Morning sunlight poured over the palace barracks yard, gilding the dust motes that swirled around stamping boots. The clamor of steel striking steel rang out in steady rhythms as dozens of soldiers sparred in pairs. Some trained with curved sabers flashing in the sun, others with spears or bows under the watchful eyes of their drill captains. The smell of sweat, leather oil, and yesterday's horse dung hung in the warm air—a familiar perfume of soldiery that brought a faint smile to John's lips.
Dressed in a light training cuirass and loose trousers tucked into high boots, John stepped into the yard with purposeful strides. General Safid walked at his side, helmet under one arm. The chatter and grunts of the men faltered as one by one they noticed the Emperor's presence. Normally, Arslan Rûmî observed drills from a shaded pavilion or not at all; an Emperor had little need to frequent the practice grounds personally. Today would be different.
"Continue your exercises," Safid barked to the gawking troops, restoring order. He led John toward an open space near an archery butte. "Majesty, the men are honored by your visit," he said quietly to John, a note of pride in his rough voice. "Though I admit, this is unexpected."
John rolled his shoulders, already feeling a pleasant tautness in his muscles at the prospect of a workout. A thin linen bandage still wrapped his left forearm beneath a leather bracer, but he'd tested his range of motion—it would hold. "I needed to move a bit, Safid. Clear my head. And I want to see what our soldiers are made of first-hand."
Safid's scarred eyebrow arched, but then he chuckled. "They will be eager to show you. Just try not to break too many of them, sire."
John grinned. He appreciated that Safid didn't coddle him. The general had seen him kill an assassin with his bare hands; he knew the Emperor could handle himself. But most of these rank-and-file likely thought of Arslan as a distant figure, a royal who commanded from gilded halls. Time to change that.
As John stepped forward, the nearest cluster of soldiers parted to make way. Dozens of eyes – young recruits, veteran sergeants, and officers alike – were stealing glances at him. Some faces showed concern at his bandaged arm, others open curiosity at what he intended.
He stopped near a rack of practice weapons. The soldiers in that circle hastily stood at attention. John gave a casual wave. "At ease, men. This isn't a formal inspection."
They relaxed slightly, though an excited tension still electrified the group. Safid cleared his throat and addressed them louder, "Our Emperor wishes to train alongside us today. You mangy dogs better give him a worthy session!"
A ripple of laughter and cheers moved through the onlookers. John noted the genuine affection behind their voices. Safid's men were loyal and battle-hardened – likely veterans of recent campaigns. If he won them over fully, his rule would be that much more secure.
John removed his outer cloak and handed it to an attendant. Underneath he wore a plain padded gambeson without the usual imperial emblems. He wanted to be just another swordsman for now.
He walked toward the center of the ring that had formed. "Who's the best with a saber among you?" he asked, tone friendly but carrying across the yard.
The soldiers glanced at one another. A few smirked and looked toward a tall, broad-shouldered man with a shaved head and impressive mustache. He stood a head higher than most, arms crossed confidently.
Safid nodded in that man's direction. "Sergeant Timur is our finest blade master, Your Majesty. He trains the palace guard in sabre-fighting."
Sergeant Timur thumped his fist to his chest. "My Emperor," he acknowledged, stepping forward. There was a mix of pride and caution in his eyes. "It would be my honor to spar with you, if that is your wish."
John sized him up. Timur's forearms were corded with muscle, and faint scars crisscrossed his knuckles and arms – signs of a life spent mastering weapons. A worthy opponent. John felt a familiar thrill stir in his blood, akin to stepping onto a familiar dojo mat or a training ring back in his past life.
He selected a blunted training saber from the rack – a practice version of the kilij, with a curved, single-edged blade. It had weight and balance similar to his own lion-pommel sword. John gave it a few test swings; it whistled through the air.
"Sergeant," John said, falling naturally into a relaxed ready stance, one foot forward, saber held low. "Show me how an elite of Rûm fights."
A grin split Timur's mustache. He drew his own practice blade and saluted. "As you command!"
They began to circle each other on the packed earth. The spectators pressed outward to give them room, forming a wide ring. The clamor of other training around the yard quieted as more men paused to watch their Emperor duel one of their best.
John felt the sun warm on his neck and smelled dust as his boots scuffed the ground. He rotated his sword wrist, loosening up. Arslan's body was strong, trained from youth in swordsmanship. John could sense that ingrained muscle memory coiling, ready to spring. He hoped it would cooperate with what he knew – which was mostly modern close-quarters techniques and an instinct for improvisation.
Timur struck first – a testing slash aimed at John's left shoulder. John's blade flashed up to parry, steel clanging. The force of the blow jarred his arm, a reminder that this man was much larger. But John deflected it neatly, sliding the strike off and twisting to riposte toward Timur's flank.
Timur anticipated it; he was quick for his size. He spun and brought his saber down in a heavy overhead chop. John sidestepped, boots kicking up dust, and felt the rush of air as the blade whistled past his ear.
