Part 1
The great hall of Podem rang with cautious celebration. Though Alexander's siege tower still smoldered in the killing field below, everyone knew this was merely a reprieve—tomorrow would bring fresh horrors. Yet for tonight, they drank watered wine and allowed themselves the luxury of being alive.
At the high table, James struggled with his cup of Vakerian wine, its potency far exceeding anything from his world. Beside him, Bisera sat unusually rigid despite their morning victory, her keen eyes tracking Princess Saralta, who had been uncharacteristically quiet since arriving from the capital.
"Perhaps the divine mage finds mortal wines too crude for his refined palate?" Captain Yanko jested, noting James's grimace as he attempted another sip.
"I assure you, I'm quite mortal," James replied awkwardly, setting down the cup. "Just... unused to wine this strong."
Bisera, who could drink most men under the table despite her refined appearance, smoothly switched James's cup with her own watered one. The gesture was subtle, but Saralta noticed, a ghost of her usual teasing smile flickering across her face before vanishing again.
"You're brooding," Bisera observed, turning to the steppe princess. "I've seen you drain entire wineskins while reciting epic poems backwards. Why the silence?"
Saralta looked up, and for the first time since James had known her, the irreverent warrior who viewed the world as one grand jest looked genuinely shaken. "Remember how I told you two all is well with His Majesty's campaign up north? There is more...," she said quietly, her dark eyes scanning the celebrating soldiers around them. "About Arinthia. About what I saw there. But I need somewhere private. Very private."
The gravity in her voice cut through the evening's forced merriment. James and Bisera exchanged glances—Saralta had arrived just in time to save them with her cavalry charge, but she'd come from the capital where Emperor Simon was supposedly handling the Republican rebellion well.
"The war room," Bisera decided, already rising.
Minutes later, with heavy oak doors barred and only the three of them present, Saralta poured herself wine with trembling hands—another unprecedented sight.
"You know my people worship the Sky Father and Earth Mother along with many gods," she began, downing the wine in one desperate gulp. "We believe in the spirits of horses and the wisdom of wolves. Your Universal Spirit, your angels and demons—I always thought them lowlander superstitions. Pretty stories you tell yourselves to justify why some men rule and others serve."
She laughed bitterly. "My mother said gods favour the strong. So I had always dismissed the cult of the Universal Spirit as nothing but myth and superstition. I mean… how could a real god favour the meek over the strong?" Her hand moved unconsciously to the wolf-tooth talisman at her throat. "But what I saw at Arinthia... I am not so sure anymore..."
"What happened in Arinthia?" James asked gently.
Saralta poured another cup but didn't drink, just stared into the dark liquid as if it held answers. "What happened during the battle for the capital..." She shook her head. "I don't have words for what I saw."
"Start from the beginning," Bisera urged.
"A few days ago," Saralta began, steadying herself with the familiar rhythm of a battle report. "My riders and I approached from the northwest. The outer city had already fallen—not to battle, but to madness. Citizens fighting citizens, rebel banners risen over noble estates. Their leader, this Imperator Niketas, had promised them everything—'Equal opportunity for all,' 'Merit over birthright,' 'Every man a voice.' The streets rang with their chants."
"The same ideology Gillyria had back in the golden age of man," Bisera murmured, remembering her lessons from her history tutor.
"But their army..." Saralta's voice grew distant. "When we finally fought through to the middle city wall, the rebels had formed up outside—not behind the walls where they'd have advantage, but in the open. I thought them mad at first."
She stood abruptly, pacing to the window. "They looked like something from the old stories—the armies of the ancient Gillyrian Republic from the histories. Perfect formations, disciplined beyond anything I've seen. Not the rabble you'd expect from recently recruited peasants, but soldiers who moved as one body, one will. Each man knew his place, his purpose. They wore whatever armor they could find, but they'd painted it all the same crimson, marked with the eagle of the old Republic."
"How is that possible?" James asked. "Training such discipline takes years."
"That's what I thought. Until I saw what stood with them." Saralta turned back, her face pale. "Twenty of them, arranged in a perfect arc floating above the rebel formation. At first, I thought them some kind of honor guard in ceremonial dress using some eastern mana channeling techniques. Then I saw their wings."
