Part 1
The bronze doors of the Cathedral of Holy Wisdom groaned shut behind her, and Helena allowed herself exactly three heartbeats of stillness before the iron closed around her heart once more.
I am sorry, Irene.
Her shadow guards fell into formation around her—twenty figures in unmarked black, faces hidden behind silk masks, moving with the eerie synchronization of men who had trained together for years in absolute secrecy. The regular palace guards who had accompanied her to the cathedral hung back, uncertain of their place in this new hierarchy.
Commander Alexios materialized at her shoulder, his gray hair catching the morning light, his weathered face carefully neutral. He had served Helena for fifteen years—long enough to know when questions were unwelcome.
Helena's boots struck the cobblestones of the great central avenue that ran from the cathedral to the palace complex, lined with columned porticoes and the mansions of the empire's greatest families. Merchants and servants pressed themselves against walls as her procession passed.
"Alexios." Helena's voice carried the clipped precision of command. "The city gates."
"Your Highness?"
"All gates are to be sealed within the hour. No one enters, no one leaves. The harbor as well—no vessels to depart until further notice."
Alexios's stride faltered almost imperceptibly. "Your Highness, the merchant traffic alone—the Guild of Silk Merchants has shipments scheduled for the coastal ports. The grain factors will protest spoilage. Word will spread quickly that something is—"
"Word will spread regardless." Helena did not slow her pace. The palace complex loomed ahead, its domes and spires catching the winter light like a crown of frozen flame. "Every great house in this city maintains messenger pigeons. By now, half the provincial governors have received coded warnings from their patrons here. The pigeons flew hours ago—we cannot catch them all."
She turned her head slightly, meeting Alexios's eyes with a gaze that had frozen stronger men.
"The goal is not to prevent information from leaving the capital. That ship has sailed. The goal is to ensure that those who receive such information cannot act upon it before we have eliminated the variables."
Variables. Such a clean word for what she intended. Such a bloodless term for the purge that would reshape the empire's nobility before the sun set.
"Understood, Your Highness." Alexios's voice had steadied. He was a soldier; he understood the logic of containment, even when the battlefield was a city of half a million souls. "I will need authority to assume command of the wall garrisons. Several of the gate commanders owe their positions to... interested parties."
Helena reached into the leather satchel at her hip—a soldier's equipment bag, not a regent's silk purse—and withdrew a golden disk the size of a man's palm. The imperial seal, gleamed in the morning light. In Alexander's absence, she held the right to employ it for matters of state security.
She had never exercised that right before today.
"This mandate grants you authority over all forces within the city walls," she said, pressing the seal into his hand. "You will replace any commander whose loyalty is... uncertain. You will secure the city gates, the harbor, and the armory."
Alexios's eyes widened, but he nodded nonetheless.
Helena stopped walking.
They had reached the intersection where the Mese branched toward the palace gates. To her left, the mansions of the great houses rose in terraced splendor—marble facades, bronze doors, gardens visible behind walls of dressed stone.
"Go," Helena commanded. "Send word when it is done."
Alexios bowed and departed with astounding speed.
Helena turned to the scholarly figure who had shadowed her since the cathedral—Theodosios, the palace scribe whose unassuming appearance concealed the empire's most effective spymaster. His ink-stained fingers clutched a leather case, and his eyes held the particular brightness of a man who had not slept but found himself too invested in events to notice exhaustion.
"The messages," Helena said.
Theodosios fell into step beside her. "The messages are prepared, Your Highness. Twenty-three letters. Forty-six scrolls in total, as you dictated through the night."
Twenty-three letters. Helena felt the weight of that number settle into her bones. Twenty-three letters that would reshape the empire before the week was out.
"Each message will travel twice—once by courier, once by pigeon. Different routes, different timing. If one is intercepted, the other arrives." Theodosios permitted himself a thin smile.
She had spent decades building this network. A young warrior privately ransomed here. An estate quietly gifted there. A second son given promotion when poverty would have condemned him to obscurity. A merchant's daughter educated at her expense, now whispering secrets from a governor's household.
Small kindnesses. Quiet investments. Seeds planted in soil that others never thought to tend.
She had built it praying it would never be needed. A web spun in darkness, waiting for a day she hoped would never come.
And now it came.
"Send them," Helena ordered. "All twenty-three must depart within the hour. The provincial messages by your fastest riders and most trusted birds—I want them arriving before sunset in every theme that matters. His Majesty's letter by coastal courier; it must reach Podem before rumors do. I will not have my brother learn of this crisis through whispered speculation and half-truths."
