Earlier Timeline.

  “It has been decided: Roxana will become one of the Shah’s concubines.” The vote among the women present was unanimous. The ten members of the council took their leave with discreet bows and hurried off to their duties. Encrypted messages were sent, precise orders were issued, and the entire palace continued its work.

  At the end of the day, as the sun sank behind the minaretes, staining the sky a deep crimson, a eunuch with an impassive face and a gold-embroidered tunic was dispatched to the mansion of the House of Azadi to deliver the news.

  Roxana was in the spacious rear garden of the mansion, practicing with her favorite bow. Her concentration was absolute; swords and lances had never interested her much—those were passions for others. She preferred the distant precision of the bow, the whistle of the arrow slicing through the air before burying itself in the heart of the target. Beside her, in the shade of a cypress, her brother Ardeshir was reading aloud from an ancient tome on glorious battles and cunning tactics. With his round spectacles perched on his nose, he stole glances at the guards training in the adjacent courtyard, silently envying those bodies forged for war. Sometimes life is unfair, he thought; he was weak, lacking the strength to wield a sword.

  Roxana aimed calmly, drew the string until it brushed her soft cheek, and released. The arrow flew and buried itself exactly in the center of the target. Barely twelve years old, she was already an exuberant beauty who turned heads even among the most seasoned servants.

  Her hair, red as freshly spilled blood, fell in wild waves to her waist, framing a face of delicate yet fierce features. Emerald-green eyes that shone with the intensity of forbidden jewels. Skin so pale it was almost translucent beneath the setting sun, contrasting with the natural flush of her cheeks after exertion. Incipient breasts, round and firm, rose proudly beneath the fine fabric of her dark-green silk bra, adorned with delicate embroidery of lotus flowers and intertwining leaves that seemed to caress her skin. The garment clung perfectly, faintly revealing the pink outline of her nipples when the wind playfully teased the fabric.

  Lower still, a wasp-thin waist that any poet would compare to the curve of a Persian dagger widened into already-promising hips. And her ass… ah, her ass held the promise of the harém’s future pleasures: round, lifted, smooth as polished marble, barely covered by panties of the same deep green—so sheer that the fabric molded to every curve, tracing the perfect division between her buttocks and leaving little to the imagination. When she moved to retrieve another arrow, the material tightened, revealing the soft dimple at the base of her spine and the hypnotic sway of her glutes.

  The eunuch arrived in silence, bowing deeply before her. After delivering such glad tidings, no one would stop him; the great houses yearned to join the Shah’s harém—nothing compared to the chance of bearing heirs.

  “My lady Roxana of the House of Azadi,” he announced in a neutral yet reverent tone, “the Grand Council has deliberated. By unanimous decision, you have been chosen to honor the Shah as one of his concubines. By ancient and wise custom, all chosen concubines within the empire are permitted to enter the harém at once or to receive a mistress until they are deemed ready to join it. The choice is yours, and yours alone.”

  A silence scented with jasmine and sweat fell over the garden like an invisible caress. It began at the nape of Roxana’s neck, slid slowly down the column of her throat, slipped between the budding valley of her breasts, grazed her perfect navel, and finally vanished between her thighs, feeding on the warmth already beginning to rise from her young skin. The evening breeze lifted a few red strands that clung to her damp neck, like tongues of flame tamed by a desire that still had no name.

  She still held the bow in her hand, the arrow barely vibrating in the center of the target, as if time itself had paused to admire her.

  Roxana turned slowly toward the eunuch. The light of the setting sun licked her pale skin, turning every bead of sweat into pearls of dew on her delicate shoulders and the soft valley between her breasts. The dark-green silk bra, soaked from exertion, now clung insolently to the tender curves of her breasts, outlining the small, hardened nipples that stood proud beneath the fabric like two hidden jewels demanding attention. Lower down, the matching panties had wedged slightly between her buttocks when she bent earlier, and as she straightened, the fabric settled brazenly, tracing the forbidden softness of her perfect sex: the faintly swollen lips barely hinted at, the small cleft that already guarded warm, moist secrets.

  Her lips, red as ripe pomegranates about to burst, curved into a slow, almost dangerous smile.

