturdy stone room now converted to his quarters. Soraya was with him, of course. They spent the night in each other's arms, not in frantic passion this time, but in gentle reaffirmation of life and love after the storm of battle. Lying on a makeshift bed of furs, Arslan watched the firelight dance across Soraya's features as she drifted to sleep, her head on his chest. He marveled at how the fates—or perhaps some merciful god—had brought them together. An American soldier flung into a strange world, an ambitious harem girl from a foreign land—an unlikely pair, yet here they were, bound by something undeniable.
Before sleep claimed him, Arslan thought of the road ahead. Tomorrow they would begin the march home, laden with riches and glory. In the capital, cheers would greet them, but also new challenges. He would have to navigate court intrigues—Minister Aru's inevitable machinations, the matter of the arcane nexus's completion, and whispers about the lost prince perhaps. There was also the matter of Yvara's feelings to gently mend, and Soraya's elevated place to solidify without igniting too much envy. The victory in the Framents was but one chapter; the saga of Arslan Rûmî was far from over.
Yet, as he felt Soraya's steady breathing against him, he was filled with confidence. He had embraced being an Emperor—combining John's modern shrewdness with Arslan's regal authority. He would use warcraft and sorcery alike to secure his empire's future. And he would do it alongside those he loved and trusted.
Act VI: City of Light Reborn
Chapter 26: Homeward Bound
A golden sun hung low over the desert plains as Emperor Arslan Rûmî's victorious host wound its way eastward. The banners of the Lion fluttered weary but proud above columns of soldiers returning home. At the head of the column rode Arslan, clad in a plain travel-stained cloak rather than imperial finery. By his side, atop a dark mare, rode Lady Soraya bint Karim. The wind tugged at Soraya's copper-red hair where it escaped her headscarf, and her amber eyes were fixed on the horizon's growing glow—the City of Light awaited their return.
Soraya's heart should have swelled with pride at the sight of home after hard-won victory. Yet as the city's white walls came into view, she found herself tensing in the saddle. How will they receive me? she wondered, one hand unconsciously tightening on the reins. Soraya had left the confines of the imperial harem against every tradition, following Arslan into war. She had tended wounded soldiers, advised battle tactics, and ultimately stood beside the Emperor as a partner, not a mere concubine. Now, on the cusp of re-entering civilization's ordered world, doubts gnawed at her.
Arslan noticed her silence. Guiding his horse a half-step closer, he reached across the gap and gently covered Soraya's hand with his. "Almost home," he said quietly. His voice, deep and warm, held a note of reassurance that only Soraya ever heard. To their troops, he was the Lion Emperor triumphant; to Soraya, in that moment, he was simply the man she had come to know and love.
Soraya offered a brave smile. "Home," she repeated, though the word felt uncertain. For her, the City of Light had been a gilded cage. What would it be now? She glanced over her shoulder at the lines of soldiers stretching back along the road. "They're tired," she observed. "We should make camp before nightfall, give the men a hot meal."
Arslan nodded, pleased as ever by her concern for the troops. "We will," he agreed. With a subtle hand signal, he dispatched Captain Darius of the Lion Guard to relay orders down the line. Though Emperor, Arslan still led like a soldier—personally ensuring his army's welfare. It was one of many traits that had drawn Soraya to him.
As the sun dipped toward the dunes, the army made camp on a gentle rise overlooking fertile fields. Tents sprang up in disciplined rows. The scent of woodsmoke and spiced stew soon wafted through twilight. Soldiers laughed and chattered, relieved to be safe on home soil. Arslan had ordered extra rations of dates and flatbread distributed in quiet celebration.
Within the Emperor's pavilion at the camp's heart, Soraya unpinned her dusty veil and shook out her long hair with a sigh. The past weeks of travel had been both joyous and worrisome. Joyous, for she and Arslan had spent nearly every evening together, planning for the future and sharing the kind of easy conversation that only true partners share. Worrisome, for the closer they drew to the capital, the more Soraya felt the weight of tradition creeping back.
Arslan entered moments later, having made one last circuit among the sentries. He loosened the lion-crested sword belt at his waist and set aside his rune-etched kilij blade. In the lamplight, Soraya could see the exhaustion lining his face—stubble darkening his jaw, a healing cut above his brow from the final skirmish. But when he looked at her, his grey eyes softened.
