"I know," Soraya breathed, pulling back just enough to look at him. Her eyes shone with unshed tears. "I just… needed to be sure. When I heard the fighting echoing in that gulch…" She shuddered.
Arslan gently wiped a smudge of soot from her cheek. "I promised to come back to you." The words left his mouth before he fully registered them, and he realized they were true—he had made that promise in his heart when he left her that morning, just as he had promised Yvara he'd return. Only now, Soraya was here, and the promise felt all the more urgent to keep every time steel clashed.
Soraya managed a brave smile. "And you kept it—for today." She lowered her voice, adding, "I'm sorry I rushed to you like that. Anyone watching will think me a foolish girl overcome by fear."
"Let them think what they want," Arslan said, perhaps more harshly than intended. He softened his tone. "You have a good heart. In truth, your embrace is a welcome reward after such a day."
She blushed faintly and composed herself, stepping back. "I should help with the wounded. There are many who need tending."
"Go," he agreed. "I'll join the command tent shortly."
As Soraya moved off to assist the healers, Arslan watched her a moment, marveling at how naturally she had integrated herself—no longer the courtly ornament she'd been meant to be, but a vital presence amid the chaos of war.
Safid walked up then, helmet in hand. His greying hair was matted with sweat, face smeared with dust. He glanced at Soraya's departing figure and then at Arslan, curiosity plain. "She's one of the harem girls, isn't she? From Qarthas?"
Arslan wiped his blade clean with a cloth and sheathed it, buying a second to consider his response. "Yes. That's Soraya."
The general raised an eyebrow. "I see. I wondered how long you'd keep it under wraps." He held up a gauntleted hand before Arslan could respond. "It's none of my business, sire. But I'd be failing my duty if I didn't voice concern—"
Arslan frowned. "Safid—"
"—that war is no place for attachments," Safid finished carefully. "Attachments make a man… hesitate. I speak from experience." There was a distant pain in the soldier's eyes that Arslan hadn't seen before, but it passed like a cloud. "But I also know, better than most, that a man draws strength from those he loves." He cleared his throat. "Just ensure it's the latter, Majesty. Let her presence steel your spirit, not distract it."
Arslan absorbed the words and nodded slowly. "Your counsel is noted, old friend." He placed a hand on Safid's shoulder. "And appreciated."
Safid allowed a rare smile to ghost across his lips. "We'll fortify the area and get a hot meal ready. You should rest soon. Tomorrow will likely be no easier."
As the general moved away to oversee the encampment preparations, Arslan turned to gaze up at the ridges where thin tendrils of smoke marked the remains of the tribal ambush sites. This land was unforgiving, and its defenders cunning. He had won the first skirmishes, but the true campaign lay ahead in the deeper reaches of the Framents.
He closed his eyes for a moment, letting the mountain breeze cool his face. The taste of dust and ash was on his tongue, but beneath it, he imagined he could still detect Soraya's sweet kiss from the night before. Safid was right—her presence gave him strength. And he suspected he would need every ounce of it to conquer what awaited in those peaks.
Chapter 3: Gur-Khan's Shield
The next day found the imperial army forging ever deeper into the Zull Framents. At dawn, frost glistened on the black rocks, but by mid-morning the sun beat down harshly as if the mountains conspired to exhaust invaders with extremes. The column advanced in cautious formation, wary after the prior day's traps and ambush. Vultures circled high above, drawn by the scent of yesterday's bloodshed—a grim reminder that death shadowed their steps.
Arslan rode near the front, visor lifted to better scan the ridges. His body was tired but his mind remained sharp, fortified by determination and the quiet presence of Soraya riding just behind him on a sturdy mule. She kept her hood up and face partially veiled with a light scarf, playing the part of a simple attendant. Only the two of them knew how often she broke that role, leaning forward in the saddle to offer a keen observation on the terrain or a subtle pointer that the Emperor might consider.
Midday approached when their forward scouts returned with news that quickened every pulse: the main tribal stronghold lay ahead, less than a league distant.
Arslan called a halt in a sheltered hollow where a trickling spring offered water for the troops. Maps were unfurled on a flat rock. The Emperor and his war council gathered—General Safid, Captain Darius of the guard, the provincial captains, and a few others. Soraya lingered at the periphery, ostensibly tending to Arslan's horse, but she listened intently to every word.