She paused, struggling for words. "Wings of different composition. Some burned with actual fire that cast no shadow. Others were made of gleaming metal that moved like liquid mercury. A few had feathers that seemed carved from lightning itself. One had wings of pure ice that steamed in the morning air. Each different, each impossible."
"Demons," Bisera breathed, making the sign of the Universal Spirit.
"That's what your priests called them," Saralta agreed. "But they were... beautiful. Terrifyingly perfect. All hooded, and there was only emptiness where their faces should have been, but their robes..." She suddenly laughed, a sound caught between hysteria and genuine amusement.
"What about their robes?" James prompted.
"They were so tight," Saralta said, and now her natural irreverence began returning, fighting through the shock. "I mean, absurdly, ridiculously tight. And short."
Bisera frowned. "Short?"
"Very short! And their legs," Saralta continued, warming to the absurdity of it. "The robes made sure to reveal these impossibly long, perfect legs. All different types—some shapely and sensual, some lean and muscled, some elegant and thin. Like someone had taken every possible variation of beauty in form and put them on display."
"All shapes and forms?" James asked, bewildered.
"Oh yes," Saralta's voice took on her familiar teasing tone, though it trembled slightly. "And the robes themselves—each a different color. Not just blue and red, but shades I didn't know existed. One wore a blue so deep it was almost black, another had crimson that seemed to pulse with its own light. Twenty different colors, each more vivid than the last."
She gestured expressively. "And the fit, those robes left nothing to imagination. They had different figures too. Some voluptuous enough to make a courtesan jealous, others with the lean physique of dancers, a few with the perfect athletic build like..." she glanced at Bisera, "like our dear general here, actually."
Bisera's cheeks colored. "Saralta, this hardly seems—"
"No, it's important," Saralta insisted. "Because that's what confused me most. They seemed more seductive than holy. More alluring than sacred. So initially I couldn't understand how those rebels were so convinced of their divinity. But then these beings..."
She sank back into her chair. "They sang. All twenty, in perfect unison. A sound that was ethereal and beautiful but also..." she shivered, "haunting yet... addictive."
"And Selene confronted them?" Bisera asked, her tactical mind already working.
"Not exactly. She just floated protectively above Emperor Simon. Then, the rebels advanced with such fervor, such absolute conviction and when the armies clashed..."
Saralta closed her eyes, remembering. "The discipline was shocking. These farmers and craftsmen who'd taken up arms fought like the Gillyrian legions of legend. They held their lines perfectly, rotated their ranks without hesitation. When wounded, they didn't flee—they died chanting their slogans, convinced they were martyrs for a righteous cause."
"And Simon's forces?"
"Already shaken by the sight of those... beings. Then the accusations started." Saralta's voice grew quiet again. "Selene stood behind the Emperor while he tried to rally the troops. But the demons—I'm certain now that's what they were—they pointed at her and laughed. Called her a 'human artifact pretending to be an angel...'"
James's stomach clenched. The demons knew exactly what Selene was—an android, artificial, though genuinely connected to divine purpose.
"She said nothing to defend herself," Saralta continued. "Which many soldiers took as admission. Faith started cracking. Then Niketas himself appeared on the walls, wearing purple, the imperial color, identifying himself as Imperator."
"Presumptuous," Bisera muttered.
"But effective. He questioned Simon's right to rule, asked why birth should determine sovereignty. Said rulers should be stewards chosen for competence, not bloodline. Asked how the Universal Spirit, Lord of all nations, could choose a dynasty that persecuted those of Gillyrian descent simply because of their origin."
"And the nobles?" James asked.
"Dead, fled, or converted—according to Niketas. He claimed they'd all 'atoned for their sins' or joined as equal citizens. No more oppressors in the new Republic, he said. Only citizens, shared owners of the land. And his soldiers cheered with such conviction..."
Saralta stood again, unable to remain still. "I've conquered cities, seen religious fervor, watched men die for causes. But this was different. They weren't forced or desperate—they were joyous. Ecstatic. Fighting not just to win but to prove themselves worthy of those beings' approval."
"But you won," Bisera pointed out. "You're here, alive—"
"About that..." Saralta's voice dropped to barely a whisper. "I led my cavalry in a flanking charge. We shattered their left flank, started rolling up their line. The tide was just starting to turn in our favor. Then one of those beings raised its hand, and a blast of pure invisible force struck me from the sky. It was so fast that before I could react, I was lying on the ground and the world was spinning above me."