"You're troubled," Arslan said, coming to her side. It was not a question; he read Soraya's mood as easily as a battle map. He reached out and brushed a strand of hair from her cheek. In the privacy of the tent, he allowed himself small gestures of affection.
Soraya leaned into his touch, closing her eyes briefly. "I was just thinking about the city," she admitted. "About… what happens when we arrive. For you and for me."
Arslan's expression grew guarded. He led her to the low seating cushions in the center of the pavilion, where an oil lamp cast a gentle glow. They sat close, knees nearly touching. "Tell me your worries," he urged. Though Emperor, he had learned to value Soraya's honest counsel—especially when it concerned matters he could not see clearly himself.
Soraya hesitated, searching his face. In the field, they had been equals in so many ways. But returning to the City of Light meant returning to roles defined by centuries of custom. How could she put her fears into words without pressuring him? She drew a steadying breath. "The war is over. At court, the old expectations will return. I… I fear being cast back into the harem, behind lattice screens, kept away from your side." Her voice wavered despite herself. "After all we've shared, I don't think I could bear to go back to being just another concubine, Your Majesty."
Arslan's jaw tightened; he hated when she called him "Your Majesty" with that formal distance. He took her hands firmly in his. "Soraya, look at me." She lifted her eyes, finding his gaze fierce in the lamplight. "You are not 'just another concubine.' Not to me. You never were."
He paused, struggling to articulate feelings that came more easily in action than in words. Gently, he brought her hands to his lips. "Out there on campaign, you proved yourself—braver and wiser than any councilor in silk robes. You saved lives with your quick thinking and guided me more than once. I meant what I promised at Gur-Khan's Shield: we would face the intrigues of the capital together. I don't break my vows."
Soraya's throat tightened at the memory. Under the stars, after victory was sealed, he had embraced her before the whole army, vowing a new path forward together. It had been a bold, scandalous declaration—and the sweetest moment of her life. But declarations made in the euphoria of victory could be tested in the cold reality of court.
"I know your heart, Arslan," she said softly. "But there will be opposition. The viziers… the clergy… even the other harem ladies. Many will not welcome me stepping beyond my station."
Arslan's brow furrowed. He did not dismiss her concerns; one of Soraya's great strengths was seeing political dangers lurking where a soldier's eye might not. "Then we will meet their opposition head-on," he answered. "If anyone in court has forgotten who holds the imperial seal, I will remind them." There was steel in his voice, but Soraya pressed on gently.
"They may whisper that I bewitched you. That I am a Qarthene agent here to steer the Empire for my homeland's gain. Or that you've been… ensnared by a beautiful face and are neglecting your duty." She hated saying it, but the rumors had likely already begun the moment she left the harem.
At that, Arslan actually snorted—a very un-emperor-like show of derision. "Neglecting my duty? By winning a war and bringing peace to the west?" He shook his head. "Let them choke on those whispers. The facts will speak differently. As for accusations about you—" His eyes flashed dangerously. "I will not tolerate a single word impugning your loyalty or honor. Not after all you've sacrificed."
He released her hands and stood abruptly, pacing a few steps across the carpeted floor. "Perhaps I should formally declare you as my Imperial Consort," he mused aloud, thinking strategy. "It would put you above petty slander. Give you an official rank at court."
Soraya's breath caught. Imperial Consort was a title just shy of Empress—one given rarely, and never in living memory to a concubine not of royal blood. "That would be… a bold move," she said carefully. "It might protect me, yes. But it might also provoke those who resent how quickly I've risen in your esteem."
Arslan frowned, gaze distant as he considered. He was a man used to battle lines and clear foes; navigating social undercurrents was a more nebulous war. "If not a title immediately, then I will issue edicts ensuring your safety," he decided. "Anyone daring to harass or insult you will face imperial justice."
Soraya smiled sadly. "You can protect my life and my dignity with a decree, but hearts are harder to command. I'd rather win them over if I can." She reached out and took his arm, stilling his restless pacing. "We should be clever about this, Arslan. Show them that what I did, I did for the Empire, not just for you. That your trust in me is earned."