The lead scout, a wiry man with a bandaged arm from yesterday's fracas, pointed at a charcoal sketch he had hastily drawn. "The enemy hold is here, in this valley beyond the next rise. It's more than a mere village, sire—an old stone fortress built into the mountainside. Looks like only one approach along a narrow path, heavily barricaded. They've got palisades and maybe a gate of sorts. Smoke from cookfires inside, so they're well dug in."
Arslan examined the sketch. The fortress sat perched on a shelf of rock overlooking a gorge, accessible by a winding path along a cliff's face—a natural choke point. He frowned. Such a position could stall an army many times their size. "How high are the walls?"
"At least twelve feet of stone and timber in parts," the scout answered. "It's like they built onto old ruins. There's also a natural arch of rock overhanging the entrance – almost like a bridge above the gate. They might use it to drop rocks or fire down."
Safid spat to the side. "They've had years to fortify, the bastards. No wonder previous expeditions failed to root them out. A handful of men could hold that causeway against a thousand."
Arslan traced the path on the map with a gloved finger, thinking. The fortress likely guarded the entrance to mines or at least served as the redoubt for the tribes. Taking it would mean breaking the back of organized resistance here.
One of the provincial captains, a stocky man from these parts named Harun, spoke up. "Majesty, I know this valley from my youth. That fortress—we call it Gur-Khan's Shield. Legend says an ancient warlord built it ages past with ensorcelled stones. Some say it's cursed; others that it's blessed by the mountain spirits. But curse or no, it's near-impenetrable from the front."
A silence fell as the implications sank in. The empire's forces had brute numbers, but in these tight quarters numbers counted for less. Storming that gate could cost countless lives.
Soraya stepped forward then, gently patting Kismet's flank to excuse her presence. "May I speak, Your Majesty?" she asked softly, yet with confidence.
All eyes turned to her in surprise. Safid's brow rose, but Arslan nodded. "Go on."
She pointed to a mark the scout had made denoting the stream running through the valley under the fortress. "Is there a water source flowing into their hold?"
The scout scratched his head. "Aye, a stream flows along the valley floor, under that cliff. Likely they have a spring or well, but also runoff from the mountain lake above trickles down."
Soraya nodded. "If water can enter, perhaps a small group could as well. A hidden approach along the stream bed, or even through some cave network feeding the spring?"
Captain Harun considered. "There are limestone caves in these hills. I explored some as a lad. If one connects to beneath the fortress… it's possible."
Arslan saw where Soraya was going. He looked to Safid. "We still have those sappers and miners with us?"
Safid gave a toothy grin. "Always bring a few, just in case." He stroked his grey-streaked beard. "A tunnel bypass… could put a few men inside their walls or even blow the fortress from below."
Soraya quickly added, "Also, consider not attacking at the obvious time. These tribes expect an assault in daylight when we arrive. But if we delay—set camp just out of sight and attack at first light tomorrow, or even better, pre-dawn—they might be caught unawares."
A murmur of intrigue went around the council. Arslan felt a swell of pride at Soraya's contributions; she'd voiced what some might have thought but perhaps not dared suggest in this assembly. Here she was, a concubine turned strategist, and her ideas were sound.
"Agreed," Arslan said. "We'll approach by dusk and make camp out of arrow range, giving the appearance of waiting for morning. Meanwhile, under cover of night, we'll send a sapper team to probe any cave or waterway that might grant entry or a place to plant a charge. At false dawn, we strike from two sides—frontal assault up the path to fix their attention, and an infiltration team hitting them from within or behind if possible."
Safid thumped his chest. "I volunteer for the tunnel rats, sire. I'm smaller than I look," he deadpanned, drawing a round of chuckles.
Arslan smirked. "Your enthusiasm is noted, General, but I need you leading the main assault in my stead."
Safid's face fell into a scowl. "In your stead? You're not thinking of going in those tunnels yourself."
"I am," Arslan replied evenly. Before Safid could sputter a protest, Arslan raised a hand. "Who better to wield whatever rune we plant to break their defenses? And if an inside strike presents a chance to end this with minimal bloodshed, I must be there to seize it."
