Chapter Text
The crisp autumn air swept through the palace halls, weaving among the marble pillars. The grand hall in the palace’s center held onto the chill no matter how many braziers burned along its walls. Thick incense smoke clung to the fabric of tapestries lining the walls, carrying the scent of Boswellia bark. At the center of the inner chamber, King Philip of Macedon sat in quiet command, his voice steady as he spoke of border control, monetary gain, and long-term alliances.
Opposite him sat the five Thracian chieftains, who commanded the districts of Thrace, cloaked in heavy furs wrapped thickly around their bodies. Some were older and had seen the wares of war, some were younger and eager to taste steel. The older chiefs spoke carefully with measured patience, especially when old grievances arose, such as the provinces Philip had taken and never returned.
Alexander sat next to his father, focused and composed. Gabrielle arrived late to the table, dressed in a fine peplos gifted by Alexander’s mother a few days ago. It was the latest fashion, and she wouldn’t allow herself to be present in the enemy’s company, caught in last month’s fashion.
The young prince took notice of her attire, admiring her neatly curled hair piled atop her head. He took her hand and pressed a kiss on her knuckles. “You look exquisite,” he whispered.
Gabrielle replied with a reserved smile and kept her hands folded in her lap. She listened to the king’s exchange with the chieftains. She watched, just as she always had at these meetings. She observed. She listened and internalized.
Then her attention caught on something—someone—different. Someone who did not belong.
A woman sat among the Thracian chieftains, taller than most of them, with broad shoulders, unmistakably a warrior. She wore leather armor, darkened by travel and wear. A fox pelt was draped over her shoulders, the russet fur catching the firelight, the narrow head resting against her collarbone like a living thing that stilled. Beneath it, heavier pelts lined her cloak, practical rather than ornamental, chosen for warmth and protection.
Her hair fell loose down her back, dark and thick, reaching her waist. It was not braided for war or ceremony but pulled back at the crown to keep it out of her eyes.
She did not speak. She watched.
Gabrielle felt the shift in her immediately. This woman was no mere envoy or escort. Her eyes moved constantly, taking in Philip’s tone, the chieftains’ reactions, the subtle change in postures around the table. She carried no visible insignia of rank, yet none of the chieftains crowded her space.
“A warrior woman,” Gabrielle muttered under her breath.
Alexander leaned back, as if to stretch his shoulders, and replied, “Xena.”
Gabrielle’s gaze lingered on the fox pelt and the sword on Xena’s back. “She’s new, isn’t she?”
“She hasn’t always been with them,” Alexander said. “She’s originally from Amphipolis.”
Gabrielle stiffened. Amphipolis had not merely fallen to Macedon. It had been taken and conquered outright by Philip more than ten years ago, its walls broken, its autonomy stripped away. The city was a reminder of Macedonian strength and Thracian resentment, a wound that had never been truly healed.
“And yet she stands here after her city was conquered,” she said.
Alexander nodded. “She left after the siege. Went east. Some say she chose exile rather than kneel.”
Gabrielle studied her again, seeing exile in the way she stood slightly apart from the others.
“And now she’s returned,” she said. “Not to Amphipolis, but to Thrace.”
“For now,” he said with a crafty smile. “They say she’s undefeated.”
As if listening to the side conversation, one of the chieftains pressed a demand too boldly. Philip countered with calm authority, his words closing the door with velvet certainty.
Xena’s jaw went rigid. Her hand brushed the edge of the fox pelt, steadying it as her gaze lifted. Her attention swept over the chamber, over to Philip, then to Alexander, and finally, to Gabrielle. The look was sharp, assessing, and adorned by interest. There was no challenge present. No warmth. No hostility.
Then the moment passed. Her focus turned back to the chieftains.
Gabrielle exhaled, controlled and slow.
“She noticed you,” Alexander said quietly, a playful smile touching his lips.
The meeting ended with formal gestures and restrained bows. The Thracian chieftains seemed to relax, their furs settling against their bodies.