Arslan looked down at her, marveling as always at how calmly she could discuss such fraught matters. He lowered himself back onto the cushions beside her. "What do you propose, my lady?" he asked, a hint of a smile playing on his lips. He often teased her by using courtly tones—acknowledging her growing role in statecraft.
Soraya tilted her head, copper locks spilling over one shoulder. "First, when we enter the city, do so openly with me at your side," she said. "Let the people see that you honor me for my contributions. If the common folk cheer rather than sneer, the nobles will think twice before causing trouble."
"A triumphal procession?" Arslan mused. "It's not my way to flaunt—"
"Not a decadent display," Soraya interjected. "A genuine welcome for the soldiers and their Emperor returning in victory. You've improved their lives by opening western trade and making the roads safer. Show them their Emperor and… and a trusted companion who shared the hardships of war at his side."
Her cheeks warmed as she described herself thus. In truth she wasn't sure the people would accept seeing a former harem concubine riding beside the Emperor. But she trusted Arslan's popularity with the army and the citizens—they called him the Lion, and many loved him as a just ruler despite the short time he had reigned. If he showed approval of Soraya, some of that goodwill might extend to her.
Arslan considered it. He was naturally humble, a man who preferred walking among his men to sitting on a throne being fawned over. Yet a public display now had clear advantages. "Very well," he said slowly. "We'll enter the city together at the head of the column. Rashid can arrange for heralds to announce our approach."
Soraya smiled gratefully. Rashid, the chief eunuch and master of palace administration, could certainly orchestrate such details. He was also one of the few who might support Soraya behind the scenes; he had always been pragmatic about bending tradition when needed.
"Speaking of Rashid," Soraya said, "I should seek his counsel too. He understands the pulse of the court better than anyone. He'll know which factions are likely to stir trouble about… us." By "us" she meant her unprecedented new status at Arslan's side.
Arslan reached out and lifted Soraya's chin gently. "Any who challenge 'us' will answer to me." His tone was firm, brooking no argument.
Soraya's eyes glistened. For all her talk of being clever and tactful, part of her desperately needed this reassurance. "Thank you," she whispered, and leaned forward to press a kiss to his lips.
Within the warm lamplight of the pavilion, Arslan returned the kiss softly at first, then with growing passion. Weeks of shared nights on the march had dissolved the formal distance that once separated Emperor and concubine. Here, they were simply a man and a woman who had bled, feared, and triumphed together. Soraya's fingers curled into the fabric of his tunic as his arm encircled her waist.
When they finally parted, Soraya was breathless and her earlier chill of worry had thawed into warmth. Arslan rested his forehead against hers. "Soraya… whatever storms await us back in the capital, I will not lose what we have gained. Not you."
She closed her eyes, savoring the closeness. "Nor I you," she vowed.
Outside, a chorus of laughter rose as soldiers told stories around their fires. The sounds of camaraderie reminded Soraya of another concern. "The others—Leilah, Parissa, all of them," she murmured. "I left them without a word. They must feel I betrayed their sisterhood."
Arslan grimaced slightly. He had not forgotten that on the night Soraya slipped out to follow him, she had effectively abandoned the harem and its strict protocols. The other four Qarthene ladies—Leilah, Parissa, Darya, and Nasrin—had remained in the palace under Rashid's care. "Rashid will have contained any scandal as best he could," he said. "But yes, I expect they were… upset. And worried for you."
Soraya bit her lip. Leilah, quiet and wise, had likely understood Soraya's reasons but would still feel hurt by the sudden departure. Parissa might have taken it as an insult or an attempt to outshine them. Sweet Darya probably cried for fear Soraya would be killed. And Nasrin… well, Nasrin likely watched carefully to see which way fortune would turn.
"I will have to make amends," Soraya said determinedly. "They deserve an explanation. And kindness." She looked up at Arslan. "If I am to openly stand by you, I don't want it to be seen as a humiliation for them. Perhaps I can help them find roles too, so they don't feel left behind."