She stopped walking, turning to face Theodosios directly.
Her voice hardened. "The provincial variables must be eliminated before they have time to act. Every hour of delay is an hour for our enemies to organize."
Theodosios bowed. "It shall be done, Your Highness. The birds are already caged and waiting. The riders have been told nothing except that they carry messages of the highest imperial priority."
"Good. Go."
He departed at a pace just short of running, his scholar's robes flapping around his legs.
Helena watched him go, and for a moment—just a moment—she allowed herself to feel the weight of what she had set in motion. Six men would die tonight. Men with families, perhaps. Men who had chosen the wrong side, yes, but men nonetheless.
This is what power costs, she thought. This is what it has always cost.
Helena passed through the palace gates into the great courtyard beyond. Servants bowed quickly and scattered at her approach—not from fear of her, precisely, but from the transformation she represented. Yesterday, she had been the regent who smiled, who compromised, who wore silk and spoke of consensus. Today, she was something else entirely.
She made her way through the palace corridors to the same chapel where Constantine had tried to drive a knife through her heart just the previous evening. The bloodstains had been scrubbed from the floor. The bronze candleholder she had used to deflect his blade had been replaced. Nothing remained to mark the moment when her son became her would-be murderer.
Nothing except the hollow ache where her heart used to be.
Helena knelt before the altar.
She made the sign of the Spirit—two fingers touching forehead, heart, and each shoulder in sequence.
Grant me strength, she prayed silently. Grant me the wisdom to distinguish the guilty from the innocent. Grant me the courage to do what must be done.
She paused, her throat tight with grief she could not afford to release.
And grant me forgiveness for the actions that I am about to take.
The icon of the Universal Spirit gazed down at her.
Helena rose.
She checked her armor—steel plate over mail, fitted to her frame by the same smith who had equipped her husband's cavalry. She touched the sword at her hip, feeling its weight like a promise.
The woman she had been was dead.
Part 2
The Senatorial Hall rose at the heart of the imperial complex like a mountain of marble and ambition. Its great hall—the seat of the Gillyrian Senate since the empire's founding—could hold two thousand souls beneath a ceiling painted with scenes of divine judgment. Golden mosaics lined the walls, depicting emperors past receiving the submission of barbarian kings. Columns of green marble, quarried from distant provinces, supported a gallery where scribes recorded every word spoken on the Senate floor.
It was, by design, overwhelming.
This morning, the great hall felt like a trap.
Senator Marcus Syrianos noticed it the moment he passed through the bronze doors. The usual pre-session murmur—a comfortable hum of gossip, negotiation, and petty rivalry—had been replaced by something sharper. Voices came in bursts, hushed and urgent. Men clustered in groups of three and four, their faces drawn with poorly concealed anxiety.
The benches were not as full as they should have been.
Marcus counted quickly. Of the one hundred and twelve senators entitled to attend, perhaps seventy were present. Some absences were expected—old Konstantinos had been bedridden for months, and young Theodoros was still recovering from a hunting accident. But others...
"Where is Duke Phokas?" Marcus murmured to his colleague, Senator Nikephoros, as he took his seat on the third tier.
Nikephoros's face was pale beneath his carefully trimmed beard. "Gone. His household servants say he departed for his country estates before dawn. Claimed urgent business regarding his vineyards."
"In winter?"
"In winter." Nikephoros leaned closer, his voice dropping to a whisper. "Senator Bardas attempted the same just now. He was turned back at the city gate. The guards refused to let him pass."
Marcus felt ice crystallize in his stomach.
"The gates are closed?"
"All of them. No one enters, no one leaves. The harbor is sealed as well—three grain ships were prevented from departing." Nikephoros's hands were trembling slightly. "Marcus, what is happening? The summons came in the emperor's name, but the emperor is four hundred miles north, besieging Podem."
Around them, similar conversations rippled through the assembled senators. Fragments reached Marcus's ears:
"—sent my pigeons at midnight, but Spirit knows if they arrived in time—"
"—my cousin in the treasury says soldiers are everywhere, checking papers—"
"—it's a purge, I tell you, the regent has finally shown her true colors—"
That last whisper came from Senator Demetrios Komnenos, a silver-haired patriarch whose family had served the empire for eight generations. His face had gone the color of old parchment.