Captain Darius, ever loyal, stepped forward. "Then I will accompany, sire. The Lion Guard will follow you anywhere."
Arslan nodded appreciatively. "I'll take a small team—volunteers only. We'll decide after scouting tonight."
He turned to Soraya, including her fully in the conversation now. "You will remain at the rear, with the medics as before." Seeing her eyes flash in objection, he added gently, "Your role is too valuable to risk in close combat. Understood?"
Soraya pressed her lips together, then bowed her head. "Understood, Majesty."
Satisfied, Arslan took one last look at the sketched map. "We move out. Quietly. We don't want to tip our hand that we know what's ahead."
The army advanced once more, now a coiled spring ready to snap. The element of surprise was slim given the terrain—dust clouds and the sheer presence of thousands inevitably telegraphed their approach. Yet by late afternoon, they managed to come within sight of the valley of Gur-Khan's Shield without any open engagement.
Arslan ordered the war horns silent. Flags conveyed signals instead, and scouts dispatched quietly any sentries or pickets they found on the outskirts—throats slit in the hush, one by one. A tense stillness fell as his forces encircled the valley entrance under cover of rocky outcrops and sparse fir groves.
At last, Arslan got his first direct look at the fortress. The scout's sketch hadn't exaggerated. Gur-Khan's Shield jutted from the mountainside like a rocky growth. Part natural cliff, part man-made fortification, it presented a daunting face. The front consisted of a crude stone wall buttressed by timber, spanning the narrow ledge that led to the gate. That gate itself was framed by an ancient arch of black granite carved with faded runes—perhaps vestiges of the bygone warlord's era. Above the gate, the overhanging rock arch the scout mentioned formed a kind of bridge or roof, on which sharpened logs and boulders had been arrayed, doubtless to rain down on attackers below.
Even now, Arslan could see figures moving atop the wall and the arch—guards keeping watch. They were out of bowshot for the moment, but if his forces marched openly into the valley, they'd be seen and targeted at once.
Thus far, the tribes had not shown themselves beyond the fortress—no army had sallied out to confront them in the open. Likely they meant to hole up behind their defenses and make the imperial army pay dearly for every step. It was the wisest move for a smaller force.
Arslan withdrew behind cover and gave quiet orders to set camp just around a bend, hidden from direct view. As tents were cautiously pitched and fires kindled only in pits to limit smoke, he convened a final prep meeting in a depression behind a large boulder where prying enemy eyes couldn't see.
The sappers had already gone ahead to inspect the stream and caves—two squads of five each, moving like ghosts in twilight. Now one returned, led by Master Javed, a squat man with arms thick from digging. He carried an oil lantern shielded by his palm.
Javed reported in hushed tones, "We found a cave entrance behind a waterfall upstream, Your Majesty. It goes about fifty paces into the cliff, then forks. One branch leads upward toward the fortress foundation—there's a crack in the rock that might reach under their walls. We didn't fully breach it yet for fear of noise. The other branch seems to lead towards an underground pool—likely their well or cistern."
Arslan's eyes gleamed. "Excellent. Can your team widen that crack enough for men?"
"Aye. Give my lads a few hours and we'll clear a crawlspace. We'll also set kegs of black powder at the weakest point below the wall."
Black powder—one of the newer implements in Arslan's arsenal. They had a limited quantity carried by the miners, enough to blow a hole if placed correctly.
"Do it," Arslan commanded. "Quietly. We'll mask any noise with the camp sounds." He turned to Safid. "Make a show of a normal encampment—drums, loud talk, as if we're settling for the night without any rush. Let them think we're waiting for daylight."
Safid grinned. "We have some spare mutton. We'll start a cooking fire and carry on like we've no mind to attack."
With that, the plan set in motion. Dusk deepened, and the imperial camp lights twinkled and flickered just out of sight of the fortress. The distant smell of roasting meat wafted on the breeze, hopefully convincing the defenders that their enemy was content to camp and eat rather than assault at night.