Admiration glinted in Arslan's gaze. In the thick of war, Soraya had won the troops' loyalty by tending the wounded and sharing in their burdens. Now, before even returning to the palace, she was thinking of how to ease tensions with her co-wives—well, co-concubines, technically, he corrected himself. The concept of sharing an Emperor's attention was fraught even in the most harmonious harem.
"You truly are remarkable," he said softly. "Instead of fearing their jealousy, you worry for their dignity."
Soraya managed a small laugh. "I learned from the best. You showed mercy to the defeated tribal chieftain, offered him clemency and fair rule when you could have demanded his head. How could I do any less for a handful of women who, truthfully, have been victims of politics as much as I was?"
Arslan's thoughts drifted back to the day he first met those women—a diplomatic gift from King Jalal of Qarthas, meant to bind alliance. He remembered each of them introduced in turn: Soraya with her regal confidence, Leilah's downcast intelligent eyes, Parissa's proud smile, Darya's anxious courtesy, Nasrin's inscrutable grace. He had been overwhelmed then, unsure how to treat them. In his discomfort, he'd kept them at arm's length, to the point of offending them. If not for Rashid's advice to take them on public outings, that early misstep might have sown lasting discord.
Now, fate had pushed Soraya to the forefront, and ironically it was she who urged him to tend to the others' feelings. Arslan felt a surge of resolve. "We will integrate them, together," he declared. "I gave my soldiers purpose in war; I can surely find purpose for five intelligent women in peace." A faint grin touched his face. "Though I suspect Soraya bint Karim already has plans in mind on that front."
Soraya squeezed his hand. "A few ideas, perhaps. But one thing at a time. First, let's get home without incident."
As if on cue, a polite cough sounded just outside the pavilion doorflap. "Your Majesty," came a low voice—Captain Darius again. "The perimeter is secure. Shall I set the second watch?"
Arslan cleared his throat, pulling back slightly from Soraya though he did not let go of her hand. "Yes, Darius. Standard rotations. And thank you."
After the captain's footsteps receded, Soraya arched an amused brow. "Do you think he heard us?" she whispered, cheeks flushing at their intimate closeness.
Arslan chuckled under his breath. "If he did, he'll pretend he didn't. Darius is nothing if not discreet." The captain of the Lion Guard had proven fiercely loyal. He had also been among the few in the imperial entourage who quietly supported Soraya's presence at camp, seeing how much calmer and happier the Emperor seemed with her near.
The night deepened. Arslan drew Soraya down with him onto the plush cushions and within the circle of his arms. The oil lamp's flame fluttered as a desert breeze sneaked through the tent flaps. In the dim light, Soraya traced the scar on Arslan's forearm—souvenir of the ambush at Red Gulch. He shivered slightly at her touch, resting his chin atop her head.
"Are you cold?" she murmured.
"Not with you here," he replied softly, pressing a kiss to her hair.
They lay there in silence for a long moment, listening to the distant murmur of soldiers' voices outside and the rustle of the canvas overhead. Despite her worries, Soraya felt a swell of contentment. How strange life was—a year ago she'd been a nobleman's daughter in Qarthas, dreading being sent abroad as a concubine. Then she met this foreign Emperor with a soldier's manners and secrets in his storm-grey eyes. He had surprised her at every turn: showing kindness where she expected cruelty, curiosity where she expected arrogance. Somehow, John Sullivan—no, Arslan Rûmî, she reminded herself, thinking of him by his true name in this world—had gone from an enigmatic stranger to the man she loved beyond reason.
Tomorrow or the next day, they would reach the City of Light. Uncertainties loomed. But Soraya felt Arslan's heartbeat steady and strong beneath her palm, and she knew she would not face those uncertainties alone.
"We should rest," Arslan murmured at last, though neither made a move to part from their comfortable embrace.
Soraya smiled against his tunic. "In a moment. Let me stay like this just a little longer."
His arms tightened slightly around her. "As long as you wish, my Soraya."
And so, in the quiet of the desert night, the Emperor and his beloved confidante stayed entwined, drawing strength from each other for the trials to come. Outside, under the same stars that had witnessed their oath of unity, the camp settled into slumber—on the verge of homecoming and the dawn of a new chapter in the Empire's story.