"A purge?" Nikephoros repeated, his voice cracking. "But the regent has always been—"
"The regent has always been underestimated," Demetrios interrupted, his eyes fixed on the great doors at the hall's far end. "I told Gregorios. I warned him that no woman survives this court without claws hidden somewhere. He laughed at me. Said she was nothing but a lucky woman."
He laughed bitterly.
"I wonder if he's still laughing now."
The great doors remained closed. The traditional horn announcing a speaker of imperial authority had not yet sounded. Every senator in the hall kept stealing glances toward that entrance, waiting for whatever would emerge.
Marcus studied his colleagues with the practiced eye of a man who had survived thirty years in Gillyrian politics. The young idealists—those whose families had no connection to Gregorios's faction—looked merely confused. The minor nobles, the provincial representatives, the men who attended Senate sessions out of obligation rather than ambition—they whispered among themselves, trying to piece together fragments of rumor into coherent understanding.
But others wore different expressions.
Senator Herakleios, whose sister had married Gregorios's nephew, sat rigid as a statue carved from ice. Senator Methodios, who had hosted three of Gregorios's "philosophical salons" at his country estate, gripped the arms of his seat with white-knuckled intensity. Senator Kallistos—young, ambitious, rumored to have been promised a provincial governorship by Gregorios on behalf of Constantine—had positioned himself near the eastern exit, as if calculating whether he could reach it before guards intervened.
They know, Marcus realized with dawning horror. They know something has happened, and they are calculating whether they can survive it.
Those who had tried to flee had been stopped at the gates.
Those who remained were trapped.
A horn sounded from beyond the doors. The murmuring died instantly, replaced by a silence so complete that Marcus could hear his own heartbeat thundering in his ears.
The great doors swung open.
And Helena strode into the hall like a figure from ancient legend—or perhaps from nightmare.
She wore armor.
The sight struck the assembled senators like a physical blow. Several rose half from their seats before remembering themselves. Others gasped audibly, their carefully cultivated composure shattering in an instant of unguarded shock.
This was not the Helena they knew.
The regent they remembered dressed in silk and samite, in pearls and subtle perfumes, in the soft presentation of a woman who ruled through persuasion rather than command. That Helena smiled. That Helena listened. That Helena made men feel that their opinions mattered, that the empire valued their counsel, that power was a shared endeavor among reasonable people.
The woman who walked down the central aisle of the hall wore battle steel.
Her armor was not ceremonial plate, gilded for parades. This was fighting steel, scarred and dented from use, fitted to her frame with the precision of long familiarity. A sword hung at her hip. Her raven hair, usually styled with architectural precision, had been pulled back into a severe knot. Her face was pale but composed, her eyes hard as winter iron.
Behind her marched twenty soldiers in unmarked black.
They carried no standards. They bore no insignia of any known regiment. Their faces were hidden behind visored helms, their movements synchronized with the eerie precision of men who had trained together for years in absolute secrecy.
Shadow guards, Marcus thought, and the ice in his stomach became a blizzard. The rumors were true. She has her own forces, loyal only to her.
Along the walls, he suddenly noticed other figures—imperial guards who had not been there moments before, positioned at every exit, watching the assembled senators.
Helena ascended the speaker's podium at the hall's center—a raised platform of white marble from which emperors and regents had addressed the Senate for hundreds of years. She did not hurry. She did not hesitate. She moved with the deliberate purpose of someone who had already decided everything that would happen in this room and was simply waiting for reality to catch up with her decisions.
She reached the podium.
She turned to face the Senate.
And she looked at them.
Not the way she had looked at them before—with diplomatic warmth, with careful attention, with the practiced gaze of a politician counting votes and calculating angles. This gaze was different. This gaze swept across the assembled senators like a scythe through wheat, measuring each man against some internal standard.
Marcus had thought himself immune to the theater of power.
He was wrong.
The woman on that podium was not the Helena he had dismissed as weak, as compromising, as a temporary necessity to be tolerated until Alexander returned. This woman carried herself with the cold authority of … that woman!
The silence stretched until it became unbearable.
Then Helena spoke.
"Senators of Gillyria." Her voice carried to every corner of the great hall without effort—the voice of a woman who had learned to command, who had perhaps always known how to command and simply chosen not to reveal it until now. "I come before you today not as regent, but as protector of this empire."
She paused, letting the words settle into the silence like stones dropped into still water.