  “A mistress?” she repeated in a velvety voice, as if tasting the forbidden flavor of the word on her tongue. “A woman skilled enough to teach me… everything I need to know to please the Shah?”

  The eunuch nodded without raising his eyes, though his voice trembled slightly.

  “Yes, my lady. The mistresses of the harém are the most accomplished in the empire. They teach dance, perfume, caresses, whispers… the complete art of making a man forget his own name. Some young women choose to study for months, even years, until they are perfect. Others…”—he paused, swallowing—“prefer to enter at once and let the fire of the harém forge them directly. But do not worry, my lady: within the harém we encourage your natural gifts. The use of the bow will be permitted, along with your other hobbies. You may practice in the private gardens, and it is said the Shah delights in women who master both the arrow… and desire.”

  Roxana let the words settle on her skin like another layer of sweat. Her emerald eyes gleamed with a new light—a blend of defiance and ravenous curiosity. She took one more step toward the eunuch, so close that he could feel the heat radiating from her half-naked body.

  Then, in a low, steady voice—like one loosing an arrow straight into the heart of destiny—she declared:

  “I will need no mistress. I will go to the harém… now.”

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  Ardeshir, who had been holding his breath from the shadow of the cypress, felt the book slip from his hands and fall to the grass with a dull thud. His eyes, behind misted spectacles, filled with silent pain. He knew what that decision meant: his sister, his Roxana, would vanish behind the golden walls of the palace. He would see her again only years later, when she had risen to a high rank within the harém—perhaps as a favorite, perhaps as one of the most powerful among the concubines. By then, she would no longer be the girl who practiced archery in the family garden. She would be a complete woman, forged in pleasure and power, with eyes that had seen the Shah surrendered at her feet.

  Roxana turned to her brother for a moment. There were no tears in her eyes, only a burning promise.

  “See you soon, little brother. I’ll become one of the Shah’s favorites. I’ll speak to your friend so we can keep talking.”

  Then, without waiting for a reply, she turned to the eunuch and extended her hand with regal authority.

  “Do I need to prepare my things? Tonight I enter the harém. I want the Shah to know that the House of Azadi does not send frightened little girls… but whole women.”

  And as she walked barefoot toward the mansion, with the sun spilling like honey over her back and the hypnotic sway of her hips marking every step…

  .

  .

  Present Day: The Frankish Empire

  In the grand hall of the Imperial Palace of Parísia, the capital of the mighty Frankish Empire, the air was heavy with tension and anticipation. The enormous summoning circle, etched into white marble veined with gold and inscribed with ancient runes glowing with an ethereal bluish light, pulsed with magical energy that made the crystals of the hanging chandeliers tremble faintly. Around it, twelve court magi, clad in robes embroidered with gold and silver that reflected the dancing light, chanted in an arcane language, their voices resonating like a celestial choir that seemed to emanate from the very vaults painted with frescoes of imperial victories. Floating candles, suspended by invisible spells, illuminated the scene with a warm, golden radiance, while the smoke of exotic incenses—myrrh, amber, and sacred sage—filled the hall, creating a mystical and solemn atmosphere that wrapped everyone in a veil of sanctity.

  Suddenly, a supernatural wind lashed through the hall, snuffing out several candles with a sharp hiss and making the banners bearing the Frankish eagle—embroidered in gold thread on royal blue—flutter violently. The circle erupted into a pillar of blinding, pure white light that shot up to the vaulted ceiling, causing the crystal lamp chains to jingle. When the light slowly dissipated, like morning mist, there—at the center of the circle—lay twelve disoriented figures, dressed in strange, otherworldly clothing: pristine school uniforms, hoodies with unfamiliar designs, modern casual wear, as if they had been torn from their everyday lives of technological modernity, rectangular devices still clutched in their hands, blinking weakly before going dark.

  “The ritual has succeeded,” declared Princess Helena, a triumphant smile upon her perfect rose-colored lips, as the magi around her smiled in relief and pride, their age-lined faces lit by victory. The entire court—nobles with powdered wigs towering like spires, knights in gleaming armor adorned with plumes and medals, ladies in silk and lace gowns whispering as they moved—waited in silence, holding their breath, fans frozen midair.