Chapter 27: The Lion's Return
Dawn broke over the plains in a rose-gold flood as the City of Light opened its ancient gates. Trumpet fanfares echoed from the high marble walls, announcing the return of the imperial army. On a rise overlooking the city, Emperor Arslan donned his ceremonial black-and-gold kaftan, reluctantly trading his dusty campaign cloak for regal attire. Beside him, Soraya adjusted the folds of a modest yet elegant emerald-green robe that Rashid had sent ahead for her. The chief eunuch had thought of everything: the robe's silk shimmered just enough to mark her importance without outshining the Emperor, and a light veil of matching green hung around her copper hair, symbolically acknowledging her status as a lady of the harem even as she rode unveiled at Arslan's side.
Arslan took Soraya's hand briefly before they mounted their horses. "Ready?" he asked quietly. Below, the army columns were already forming up for the entry procession, Lion Guard lancers at the fore with pennants snapping smartly.
Soraya drew a breath. "Ready," she said, though her heart fluttered. In the early sunlight, the white domes and spires of the capital beckoned, radiant as if welcoming them—but she knew behind that beauty lay eyes and ears poised to judge.
They rode down toward the gates as crowds gathered along the broad road. Word had spread swiftly of the Emperor's victory in the west; the common folk turned out in droves, eager to glimpse their returning soldiers and the Lion of the Empire himself. As Arslan and Soraya passed under the monumental arch of the gate, a great cheer went up.
"Arslan! Arslan! Long live the Emperor!" Voices merged in a jubilant roar. Children perched on fathers' shoulders waving little flags, and women scattered flower petals from balconies overhead. The city guard had lined the streets to keep a pathway, but the people pressed as close as allowed, faces alight with admiration.
At first, Soraya half-feared the cheers might turn to murmurs of disapproval when they saw her riding beside Arslan. She was unveiled (save the token light drape over her hair) and mounted on a fine mare, not hidden in a covered litter as a concubine normally would be. Her apprehension melted somewhat when she realized that to the people, she was not immediately recognizable as a harem woman at all. Many likely assumed she was a noble lady or a foreign dignitary, given her proud bearing and proximity to the Emperor.
Indeed, as they progressed, Soraya caught snippets from the crowd:
"Who rides with the Lion Emperor?"
"Is it a princess from afar?"
"She wears the Qarthene green—could it be one of the treaty ladies?"
"She must be someone special. See how he keeps her close!"
That last remark came from an older woman beaming toothlessly at Soraya from the roadside. Soraya found herself smiling back almost shyly. The woman elbowed her companion knowingly. "Told you, didn't I? Our Emperor went off to war and found himself a lioness!"
Soraya's cheeks warmed at the idea, but when she glanced at Arslan he only gave a subtle nod of encouragement. He held himself with humble dignity, one hand raised to acknowledge the crowd's adoration, but he made sure to include her in that recognition. At one point, a delegation of guild artisans stepped forward with a garland of laurels for the Emperor. Arslan accepted it and then, in a spontaneous gesture that sent ripples of surprise through onlookers, he carefully placed the wreath around Soraya's shoulders.
"A token of the Empire's gratitude, for one who served it bravely," he proclaimed, voice carrying over the sudden hush. Then came even louder cheers, some curious, some approving. Soraya's eyes stung at the unexpected honor. She bowed her head graciously, disguising her emotion as the procession continued.
Behind them marched General Safid and the other commanders, leading columns of infantry in step. Even Safid, grizzled and stern, cracked a small smile at the display he'd witnessed. He had been skeptical when Soraya first appeared at the front, but after the Red Gulch ambush and the siege of Gur-Khan's Shield, he'd become one of her staunchest supporters.
The procession wound through the main thoroughfare—past the Grand Bazaar with its colorful awnings, past the towering Obelisk of Kings in the central square, and onward toward the Imperial Palace complex that crowned the city's eastern hill. Along the way, Arslan noticed signs of change even since he'd left: the streetlamps that he'd ordered inscribed with light-runes now stood at every corner, their glass spheres dim in daylight but ready to banish darkness at night. The people looked better fed and clothed than when he first took the throne months ago—a result of grain stockpile reforms he'd pushed through before the campaign. Slowly, steadily, we are mending this realm, he thought with satisfaction.