"Last night, I discovered a conspiracy against the imperial throne. A conspiracy of such scope and ambition that, had it succeeded, would have plunged Gillyria into civil war while our emperor bleeds before the walls of Podem. A conspiracy that reached into the highest levels of our government, corrupted some of our most trusted servants, and—"
Her voice caught, almost imperceptibly.
"—and turned those we loved against us."
She drew a breath.
"The primary architect of this treason—Duke Gregorios—had been brought to imperial justice this morning."
A ripple passed through the Senate—shock, disbelief, and for some, naked terror barely concealed behind masks of practiced neutrality.
"But Duke Gregorios did not act alone."
Helena's gaze swept across the assembled senators like a blade seeking flesh. Marcus felt it pass over him—a moment of scrutiny that seemed to last an eternity—before moving on to the next man.
"He had allies. He had patrons. He had men who knew what he planned and chose to support it—some for promised power, some for promised gold, some for promised positions in the new order he intended to create."
She reached into her armor and withdrew a sheaf of documents.
"I hold in my hand letters, records of meetings, testimony from those who have chosen cooperation over complicity." Her voice hardened. "I know who you are."
The hall had gone absolutely still. Not even breathing disturbed the terrible silence.
"Some of you," Helena continued, "were deceived. You believed Gregorios's lies about my weakness, about my brother's supposed failures, about the empire's need for new leadership. You acted from misguided patriotism rather than malice." She set the documents on the podium's lectern. "For you, there will be opportunity for redemption—confession, cooperation, and service to the throne you nearly betrayed."
Her hand came to rest on her sword's pommel.
"Others among you knew exactly what you were doing. You understood that Gregorios's 'reforms' meant Alexander's death. You understood that his 'transition of power' meant my execution—and the execution of countless other innocent souls." Her voice dropped to something barely above a whisper, yet it carried to every ear in the hall. "You understood, and you supported him anyway."
Behind her, the great doors of the great hall swung closed with a boom that echoed through the hall like thunder.
The soldiers in unmarked black took positions along the walls, hands resting on sword hilts, faces invisible behind their helms.
Part 3
As Saralta woke up in the magnificent bed James had assigned her the previous night, the memories of the previous night's events flooded back.
Saralta's blade cleared its sheath before conscious thought caught up with instinct. Beside her, Bisera had already drawn, both women dropping into combat stances with the synchronized grace of battle-hardened warriors.
The sound intensified—a deep, rhythmic thrum-thrum-thrum that pulsed up through the marble beneath their feet. Not from the walls. Not from above. From directly underneath them.
Both women tracked the vibration simultaneously, their eyes meeting in a glance that communicated volumes without words.
Something below. Something large. Something alive.
Saralta felt ice crystallize in her spine. She had arrived in this realm mere hours ago—transported by divine power, emerging into a world where the Great Mage dwelt in a palace that put princes to shame, where invisible forces illuminated rooms without fire, where a man's voice could echo from walls even as he stood silent before you.
A realm of wonders. And if the wonders were this grand, what of the terrors?
The old steppe ballads spoke of such things. The Great Worms that burrowed beneath mountain roots. The Tunnel Serpents that had once, according to shaman's stories, emerged from beneath the foundations of the Khan's palace and devoured an entire feast hall.
This dwelling has been empty while James was in our world, Saralta thought rapidly. Some creature of the deep might have sensed the absence of the powerful mage and claimed the space as its lair.
The thrum-thrum-thrum continued. Steady. Patient. The breathing of something vast.
"James. Bisera." Her voice was calm, controlled—the voice of a commander issuing battlefield orders. "Take James and leave. Now."
"Saralta—" Bisera started.
"I'll hold it here."
"Don't be ridiculous. We face it together—"
"No." Saralta's voice cracked, and when she turned to face them, her dark eyes glistened. "No, Bisera. Not this time."
She positioned herself directly over the point where the vibrations seemed strongest.
"Thank you both for rescuing me," she said, her commanding edge softening into something vulnerable. "So please. Let me do this one thing. Let me protect the people I love."
"Saralta, wait—"
"James." She cut him off, tears sliding down her cheeks though her sword arm remained steady. "If there is a next life... I hope we meet again. All three of us."
Her blade pointed downward at the marble, ready to strike whatever emerged.
"When you return to our world, tell my mother I loved her. Tell my father I'm sorry I couldn't bring more glory to our house. And tell the soldiers who rode with me..." She paused. "Tell them their princess was grateful. For every mile. Every battle. Every shared meal around a campfire."