All the while, beyond the firelight, Javed's sappers labored in the cave by lantern-glow. Arslan checked in personally an hour after nightfall. At the waterfall's edge, hidden behind clumps of rock-fern, he slipped into cold ankle-deep water and ducked into the cavern entrance. The roar of the cascade muffled any sound of scraping tools. Inside, Javed's men had removed boots to work barefoot, passing rocks hand to hand like silent ants. Arslan squeezed through a narrow gap to where they had reached the base of the fortress wall's underside—it was unmistakable, a section of fitted stone blocks forming part of the cave ceiling where natural rock met the fortress foundations.
"We're directly below them here," Javed whispered, pointing to a hairline seam above. "We can place the kegs in this chamber. The fuse can run back to the cave mouth."
Arslan ran his hand over the ancient stones, feeling a faint vibration. Above, the garrison might be walking, talking. Little did they know death brewed beneath their feet. He felt a twinge of anticipation. "Set the charges. Use two kegs; that should blow a breach."
Javed nodded and scurried to oversee the careful placement of powder barrels, packing around them with clay to direct the force upward.
Before leaving, Arslan traced a small rune on the wall beside the kegs—a containment sigil that would channel the explosion's energy more forcefully. If all went well, at dawn a section of the fortress would simply cease to exist in a blast of fire and thunder.
Back at camp, Arslan gathered the infiltration team. Captain Darius and four of the best Lion Guard soldiers, all stripped of heavy armor in favor of leather and mail for agility. Additionally, he surprised Safid by tapping one more volunteer: Magister Salim's apprentice, a young mage named Farid, who had accompanied the engineers. Farid joined with a pouch of spell-talismans at his belt to counter any unexpected enchantments.
Soraya herself was not in this briefing. She was busy among the physicians preparing bandages and poultices for the dawn's casualties. Just as well, Arslan thought; he didn't relish another argument about her wanting to be at his side. He needed her safe right now.
Midnight came and went. The camp feigned sleep, although few truly rested. Arslan himself dozed only briefly, sitting against a tree with cloak around him, lion sword resting at his side. His dreams were fleeting images of Yvara's face, then Soraya's, then of a dark void shattered by fire. He woke to find Soraya's cloak draped over him. She must have visited quietly, ever caring. He smiled, tucking the cloak around himself a moment longer for the warmth and her lingering scent.
In the last hours of night, all was set. The fortress remained quiet but alert: torches glimmered on its walls, and occasionally a shout echoed from its ramparts as sentries hailed each other.
As planned, Arslan gave the order to attack just before dawn. The sky was still black but starting to grey at the very edge with false dawn's light.
Under cover of darkness, the imperial army had moved into their assault positions. Shield-men mustered at the valley mouth, archers behind them ready to rush and volley. Further back, two light ballistae had been assembled and winched taut, aimed at the fortress gate.
Arslan and his chosen infiltration team were already through the waterfall cave, poised by the powder kegs under the fortress. He held the fuse cord in one hand, feeling the rough hemp between his fingers. Far above, a horn blew from the imperial lines—a prearranged signal.
Arslan ignited the fuse with a snap of his fingers, a tiny flame rune briefly flickering at his fingertip. "Fire in the hole," he warned in a low tone. The team pressed back down the tunnel, retreating swiftly around a bend to shield from the blast.
For a second, nothing. Then KRA-BOOM!
The earth shook. The roar that tore through the pre-dawn gloom was deafening. Arslan's vision flashed white as a rush of hot air and dust blasted down the tunnel. The mountain itself seemed to bellow. Rocks rained from the ceiling; one Lion Guard was knocked flat by debris, but he scrambled up bruised and cursing.
When the dust began to clear, Arslan charged forward with the others close behind. They clambered through a widened fissure where the cave roof had collapsed upward. The powder had done its work well—a jagged hole gaped in the floor of the fortress itself, big enough for two men abreast. Beyond it, the interior of Gur-Khan's Shield lay exposed in chaos.
Dawn's first light filtered through swirling smoke. Arslan hauled himself up through the breach, sword drawn, and took in the sight: they had emerged into an open courtyard just behind the main gate. Rubble was strewn everywhere. The heavy oak gate itself hung splintered and askew—blown off its hinges from within. Nearby, a cluster of tribesmen staggered to their feet, ears bleeding from the concussive force, faces masks of shock.