When at last they crossed the palace gate, Arslan dismounted, then turned to help Soraya down from her horse. The spacious outer courtyard was thronged with an honor guard of palace eunuchs in embroidered vests and a line of robed viziers, ministers, and courtiers—some eager, some nervous. At their head stood Rashid, dignified in flowing white and gold robes, his hands clasped before him. The chief eunuch's eyes twinkled with relief at seeing his Emperor hale and victorious, and perhaps even more at seeing Soraya by Arslan's side, alive and well.
Arslan's boots touched the polished flagstones and a hush fell as everyone bowed. "Welcome home, Your Imperial Majesty," Rashid intoned, his voice carrying through the courtyard. "The City of Light rejoices in your triumphant return."
Arslan nodded graciously. "It is good to be home," he replied, loud enough for all to hear. "Our thanks to all who kept vigil over the realm in our absence." He motioned Soraya subtly forward to stand with him. "Today, our Empire is stronger and safer. The western passes are secured, and trade will flow freely once more. This victory belongs to all of us—soldiers and citizens alike."
A polite round of applause followed the Emperor's words. Soraya could sense dozens of eyes flickering toward her, curiosity barely concealed behind protocol. Among the courtiers, she picked out the pale, pinched face of Minister Aru, one of the senior viziers. His mouth was pressed in a thin line, and he gave only the barest ghost of a clap. Nearby, Magister Salim—the aged court mage with ink-stained fingers—watched with furrowed brows, as if calculating some puzzle.
Rashid stepped forward, keen to maintain order. "Your Majesty, the Council is prepared to present a formal report on the state of affairs during your absence. Also—" He hesitated almost imperceptibly, then ventured, "The ladies of the Imperial Harem have been most anxious for news of you... and of Lady Soraya. They await in—"
Arslan held up a hand, and Rashid fell silent at once. "All in due time," the Emperor said. "First, there are formalities." He turned to the assembled ministers, and his tone shifted from warmth to imperial command. "Lord Safid, have the troops been quartered and the wounded tended?"
General Safid, who had entered and stood off to the side, saluted with fist to chest. "Yes, Your Majesty. The garrison healers are seeing to the injured as we speak. I've arranged bonuses and leave rotations for the men after such a long campaign."
"Excellent." Arslan then addressed the ministers. "Minister Ghalib, the city appears to have prospered in my absence—I trust the granaries remain full and markets orderly?"
A portly minister in a striped caftan stepped forward, bowing. "Just so, Your Majesty. There was ample grain through winter, prices held steady. We even had a surplus which we sold to outlying provinces."
Arslan nodded, pleased. He continued with a few more pointed questions to different officials—each question a subtle test of whether they had done their duty honestly while he was gone. Soraya watched proudly as he navigated the conversation with authority and fairness, acknowledging good work, making mental notes where things sounded lacking. The courtiers relaxed slightly; this was familiar ground, an Emperor attending to governance.
At last Arslan's grey eyes landed on Minister Aru, who stood a step behind others as if hoping to avoid notice. "Minister Aru," Arslan said, voice cool. "I am told you chaired the Council in my stead these past months. I thank you for your service."
Aru bowed, though Soraya did not miss a flash of something in his eyes—was it resentment? Pride? Perhaps both. "I live but to serve, Your Majesty. We strove to carry out your directives."
"Good," Arslan replied evenly. "Then you will doubtless support me as we embark on the next phase of bettering our empire."
"Of course, sire," Aru said smoothly. "Though, may I request clarification on... priorities now that war has ended?" His gaze flicked toward Soraya just for an instant. It was an innocuous question on the surface, but Soraya sensed the barbs beneath. Aru was probing how much influence she had.
"You will be briefed in detail at the full Council session tomorrow," Arslan answered, deliberately deferring. "For now, let us conclude this welcome. All of you have my gratitude. You are dismissed to return to your duties." The ministers bowed and murmured adieus, slowly dispersing.
Rashid stepped back in to gently steer the remaining attendants. "Clear the courtyard, please. His Majesty is travel-weary." The eunuchs hurried to obey, shepherding lingering courtiers out.