The thrum-thrum-thrum seemed to crescendo.
"Now GO!" Saralta commanded. "Live well. Love each other. And sometimes, when you see the stars over the steppe, think of—"
"SARALTA, IT'S A WATER PUMP!"
"What?" Saralta sputtered.
"That sound," James said, his voice cracking between residual tears and desperate, hysterical relief, "is my water pump."
Silence.
The rumbling continued—thrum-thrum-thrum—steady and entirely non-threatening now that they were actually listening.
"Your... what?"
"Water pump. It is the device that the house use to automatically draw water from deep underground. That rumbling is the sound the pump makes during part of the process." James wiped his eyes. "It runs every once in a while. Completely normal. Completely harmless."
A long, terrible pause.
Saralta stood frozen, sword still raised, staring at James with dawning horror.
"A pump," she repeated.
"For drawing water from the well."
"I gave... a death speech... when faced with a … magical bucket?"
"A very moving death speech," James offered weakly.
"I CRIED." Saralta's voice rose to something approaching a shriek. "I cried ACTUAL TEARS. I spoke of the NEXT LIFE."
Bisera made a sound—a choked wheeze that evolved into a snort, then collapsed into full-bodied, uncontrollable laughter that shook her entire frame.
"I—I was trying to—" she gasped between fits, "Trying to tell you to wait—"
"I WAS SAYING GOODBYE!" Saralta slowly sheathed her sword and backed against the wall, face burning crimson. "I poured out my SOUL!"
James had given up any pretense of composure, tears streaming down his face—though he couldn't tell anymore if they were from mirth or leftover emotion from Saralta's genuinely heartrending farewell.
"To be fair," he managed, "it's quite loud."
"I told you two to love each other!" Saralta buried her face in her hands.
Bisera had collapsed against the wall beside her, wiping tears of laughter from her eyes.
Saralta groaned, dropping her head back with a thunk.
Then, after a long moment, a small smile tugged at her mouth.
"I need to see this device," she announced.
"It's just a pump—"
"Take me to it. I wish to look upon the device that had just deceived me so effectively."
"Also," she added with a whisper, "I am genuinely curious. A device that draws water from the deep earth on its own? That is actually fascinating."
James led them through the house toward the basement stairs, collecting Bisera's hand as they walked. She interlaced her fingers with his immediately, naturally, as if they'd been doing this for years rather than weeks.
The warmth of the gesture wasn't lost on Saralta, who observed it with an expression carefully balanced between envy and genuine happiness for her comrade.
"The house draws water from a well drilled deep into the earth," James began. "Nearly a hundred and fifty paces down. The water is clean, but it needs purification before drinking."
"Purification?" Bisera asked. "Like the sacred system Lady Seraphina is manifesting in Podem?"
"Similar, yes. Though smaller. As this system is just for this one house."
They descended the carpeted stairs. Saralta's bells chimed softly with each step, her dark eyes bright with anticipation.
The basement opened into a surprisingly large space. To the left, James gestured vaguely: a pool table, leather couches, gleaming exercise equipment. Saralta's eyes widened briefly at the luxury, but she did not stop. She was hunting.
"This way."
He led them right instead, through an unfinished doorway into a section with exposed concrete walls and harsh, practical lighting.
Here, the rumbling was unmistakable. It wasn't a monster, but a steady, powerful roar of rushing water and mechanical exertion.
The mechanical room was large, but the water system itself occupied a space roughly the size of a wardrobe against the far wall. It was a complex assembly of pipes, blue tanks, and steel housings, but Saralta ignored the silent parts.
Her eyes locked instantly onto the source of the commotion: a tall, slender black cylinder standing near the wall. It was vibrating violently, the sound of water churning inside it loud enough to drown out their footsteps. On top of it, a small digital panel blinked with red numbers.
Saralta approached it the way one might approach a rare beast—with wary respect and undisguised interest.
"This," she shouted over the roar, pointing at the shaking cylinder. "This is the pump? The magical bucket you spoke of?"
James shook his head. "No. That is just one of the cleaning vessels. It's washing itself."
He pointed instead to a thick black pipe coming out of the concrete floor, connected to a silent blue tank nearby.
"The pump is invisible," James explained. "It sits deep underwater, hundred of feet below this floor. You cannot see it or hear it directly. But it pushes water up that pipe with such force that the vibration travels through the entire system—from the deep earth, into these pipes, and finally into that tank."