A few "oohs" sounded from the audience at the narrow miss. John's heart hammered with exhilaration. It had been a long time since he'd been in a swordfight, if ever – but combat was combat, and he found himself slipping into the flow. Everything beyond the ring – the men, the morning, his worries – faded, leaving only Timur's stance, the angle of his blade, the next move.
They exchanged a flurry of blows. Timur came in aggressive, leveraging his strength. John gave ground carefully, blocking and redirecting. The sergeant's style was disciplined – likely an orthodox palace style with roots in Sipahi cavalry training. John recognized patterns from historical fencing manuals he'd once skimmed: cuts numbered and precise.
John, by contrast, had no formal fencing schooling beyond some bayonet drills. But he had brawled in alleys and cleared rooms in Afghanistan – he knew how to read an opponent, how to exploit an opening.
Timur advanced with a sweeping cut at John's legs. John wasn't there – he had darted forward instead of back, surprising Timur. Inside the arc of the swing, John delivered a sharp elbow strike to the sergeant's chest.
The impact made Timur grunt and stumble back, more startled than hurt. A chorus of laughter and cheers erupted from the troops, delighted at the unorthodox move. No one had expected their Emperor to use his off-arm as a weapon in a duel of swords.
Timur recovered, eyes alight now with renewed respect. He gave John a toothy grin. "Cunning, sire!"
John just winked. "Again."
They closed once more. Timur feinted high then lunged low, blade thrusting for John's midsection. John twisted aside, letting the blade graze his leather cuirass harmlessly. He responded with a slash toward Timur's thigh. The larger man blocked, their sabers clashing loudly and locking together.
For a brief moment, they strained, face to face, blades bound. Timur was strong – he began forcing John's sword back with brute power. John grimaced, feeling his bandaged forearm flare with pain under the strain. The watching soldiers held their breath as their Emperor seemed about to be overpowered.
But John had no intention of winning a pure test of strength. Instead of resisting directly, he suddenly disengaged – yielding a step and pulling his blade free. Without the expected resistance, Timur's weight lurched forward, off-balance for half a second.
John capitalized instantly. He dropped to a low crouch and swept his leg around in a sharp kick, scything Timur's feet out from under him.
A collective gasp went up as the burly sergeant crashed onto his back in the dust, his sword flying from his hand.
John sprang up and pounced, planting a knee on Timur's chest and bringing the tip of his practice saber to hover a hairsbreadth from the man's throat.
Everything went still. Timur panted beneath him, eyes wide in surprise. John himself breathed hard, adrenaline singing through his veins. His arm throbbed fiercely now, but he kept the blade steady and his face calm.
Yield cheers erupted around them. It took John a second to process the roaring voices – soldiers hollering in triumph and pounding weapons on shields in approval.
John stood and immediately offered a hand down to Timur. The sergeant accepted it, laughing as John helped haul his bulk back up.
"That was… not in any of the manuals, Majesty," Timur said between breaths, dusting himself off. His expression was equal parts chagrin and admiration. "I concede."
John clapped the man on the shoulder. "You fight exceptionally well, Sergeant. I had to get creative." He wasn't about to explain that a leg-sweep was a common MMA move where he came from. Let them think it imperial ingenuity.
Safid stepped forward through the throng, shaking his head with an incredulous grin. "By the gods, Arslan, you never cease to amaze." He called out loudly, "Victory to the Emperor!"
Another cheer rang out. John raised Timur's hand with his own as if they were both champions. The gesture earned applause – it showed magnanimity and camaraderie.
As the adrenaline ebbed, John became aware of the sheen of sweat on his brow and the sun beating on him. Timur's elbow had clipped his chin at one point, and he felt a slight sting there. It was a small price for the morale he'd just won.
"Back to training, you lot!" Safid barked good-naturedly to the assembled soldiers. "Don't let your Emperor be the only one working up a sweat today!"
The men laughed and gradually the clashing of arms resumed in pockets around the yard, though many still stole awed glances at John as they continued their drills.
A water skin was thrust toward John by a young standard-bearer, hands shaking with excitement. "Sire, water?"
John accepted it gratefully and took a long swig. The water was cool and tinged with mint – a thoughtful touch, likely thanks to Rashid's provisioning. He handed it to Timur, who also drank deeply, then to Safid.
"That was a fine bout," Safid said quietly, careful that only John heard. "The men will be talking of it for days. You've won their hearts even more, if that's possible."
John wiped his face with a cloth an attendant offered. He felt an unexpected swell of emotion at Safid's words. As a leader on Earth, he'd commanded small teams; never an army, and certainly he'd never had men cheering him as a hero. He realized just how much he wanted their respect not just because it solidified his power, but because it meant he was becoming part of this world, not just acting the part.
"Good," John replied. "They should know I'm not afraid to stand beside them. And I expect them to push me to be better as well."
Safid smiled, a fierce glint in his eyes. "They will, Emperor. These lads admire you already – now they'll follow you to the gates of hell and back."
John's gaze swept over the yard. Sparring had resumed, more vigorous than before. Perhaps seeing their ruler sweat and struggle had invigorated them to train harder. A couple of younger soldiers even mimicked the leg-sweep move they'd seen, laughing as one tripped his friend. John chuckled.