In minutes, Arslan, Soraya, Rashid, and Safid were among the few remaining. The immense carved doors leading into the palace proper loomed ahead, flanked by royal guards in shining mail. Soraya exhaled quietly; the first test was behind them. Out here before the public eye, things had gone smoothly enough.
Arslan turned to Rashid with a faint smile. "Old friend, it is good to see you." Few would dare address the eunuch as such, but Arslan valued Rashid's counsel like family.
"And you, sire," Rashid replied warmly. He then lowered his voice. "Might I say, welcome home to you as well, Lady Soraya. We feared for you, my dear." There was genuine relief and affection in his tone.
Soraya felt a swell of gratitude. "Thank you, Rashid. I owe you an apology for the worry I caused." She gave a contrite half-bow. "I trust you kept things... calm in my absence?"
Rashid's lips twitched in a wry smile. "Calm is a strong word, my lady. But we managed. The royal household is intact, though certain ladies were quite distressed at your departure." His eyes conveyed a subtle question—how do you want to handle that matter?
Soraya nodded in understanding. "I will speak with them as soon as possible."
"After you have had some rest," Arslan interjected firmly. He addressed Rashid again. "I intend for Lady Soraya to stay under my personal roof until further notice."
Rashid arched an eyebrow, but it was more in surprise at Arslan's brazen disregard for tradition than disapproval. "Your Majesty, I anticipated as much," he replied. "I have already prepared suitable quarters adjoining your own, as well as ensured the haram guard are aware that Lady Soraya's movements are to be unrestricted." By haram guard he meant the eunuch sentries who typically controlled access to the women's wing.
Soraya's eyes widened—Rashid truly had thought of everything. Arslan gave a satisfied nod. "Efficient as always."
General Safid cleared his throat gently. "Majesty, if there are no further commands, I shall see to the army's debriefing and then take my leave." The veteran looked tired; he was likely eager to return to his own home and family for a time.
Arslan clasped the man's shoulder gratefully. "Go, Safid. You've earned your rest. And my thanks again for your leadership."
When Safid had bowed and departed, Arslan offered Soraya his arm. "Shall we?" he said quietly, indicating the palace interior. She placed her hand in the crook of his elbow. Side by side they ascended the few steps and crossed the threshold.
Inside, cool shadows and the scent of jasmine welcomed them. The halls of the palace were familiar to Soraya, but she felt like a stranger in a way, having been gone for months and returning in a wholly different capacity. No longer was she one among a collection of cloistered consorts; she walked openly with the Emperor, his equal in stride if not in formal rank.
Rashid trailed a respectful two steps behind, quietly directing a pair of servants who came to take Arslan's cloak and Soraya's travel mantle. They passed through the grand atrium with its colonnades and mosaic floor depicting the founding of the empire. Soraya remembered when she first walked these halls as a new arrival from Qarthas—fearful, curious, feeling very alone. How things had changed.
Arslan led her not toward the harem wing but up a staircase toward the royal apartments in the eastern wing, where the Emperor traditionally lived and conducted private meetings. At the top of the stairs, two guards snapped to attention and pushed open double doors of carved cedar. Beyond lay Arslan's personal receiving chamber—a high-ceilinged room with tall arched windows overlooking the city.
Soraya had never seen this room; concubines were rarely, if ever, invited here. It was simpler than she expected for an emperor's sanctum. A large map table dominated the center, strewn with scrolls and compasses. Bookshelves lined one wall, filled with both leather-bound volumes and stacks of loose parchment. There was an armor stand in one corner bearing Arslan's polished breastplate and a rack for weapons—his martial side made manifest. Yet there were also softer touches: a comfortable divan by the fireplace, an array of candles and incense, and now, as Soraya entered, she saw that Rashid had ordered fresh flowers placed in a vase on a side table, perhaps to mark the Emperor's return.
Arslan turned to Soraya. His face, so authoritative moments ago, now showed concern. "Is all this to your liking? I know it's not the customary arrangement..."
Soraya realized he was almost nervous about how she felt, having essentially moved her out of the women's quarters into his own domain. A laugh bubbled up before she could stop it—full of relief and affection. "My liking? Arslan, it's perfect." She stepped forward and boldly took both of his hands. "I would rather be here, with you, than anywhere else in the world. You know that."