James and Bisera leaned forward, transfixed.
"Then, the beings started attacking our troops and Selene tried to stop them. Fought five at once initially, seemed evenly matched. Then one drove a flaming sword through her side. Another threw an ice javelin through her chest. A third brought a lightning-wrapped hammer down on her back." Saralta's voice shook. "They tore her apart while she tried to protect Simon. Pulled off her wings, scattered her like broken pottery."
"But how did you escape then?" Bisera asked, clearly confused now.
"Then SHE spoke." The emphasis carried impossible weight. "Your archangel. Seraphina."
James straightened. "That's—"
"Your patron, yes. The Archangel herself." Saralta met his eyes. "The voice said the demons had broken some... cosmic law... through their current interventions. Said something about 'the One being upset and that it must be rectified immediately.'"
She paused, pouring another cup with steadier hands now. "What happened next broke everything I believed about reality. Everything... One moment I was dying, the next I stood exactly where I'd been before the battle began. Unwounded. My mare alive beneath me. The rebel army back in their initial positions."
"A true miracle?" James and Bisera said in unison.
"Like someone lifted the entire battle out of time and said 'no, this didn't happen.' I thought I was hallucinating... Every wound healed, every broken wall restored. For a while, I thought it was a dream, but I am still in the dream now if it was a dream. And it wasn't a hallucination, since all my soldiers remember what had happened and... the sun had moved enough to reflect the time that passed during the original battle."
The war room fell silent as they absorbed this impossibility.
"And Selene and the demons?"
"Restored to their original state and original location... Except... this time, they were pinned to their location by some unseen force throughout the entire renewed battle... forced to watch as the rebel forces were crushed outside the city gates by our forces... But the same voice announced a pardon to all that put down their swords and simply commanded the Emperor's forces to obey... and given what we just saw... I don't think it was a choice..."
Saralta fixed them both with haunted eyes. "Later, Selene made it clear: the angels can only intervene in mortal affairs when the demons interfere. It's a matter of fairness. In other words, facing Alexander, we are on our own."
"So... she is really an archangel then...," James murmured, awed.
"Wait what?" Bisera said, stunned that James had doubts.
"Don't tell me you followed her even though you thought she might be a demon?" Saralta teased, her playfulness returning.
"No... I mean... I just thought she was... uh... a lesser angel... yes... just an angel..." James muttered.
"Good one darling." Seraphina's voice rang in James's mind; he almost jumped up in surprise.
"I don't think there is any lesser angel in the cosmos who would dare to pretend to be Archangel Seraphina..." Bisera said with seriousness.
"So I am just a bit shaken now... I don't know what to think anymore... everything that I had assumed to be true is..." Saralta said.
A knock at the door interrupted them. "General!" Velika's voice called. "There's unusual activity near the manifesting water purification system."
"Water... what?" Saralta asked.
Part 2
Meanwhile, in the Gillyrian camp outside Podem, Emperor Alexander stood before his war table, the lamplight casting sharp shadows across the detailed maps and dispatches spread before him. The siege had not gone as planned—Bisera's desperate gambit with the tower had cost him precious momentum, and now winter's teeth were beginning to bite.
Igor entered the command tent, brushing frost from his shoulders. The Captain of the Imperial Guard moved with his characteristic blend of power and grace, his green eyes immediately finding Alexander's troubled expression.
"You're troubled again," Igor observed, pouring two cups of wine—a familiar ritual between them.
"I'm struggling to understand," Alexander admitted, accepting the cup but not drinking. His fingers traced the edge of Podem on the map. "How could the Universal Spirit side with those very barbarians who swept down from the steppes and enforced their rule through cruelty all those centuries ago?"
Igor's expression grew thoughtful. "You still remember the stories."
"How could I forget?" Alexander's voice carried unusual bitterness. "They made one of my predecessors' skull into a drinking cup, after the Battle of the Arinthian Passes. They paraded it at their feasts for decades."
"That was almost a hundred years ago," Igor said carefully.
"Time doesn't erase such savagery," Alexander countered, but his conviction seemed shaken. "And yet... if the reports from Arinthia are true, if Seraphina herself intervened..."
Igor was quiet for a long moment, staring into his wine. Then, so softly Alexander almost missed it, he murmured, "Perhaps the Universal Spirit is trying to let us understand that even the most damned can be redeemed."