He gestured to the roaring cylinder Saralta was staring at. "That unit is currently using the water pressure to scour its insides. That's why it is shaking."
"So the force comes from below," Saralta murmured, "but the struggle happens here."
She cautiously reached out a hand toward the vibrating black cylinder tank. The machine continued its aggressive cycle—whoosh-thrum-whoosh-thrum—entirely indifferent to her touch.
Saralta leaned close, stroking the side of the tank as if calming a horse that had been ridden too hard. She could feel the water rushing inside, wild and constrained.
"Explain," she said, her voice filled with eagerness. "How does it work? How can it breathe and shudder yet not live?"
James stepped closer, pointing to the components in order of flow.
"The invisible pump pushes water up into this blue vessel—the pressure tank. It holds the water under force, ready for use."
"Like the cisterns in Arinthia," Bisera murmured, "but the pressure comes from the magical bucket rather than elevation."
"Exactly. From there, the water is forced into the noisy tank Saralta is touching." James raised his voice slightly over the rumble. "That is the Iron Filter. It traps the heavy metals and sulfur from the ground—the things that make water smell like rotten eggs. Right now, it is spitting those poisons out down the drain."
"And then?" Saralta asked, her hand still on the vibrating tank.
"Then it passes through charcoal," James pointed to a smaller, quieter cylinder. "Which absorbs any remaining foulness."
"Charcoal?" Bisera's voice dropped to a whisper. "We use charcoal in field medicine to absorb poisons. The principle is the same?"
"The same. And finally..." James pointed to a row of horizontal housings mounted on the wall. "The finest filter. A membrane so tightly woven that only pure water can pass through. Everything else is left behind."
James moved to the final component, a stainless steel tube mounted vertically on the wall.
"And then the ultraviolet chamber." James pointed to the cylindrical housing with a small, glowing viewport. "Water passes through here, where it's exposed to ultraviolet light—a type of light that destroys any remaining... invisible living things that might cause illness."
He stepped back, allowing them to examine the system.
"The result is water purer than any mountain spring. Safe to drink directly from any tap in the house."
Saralta's eyes had gone pensive. She looked from the floor pipe, to the roaring tank, to the delicate housings on the wall.
"So." Her voice shifted—slower, more precise. "A magical bucket drives water from the deep earth to a pressurized vessel that maintains constant flow. The water passes through progressively finer strainers: first for the metallic bits in that shaking beast, then through charcoal to catch the invisible taints..." She left the noisy tank and touched the reverse osmosis housing almost reverently. "And finally passing the water through a skin so fine it strips the water of everything but itself before shedding captured light on it to destroy any invisible harmful spirits."
She turned to James, and there was something almost proud in her expression.
"Like the felt we use to strain koumiss," she said. "Mare's milk passed through layer upon layer of pressed wool until only the pure liquid remains. My grandmother taught me this when I was a girl. The concept is the same—your execution merely differs in precision."
James found himself genuinely impressed. "You grasped the entire system from a two-minute explanation."
"I might look like a brute, but learning is one my passions," Saralta said with a mischievous grin.
For a moment, watching Saralta crouch beside the machinery with that intense, hungry expression, James was reminded sharply of his friend Derick back home—the mechanical engineer who could spend hours explaining engine components with the same feverish enthusiasm. Derick would have loved Saralta's mind, her rapid comprehension, her—
James caught himself.
He shook the image away.
Saralta had begun circling the system, examining it from every angle, occasionally kneeling to peer at connections.
Bisera watched her friend with knowing fondness, then turned to James, her expression shifting to something more thoughtful.
"James." Her voice had gone distant. "Would it be possible to use the same principle to create a water treatment process for an entire city?"
"You want to implement it in Vakeria?"
Bisera's gaze sharpened. "I'm thinking if we had such filtration in our cities, we could process river water indefinitely. No more rationing. No more death from contaminated wells."
"The system Seraphina is manifesting in Podem operates on similar principles," James said gently.
"Wait." Bisera's eyes widened. "Lady Seraphina's system uses the same methods?"
"Essentially, yes. Just larger."
Bisera closed her eyes. James could see it on her face—the strategic mind working, mapping infrastructure, calculating logistics, imagining a Podem that would never again fall to poisoned wells.
Then she sighed. A sound of deep, aching frustration.