For an instant, neither side moved, equally stunned. Then Arslan gave a shout like a thunderclap—"For the Empire!"—and lunged forward. His blade arced, catching the nearest foe, a burly tribesman still gripping a horn he'd been about to sound. The lion-kilij cleaved through the man's leather jerkin with a spray of blood.
Darius and the Lion Guards leapt into action beside their Emperor, each engaging multiple stunned defenders at once. Farid, the mage apprentice, extended his palm and sent a bolt of crackling energy toward a scaffold where archers stood; the wood exploded, pitching the screaming archers down.
Meanwhile, outside the fortress, the imperial horns blared and the main assault rushed the now shattered gate. Safid led the charge on horseback, saber raised high. They met only light resistance at the ruined entrance—half the defenders were still dazed from the explosion or running in panic inside.
Arslan fought like a man possessed, moving toward the center of the courtyard. A tribesman rushed him with an axe; he parried, the rune-etched steel of his kilij sparking against iron. With a twist, Arslan locked the axehead and wrenched it aside, then drove a boot into the attacker's chest, sending him sprawling. Another foe came from the side—Arslan ducked under a wild swing and countered with an upward slash that opened the man's throat.
Amid the fray, a piercing cry rang out—a woman's voice, laden with fury. Arslan whirled to see a lean, grey-haired tribal matriarch standing atop a stairway leading to the ramparts. She wore robes decorated with bone charms, and her eyes glowed with an unnatural green light. In her hands was a gnarled staff etched with pulsating runes. A shaman.
She bared her teeth and thrust the staff toward Arslan's direction. A ball of sickly green flame erupted from its tip, screaming through the air toward him.
Arslan barely had time to react. He threw up his free hand and called on a defensive sigil—the air shimmered as a hastily formed force-shield coalesced. The green fire slammed into the shield and splashed around it, scorching the ground in a circle of emerald flames. The heat was fierce, and sweat instantly sprang on Arslan's brow. His shield flickered under the assault and shattered—had he been a heartbeat slower, he would have been incinerated.
The shaman snarled something in a foreign tongue and prepared another blast. But Farid was already countering; he hurled a talisman that burst into a cloud of sparkling blue frost mid-air. It struck the shaman's next fireball, extinguishing it in a hiss of steam. She screeched in frustration.
By now, Safid's wave of troops had flooded into the courtyard. The imperials spread out, overwhelming the disoriented defenders. Clashes rang out all around—steel on steel, screams of pain, orders shouted. The tribesmen fought fiercely for their home, but the breach had sundered their morale. Pockets of fighting erupted by the barracks hut, near a stable, and along the parapets.
Arslan had no time to regroup with Safid; he was already sprinting for the stair where the shaman stood. He recognized that if anyone could wreak havoc on his men, it was she with her sorcery. She saw him coming and raised her staff again, spitting curses. The head of the staff glowed a poisonous green, casting jagged shadows across her lined face.
With a guttural roar, Arslan thrust out his sword. The runes on the blade flared golden—a response he had never seen before. Perhaps the proximity to so much unleashed magic awakened the weapon's latent power. The lion pommel seemed almost to roar, a low vibration through the hilt. A lance of golden light shot from the sword's tip, straight into the shaman's chest just as she loosed her spell.
Her eyes went wide in shock. The green light died on her lips as the force of Arslan's magical strike lifted her off her feet. She crashed backward against the stone battlements with bone-cracking force. The staff fell from her hands, clattering down the steps. She moved no more.
Arslan himself was stunned at what he had done. He had only hoped to disrupt her, but the sword—his sword had roared to life. He spared no more time to ponder, however. There were still pockets of resistance to stamp out.
High above, on the overhanging arch of rock, a handful of desperate tribesmen attempted one last gambit. With angry cries, they began to heave the prepared boulders and logs over the edge onto the courtyard below, aiming to crush invader and traitor stone alike.
"Watch above!" Arslan shouted. He watched as a massive log tumbled down, smashing through an awning and narrowly missing a cluster of imperial spearmen. A boulder followed, squashing a screaming man—friend or foe, he couldn't tell.