He noticed a few older veterans nodding in approval and saluting informally as he caught their eyes. Battle recognizes battle – even if he wasn't in their last campaigns, he had proven himself in the universal language of combat.
While the drills continued, John took a few minutes to walk among the men. He stopped to observe an archery line, offering pointers on stance – his keen eye from rifle marksmanship translated well enough to bows, and the archers listened eagerly. He moved on to the cavalry stables where a trio of horsemen practiced mounted combat with blunt lances at rings. John praised their skill and even joked that he might try riding against them when his riding leg recovered (Arslan's horse riding was fine, but the idea amused the troopers).
Everywhere he went, he offered a word of encouragement or a question about their well-being. The soldiers, initially astonished by such casual attention, soon responded warmly. John learned a few names, clapping backs, making a mental note of who was from where. In this way, he planted seeds of loyalty that would spread in the barracks gossip chain by nightfall – the Emperor knew my name, the Emperor fights like one of us.
Finally, as the sun climbed toward noon, John knew he had to return to his other duties. His muscles were pleasantly sore from the exertion, and his wounded arm, while aching, held up fine. It would scar, but likely not impair him.
Before he left, he reconvened with Safid and the core officers. Many of them looked at him with new eyes now – some had been skeptical of Arslan's softer approach these past days, but seeing his ferocity on the field dispelled any notion of weakness.
"That will be all for today, gentlemen," John announced. "Resume the normal schedule. My thanks for allowing me to crash the party."
A ripple of laughter. One captain bowed, sweat dripping from his brow. "Your Majesty honors us. You are welcome among the troops any time."
John nodded. "You'll see more of me. I plan to make this a habit, when duties permit."
Safid beamed. "We'll hold you to that, sire."
As John prepared to depart, he gestured for Safid to walk with him. They exited the yard together, accompanied by the respectful salutes of tired but enthused soldiers.
Crossing under a stone colonnade back into the palace proper, John slowed his pace. "Any news from this morning's… interviews?" he asked, wiping residual dust from his neck. He referred to the interrogation of the captured stable-hand, which he had left to Safid and Rashid while he engaged the troops.
Safid's face grew more serious, business reasserting itself after the thrill of training. "Yes. The stable-boy finally cracked. Fear not – we used the Emperor's promised leniency as leverage rather than harsher means."
John gave an approving nod. "And what did he say?"
"He confessed that he was recruited by a woman months ago. Paid him small fortunes to pass along information about palace guard rotations, and to leave that balcony rope prepared last night." Safid's voice hardened at the last part.
John felt a flicker of anger. Of course it had been an inside leak. "Did he know who she was, this woman?"
Safid shook his head. "He never knew a name. Described her as 'veiled, with an accent from the eastern mountains'. Could be nothing, but possibly points to one of the hill clans loyal to the old dynasty."
John absorbed that. "The Daughters of Xesh have recruits from outside the city then. Did he mention where they might be based or meet?"
A grim smile touched Safid's lips. "He revealed that just before we stopped – eager to save his hide, that one. There's an old shrine complex in the hills to the west of the city – the Temple of Selhun, once devoted to the moon goddess, long abandoned. He was instructed to go there once, to deliver a message under a specific stone near the entrance."
Moon goddess, John thought. The cult's moon-and-dagger motif made perfect sense now. An abandoned moon temple sounded precisely like the kind of haunt zealots of a lost cause might use.
"Well done," John said. His pulse quickened; they had a lead. "We'll discuss our next steps soon. For now, keep this very quiet. Only your most trusted men should know."
"Of course. I've already confined the stable-hand somewhere secure under guard. Word won't get out."
They reached a junction where Rashid waited to escort John to lunch or his next engagement. Safid bowed, and John clasped his shoulder briefly in thanks – another gesture that left the old general pleasantly surprised.
"Take a breather yourself, General," John said. "We'll speak at length this evening. I have ideas on how to handle that temple."
Safid thumped his chest in salute. "Until then, Padishah." He used the old Turkic word for Emperor in a rare show of personal respect, then turned on his heel and marched off to oversee the remaining drills.
John headed inside with Rashid trailing a respectful two steps behind. His body was tired, but his spirit felt renewed. The training yard had proven something to his soldiers and to himself. He could command through inspiration, not just fear or tradition. He could be both ruler and warrior, the iron hand and the open hand in one.
And now, with the cult's lair possibly uncovered, he had the chance to demonstrate that his reach extended beyond palace walls into the darkest corners where his enemies skulked.
As he toweled off and changed into fresh robes for the afternoon, John caught sight of himself in a bronze mirror. Dust streaked his dark hair, a faint bruise was forming on his jaw from Timur's near miss, and sweat still dampened his chest. He looked human, a bit battered – not a distant untouchable sovereign.
He found he rather preferred it that way.
John Arslan Rûmî smiled at his reflection, a fierce and genuine smile. Let the Daughters of Xesh plot in their shadows; he was coming for them soon, armed with steel, newfound magic, and an army's devotion.