"Even if we understood the principles perfectly," she said quietly, "the creation of parts this fine would take generations to master."
Silence fell over the basement, heavy with the weight of the technological gulf between worlds.
James moved to wrap his arm around Bisera. "Don't be sad. Seraphina is already making one for Podem. Maybe she could manifest more."
Saralta's eyes lit up. "That makes perfect sense! The divine prefers to work through leveraging the laws of nature rather than through pure magical interventions."
"I suppose," James said slowly. "The magic isn't inside the machine. The magic is just... how it got here. The machine itself is only plumbing."
Bisera reached for his hand, squeezing it tightly. "Which means the principles could eventually be learned. Applied. Even without divine intervention."
"Eventually, yes."
Her eyes met his, and something passed between them—a shared vision of possibility that transcended their vastly different worlds.
"I wish to study this further." Saralta's eager voice interrupted their moment. Her voice had gone intent, almost feverish. She looked up at James with burning eyes. "You have documentation? Diagrams? The schematics for such systems?"
"I—yes, actually. I can find manuals. Explanatory books."
"Bring them." Saralta blurted, almost like a command. Then she caught herself, flushing. "That is... if you would be so generous. I would be most grateful."
Bisera watched her friend with fond amusement. "There she is. The scholar behind the warrior."
James grinned. The legendary princess of the steppes, feared cavalry commander, kneeling on concrete and demanding technical literature like an engineering student.
"I have a basic manual for this system," he said. "But if you want detailed construction drawings, I'd need to visit the library. Or purchase books from a bookstore."
Saralta's head snapped up so fast her bells rang.
"A library," she breathed. "James—your world has library too?"
"Yes, almost one in every town. Each with tens of thousands of books. On every subject imaginable."
Saralta rose to her feet, her earlier embarrassment entirely forgotten. Her eyes had taken on a gleam that James recognized from warriors who'd spotted an undefended enemy flank.
"I must see your libraries," she announced. "James, when can we go? Tomorrow? Tonight? Now?"
"Saralta," Bisera said dryly, "it's the middle of the night."
"Oh right." Saralta began pacing, her bells chiming with each agitated step. "But surely some knowledge-houses remain open? For urgent scholarly matters?"
James bit back a laugh. "They'll be open tomorrow."
"Tomorrow then. First light. I wish to see everything." Saralta stopped mid-pace, her expression suddenly vulnerable. "I mean—if that is permitted? I do not wish to impose upon your hospitality, but James, you must understand—knowledge is the chisel to shape destinies."
She trailed off, momentarily overcome.
Bisera came to stand beside her friend, placing a hand on her shoulder. "You're trembling."
"I am NOT trembling." Saralta's voice cracked slightly. "I am merely... experiencing anticipation. Intensely."
James exchanged a glance with Bisera, who was clearly fighting to keep a straight face.
At that moment, Bisera yawned—a deep, jaw-cracking yawn that she tried and failed to hide behind her hand.
Saralta immediately straightened. "Ah. Of course. Bisera requires rest. We can explore this world's treasures tomorrow." Her tone was gracious, selfless, the very model of consideration.
Then her gaze drifted back to the pump system, and her fingers twitched.
"Although," she added casually, "perhaps I might just examine the manual tonight? Merely to familiarize myself with the concepts before tomorrow's expedition? I would not wish to appear ignorant before the learned scholars of this realm."
"There are no scholars at the library," James said. "Just librarians. People who help you find books."
"Still. Preparation is the warrior's advantage." Saralta's eyes had locked onto James with predatory intensity. "The manual. If you please."
Bisera laughed softly, leaning into James's side. His arm came around her waist automatically, and she melted against him with a small sigh of contentment.
"Go fetch her the manual," Bisera murmured. "Before she decides to disassemble your pump to study its innards."
"I would never—" Saralta began indignantly.
"You absolutely would."
"...But I would absolutely reassemble it before James would even notice."
James reluctantly released Bisera and headed upstairs to find the equipment manual. When he returned, Saralta practically snatched it from his hands, then immediately tried to pretend she hadn't.
"My thanks," she said with forced dignity, clutching the booklet like it was sacred scripture. "I shall... peruse this. Casually."
"Of course."
Saralta was already flipping through pages, her brow furrowed in concentration. Then, her face went up in despair.
"James…." Saralta asked weakly.
"Yes? What's wrong?"
"Could you teach me to read your language?"