Alexander looked up sharply. "What?"
Igor met his gaze steadily. "We shouldn't be judged for the sins of our ancestors, after all. We are all descendants of two sinners." His voice carried weight, referring to the original couple's fall from grace—a theological truth both men had been raised on.
Alexander felt something shift in his chest, a loosening of a knot he hadn't realized was there. The night suddenly seemed less cold, the weight on his shoulders marginally lighter. "You speak of redemption for barbarians?"
"I speak of redemption for all mankind," Igor corrected gently. "If the Spirit can forgive the original sin, why not the sins of conquest? The Vakerians of today are not the steppe raiders of centuries past, just as we are not the ancient Gillyrians who once enslaved half the known world."
Alexander moved to the tent opening, gazing out at the walls of Podem. "Adelais's latest report corroborates your speculation, in a way." He turned back to Igor. "She writes that this James shows genuine compassion, that General Bisera maintains strict discipline against looting, that they've been manifesting water purification for civilians. Not exactly the behavior of barbarian hordes."
"But there's also the possibility," Igor suggested carefully, "that the Vakerians were deceived by demons. The beings in Arinthia, before Seraphina's intervention—they appeared as angels to the neo-republican forces."
"But then," Alexander said slowly, working through the logic, "the report of what happened after in Arinthia... if it holds true... implies that it really is Seraphina backing the Vakerians. Demons won't be able to do what she did at Arinthia."
The two men stood in troubled silence. Finally, Igor spoke: "There's only one way to know for certain."
Alexander raised an eyebrow. "What?"
"Judge them by their actions."
"You mean by victory?" Alexander's tone was skeptical. "You know even a demon-inspired army could defeat a mortal army, Igor."
"No," Igor shook his head firmly. "I mean their actions—how they treat their enemies. How they treat the defeated. How they treat the innocent."
A Alexander's eyes widened in a rare moment of genuine surprise that transformed his classical features. "By the Spirit... you're right." He moved back to the table with sudden energy, his mind racing. "If they massacre prisoners, if they brutalize civilians, if they desecrate churches—then they serve the Abyss, regardless of what powers aid them. But if they show mercy, if they maintain justice, if they protect the weak..."
"Then perhaps the Spirit truly does stand with them," Igor finished.
Alexander began pacing, his strategic mind already adapting to this new framework. "We've been fighting this war as if it were purely military. But it's actually something far grander."
"And our own actions?" Igor prompted carefully.
Alexander stopped, understanding the implications. "Must be beyond reproach. If this is truly a divine test, then we must prove ourselves worthy through our conduct, not just our strength." He called for his secretary. "New orders for all commanders: strict discipline regarding civilians. Any soldier who harms non-combatants will face immediate punishment. Ensure all churches remain untouched, even those flying Vakerian banners."
The secretary hurried away with the orders. Igor studied his emperor with approval. "You're creating a different kind of battlefield."
"A battlefield of souls," Alexander agreed. He lifted a dispatch from Adelais about the water purification system. "She reports that this manifestation requires weeks to complete, that James exhausts himself in the process, that they're sharing the purified water with Gillyrian prisoners. These are not the actions of the damned."
"Unless it's an elaborate deception," Igor warned.
"Then we'll know soon enough," Alexander said with grim determination. "Demons cannot maintain the pretense of righteousness under pressure. If they serve the Abyss, their true nature will reveal itself when the siege intensifies. But if they maintain their mercy even in extremity..."
He didn't finish the sentence, but both men understood the implications. If the Vakerians proved themselves righteous even in the crucible of siege, then Alexander would face the most difficult decision of his reign.
The siege of Podem had become something more than a military campaign—it had transformed into a theological trial where both sides would be judged not only by their victories, but by their morality.
"Send word to Bishop Methodios," Alexander commanded. "I want daily prayers for wisdom and... for humility. If we have been fighting on the wrong side of heaven, I need the strength to accept it."
Igor bowed, but before leaving, he added, "The men should know nothing of these doubts. Not yet."
"Agreed. But watch how our enemies conduct themselves. Watch very carefully. Their actions will reveal the truth far better than any report."
As Igor departed, Alexander returned to studying the maps, but his mind was elsewhere—grappling with questions that had no easy answers. Could redemption truly extend even to the descendants of barbarians? Could the Spirit choose these savages? And most troubling of all—what to do if the answer was yes?