Some tension left his shoulders. "Still, if there's anything you need—"
Before Arslan could finish, a commotion at the open door interrupted. A harem eunuch—one of Rashid's underlings—had arrived leading a small procession of maidservants. They bore chests of Soraya's clothing, personal items, and other comforts from the harem. Rashid must have dispatched them ahead of time. The chest-bearers filed into an adjacent chamber (which Soraya glimpsed as a lavish bedchamber now prepared for her use, directly connected to Arslan's rooms). The eunuch in charge bowed hastily, eyes lowered to avoid staring at the Emperor and Soraya holding hands, and then backed out to allow the servants to quietly unpack Soraya's things.
Arslan gave Soraya's hands a reassuring squeeze and released them as Rashid approached with a scroll case tucked under one arm. "Your Majesty, if I might impose—I took the liberty of drafting a statement to be issued at court and to the city criers regarding Lady Soraya's new status. Given how swiftly rumors travel, prompt clarity is best."
"Always two steps ahead, aren't you?" Arslan remarked with a faint smile. He took the scroll case. "I'll review it shortly."
Soraya felt a rush of gratitude for Rashid's foresight. She had worried how to announce her change of position without causing shock. Rashid likely crafted careful language to frame it positively.
Rashid inclined his head. "Additionally, a private Council meeting can be convened this evening if you wish to address any immediate matters, or we may wait until tomorrow's formal session."
Arslan glanced to Soraya, including her in the decision implicitly. She spoke up: "Perhaps tomorrow is wiser. Give everyone time to settle and absorb today's... developments."
"My thoughts as well," Arslan agreed. "Tonight, I have much to discuss with Lady Soraya and to attend to at home." Home. He had effectively declared that wherever he was, Soraya was part of that home now.
Rashid hid a smile. "As you will, sire. If there is nothing else, I shall ensure the rest of the household is aware of your wishes. And I'll personally inform the other ladies that Lady Soraya is safe and with you."
Soraya touched the eunuch's arm lightly, a bold familiarity she would never have dared months ago. "Thank you, dear Rashid."
Once the chief eunuch departed, Arslan and Soraya were truly alone for the first time within the palace. Outside the windows, the city stretched under the morning sun, its minarets and rooftops glittering. The hum of distant activity could be heard—life going on, unaware of the quiet revolution happening in the Emperor's quarters.
Arslan exhaled slowly. "We did it," he murmured, turning to look at Soraya. "You are here with me. In spite of everything."
Soraya's eyes softened. "The procession, the wreath, moving me here... you've done so much in one morning to set the tone. They will think twice about challenging us now."
A corner of his mouth quirked upward. "It's only a start. People like Aru will bide their time and find subtler ways to object. But we will handle that too."
Soraya nodded. Already her keen mind was spinning through possibilities. Perhaps she could meet quietly with some of the more traditional council members' wives, or ask Parissa to compose a flattering ballad about imperial love and loyalty to sway popular sentiment. There were ways to shore up support beyond brute decrees.
As if reading her thoughts, Arslan stepped closer and gently ran a hand down her arm. "Not today," he said softly. "Schemes and stratagems can wait a day." His voice dropped, becoming tender. "We're home, Soraya. Truly home."
Her breath caught. In their push to manage appearances and politics, she'd barely allowed herself to savor the simple fact: they were alive, victorious, and together in the very heart of imperial power. This was indeed home now, and she was by the Emperor's side not as an ornament but as a partner.
She smiled radiantly and placed a hand on his chest, feeling the steady beat beneath his tunic. "Yes, we are." Her voice was almost a whisper, full of contentment.
Arslan leaned in and pressed a gentle kiss to her brow, then her cheek. He paused, eyes searching hers in the quiet sunlight that streamed through the latticework. Soraya tilted her face up and met his lips. The kiss was soft and lingering—a seal on their shared victory and a promise of what life in the City of Light could be.
For a moment, Soraya forgot about conspiracies or expectations. In Arslan's arms, in the safety of walls that were now as much her sanctuary as his, she allowed herself to simply be a woman reunited with the man she loved. The City of Light, outside, carried on, but within these rooms a new dawn had begun for them both.