“Good,” Gabrielle replied, her attention still fixed on the spot where Xena sat.
“Good?” Alexander raised an eyebrow.
“It means she understands the value of observation.”
As part of the custom, Philip ordered the chamber to be opened further and the long tables to be cleared for a meal. Servants moved quickly, replacing parchments of maps with platters of roasted meat, bread still steaming from the ovens, bowls of pickled figs and cheeses, and large vessels of wine. The air warmed with the scent of food and the murmur of guarded conversation.
The Thracian chieftains took their places with practiced ease, spreading along the table as though marking territory. Philip welcomed them with open gestures, easy laughs, and jokes, the image of a generous host rather than a ruthless conqueror. Politics, Gabrielle knew, was often decided over breaking bread than blades.
Alexander remained at his father’s side, attentive, and calculating his father’s moves. Gabrielle sat beside him, her position unchanged, her eyes free to roam.
She found Xena almost immediately, her wandering eyes catching sight of her.
The woman had not claimed a seat. Instead, she chose to stand near one of the supporting marble pillars. She had removed neither her cloak nor her sword, an intentional choice, Gabrielle gathered. It marked her as a guest who trusted no roof fully.
A servant approached her with a plate of bread and sliced meat. Xena nodded in acceptance but did not join the flow of side conversations. She ate sparingly, efficiently, as someone long accustomed to meals taken when they could be had rather than when they were offered.
Gabrielle observed how the Thracian chieftains interacted with Xena. None ordered her or dismissed her. When a younger chief spoke too freely, his glance flicked toward Xena before finishing his thought, as if weighing how it sounded to her ears. She was no ordinary warrior who sat on the sidelines.
Philip raised his cup and spoke of cooperation, of shared enemies and borders, of stability brought through mutual respect. Laughter followed, rough and boisterous, and wine was poured, meat was carved with heavy knives.
Through all of it, Xena merely listened. The fox pelt slipped from her shoulder, and she caught it without looking, fingers tightening in the fur before letting it settle once more. The gesture was small, but measured, and Gabrielle catalogued it.
“She hasn’t relaxed,” Gabrielle murmured.
Alexander did not turn his head, sipping wine. “She won’t.”
“Even here?” she asked. “Under the guest-right?”
His mouth arched slightly. “Especially here.”
Across the table, one of the chieftains leaned too far into his wine, his voice rising as he recounted an old skirmish with Macedonian officers. King Philip listened indulgently, correcting nothing, allowing the story to burn itself out.
Xena’s eyes never left the chieftain.
Gabrielle felt the familiar spark of recognition. This was how she herself listened when maps were laid out and generals spoke too confidently, too arrogantly. That was not the gaze of a warrior reliving past battles. It was the gaze of someone preparing for future ones.
At some point, Xena’s attention shifted, her eyes passing over the table, landing on Gabrielle. This time, the look lingered.
Gabrielle did not turn away from it. She held the gaze calmly, offering no challenge. Two observers recognizing one another across a room full of men who believed themselves to be the center of the world.
Xena’s brow furrowed slightly, as if noting something unexpected. Then, just as smoothly, her attention returned to the chaos unfolding at the table.
“She’s studying you now,” Alexander said under his breath, tickled.
Gabrielle’s lip curved upward. “Then we’re even.”
The meal wore on, voices grew louder, gestures broader. Philip played the gracious king, but his one good eye never left the Thracians, nor did Alexander’s, nor did Gabrielle’s leave Xena. A woman who had fought for a city now conquered. A woman who had chosen exile over surrender or submission. A woman who had returned from the east undefeated and stood in the palace of a man who had taken everything from her.
It wasn’t a coincidence.
As servants began to clear the table, and the chieftains rose to depart, Gabrielle knew one thing for sure: Xena from Amphipolis wasn’t simply passing through Macedon.
She was a dangerous factor.
And she intended to understand her, study her, before Alexander’s father ever had the chance to face her across the battlefield again.