Snatching a javelin from a fallen enemy, Arslan took quick aim and hurled it at one of the men atop the arch. The spear transfixed the figure, who toppled with a fading wail. Another rock came hurtling. Arslan braced to dodge, but an arrow from somewhere whizzed in and struck the rock-thrower in the throat. Arslan glanced back and, to his astonishment, saw Soraya down in the gateway, lowering a bow. She had entered with the medics and found an unattended bow, using it to deadly effect.
He would have to scold or thank her—or both—later. For now, her bold action likely saved lives.
Gradually, the sounds of battle died down as the fortress was secured. Safid's voice echoed: "Hold your blows! They yield!" A knot of surviving tribesmen had thrown down their arms in the far corner of the yard, kneeling with hands raised. Others lay slumped in death or writhing with injuries. A few last skirmishes on the ramparts ended as archers were disarmed or flung themselves off the walls to avoid capture.
Arslan stood breathing hard in the smoky dawn air. The sky was streaked with pink and gold now, revealing the full extent of destruction. A section of the fortress's front wall was completely gone, reduced to a pile of rubble spilling outward down the cliff. Through the dust, beyond the walls, he could see his banners outside – the imperial sunburst and lion insignia flying victorious.
It was over. Gur-Khan's Shield had fallen.
He felt a presence at his side and turned to see Safid there, helmet under his arm, sweat and soot on his face, but a triumphant spark in his eyes. The general surveyed the carnage and gave a satisfied nod. "The day is yours, Majesty. The stronghold is taken."
Arslan nodded slowly. He should exult—this was a decisive victory, won with cunning and courage. And yet, as the cries of the wounded rose and the stench of charred flesh tainted the mountain air, he found his joy tempered by the cost. Imperial bodies lay alongside tribal ones. Many brave men had fallen to bring this moment.
Soraya approached through the settling dust, flanked by two guards who had the good sense not to try to restrain her. She rushed to Arslan's side, her veil thrown back, concern written plain on her face. Without a word, she reached out and touched a streak of blood on his upper arm where a shallow cut oozed. Only then did he register the sting—some lucky blow or flying shard had nicked him.
"I'm fine," he assured her softly. In response, she just let out a shaky breath and leaned into him. Arslan wrapped an arm around her shoulders, drawing her near.
Safid pretended not to notice this intimate moment in the aftermath of war. Instead, he barked orders to secure prisoners and set sentries. The imperial troops began to collect their wounded and tally their dead. A cheer went up when a few soldiers hefted the broken remnants of the tribal war-banner—a crude painting of a black vulture—tossing it down and raising the Lion of Rûmî flag in its place atop the battered gatehouse.
Arslan held Soraya close as they watched the symbol of his empire catch the morning light. He allowed himself a moment to feel the tide of emotion: relief, sorrow, pride, and yes, triumph. The Zull Framents were theirs. The mineral wealth of these mountains would now flow to his empire, not fuel further rebellion. A decisive victory indeed.
But at this moment, Arslan cared more that he and Soraya had both survived to see it. She looked up at him through tearful lashes, as if reading the turbulent mix in his heart. He realized he was smiling—a weary, bittersweet smile. She returned it gently and whispered, "You did it."
We did it, he thought, considering her counsel and courage. Instead of speaking, he bent and kissed her forehead amidst the ruin and glory surrounding them. In that gesture, he poured all his gratitude and affection, heedless of the curious stares from soldiers around. Let them see their Emperor had a human heart. Let the poets later say that Arslan Rûmî claimed victory with a sword in one hand and his beloved by his side.
The Lion of Rûmî had roared in these mountains, and a new chapter of his legend was just beginning.
Chapter 4: 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.
In the dying light of the embers, Arslan Rûmî allowed himself a final moment of reflection. He had come to these mountains to claim minerals and territory, but he returned with something far more precious—a devoted partner and a clearer sense of the man he was becoming. The lion-banner now flew over the Zull Framents, and in his heart, the lion's spirit roared with purpose.
"Onward," he whispered to the darkness, an oath to himself and the sleeping Soraya. The Emperor and his army would ride at first light, back to the City of Light, to the grand future awaiting them. But tonight, here in this brutal and beautiful land, Act V of their story drew to its close—on a note of hard-won peace, love affirmed, and the promise of a dawn that would usher in the next conquest of destiny.