  Twelve heroes summoned from a distant world, destined to fight against the bellicose Germanic Kingdom. Through their power, the Frankish Empire would rise as the most powerful state upon the face of the earth—the center of the world, the locus of power, glory, and refined civilization. Only one obstacle stood in their way: that rival kingdom to the east, ever expansionist and barbaric, with its armies of ferocious warriors and gray stone fortresses.

  The eyes of the court settled upon the summoned heroes, curious and appraising. The male heroes were handsome, gallant, and athletic, with perfect features that seemed sculpted by the gods themselves: jet-black hair or wheat-gold blond gleaming under the light, piercing eyes of vivid hues—sky-blue, emerald-green—and muscular bodies evident even beneath their strange garments. The heroines, in turn, were beautiful, sensual, and exquisite, with enviable curves gracefully defined, skin smooth as the finest porcelain, and expressions blending angelic innocence with irresistible allure, long hair cascading in flawless waves.

  The magi, catching their breath with restrained gasps, activated their analysis crystals, faceted and brilliant like diamonds. Floating spheres projected magical holograms over each summoned hero: astonishing statistics hovering in golden letters—superhuman strength, infinite magic, unique abilities such as “Sacred Sword” or “Divine Healing”—high levels from the very beginning, celestial blessings flashing in vivid red.

  Some of the magi, with discreet gestures and impassive faces, began placing special seals on the backs of the heroes’ necks while they were still dazed: invisible runes that glimmered briefly before sinking into the skin, designed so that the enemies of the empire—soldiers, nobles, and even civilians of the Germanic Kingdom—would be perceived as hideous monsters, demons with horns, tails, and red eyes, twisted and malevolent.

  “They are perfect,” several magi murmured in unison, nodding with satisfaction, their voices thick with greed. “Divine statistics, blessings of the gods… In a few minutes, their bodies will fully adapt to this world. The language will flow into their minds as if they had always spoken it. Ambient magic will course through their veins… everything will flow within them.”

  The heroes blinked in confusion, staring around them with wide eyes. “Where are we?” “Is this a dream?” “A failed VR game?” Some struggled to their feet on trembling legs; others clutched their heads, disoriented by the interdimensional journey that still echoed in their ears like a distant hum.

  Upon the elevated throne of marble and gold, flanked by motionless guards bearing halberds, the aged emperor—wearing a laurel crown of gold inlaid with jewels and a hermit’s cloak embroidered with scenes of legendary battles—leaned slowly toward his daughter with regal deliberation.

  “My daughter,” he whispered in a hoarse yet cunning voice, laden with decades of palace intrigue, “go and speak to them.”

  “Of course, Father,” Helena replied, rising with regal grace, her blue velvet gown embroidered with pearls whispering against the steps. “We will tell them that a terrible Demon King is our enemy—an ancient, shadowy being who controls the Germanic Kingdom from behind the scenes. That his hordes of monsters—orcs, goblins, and lesser demons—threaten to destroy our glorious civilization, our cities of light and art. They, as the prophesied legendary heroes, will save us… and we will grant them eternal glory, unimaginable riches, noble titles, and everything their hearts desire.”

  “Perfect,” said the emperor, a cold, calculating smile curling his wrinkled lips, his eyes gleaming with predatory ambition. “Thus they will fight for us with all their hearts, without doubts or questions. The Frankish Empire will dominate the continent… and beyond, to the very edges of the known world.”

  The princess descended the throne steps with elegant, measured strides, approaching the heroes with an expression of feigned hope, false tears glistening in her emerald eyes, as the court applauded discreetly with gloved hands. The deception was underway—perfect and without flaw.

  Meanwhile, one of the summoned— a young man with messy brown hair and an unremarkable expression, lacking the radiant aura of the others—provoked widespread displeasure among the magi and the court. His analysis hologram displayed mediocre statistics, mundane skills such as “Basic Cooking” or “Knowledge of Modern Mathematics,” with no trace of grand powers or divine blessings: an error in the ritual, a defective hero who did not belong among the summoned demigods.