Harem King from A Slave in Another World

"Woman!" A rough voice barked at Demia. It came from a Orlais-Fanoss Union soldier.

Dressed in a gleaming bronze cuirass that encased his chest and upper body, the soldier stood tall and proud. The cuirass, intricately designed with ornate patterns and decorative engravings, not only provided formidable protection but also exuded an air of nobility. A crimson-red cape, fastened at his right shoulder, billowed gently in the wind, adding a touch of regality to his appearance.

His broad shoulders and well-defined muscles spoke of countless hours spent honing his physique through rigorous training. A Corinthian helmet adorned his head, featuring an elongated nose guard and intricate cheek plates that shielded his face while leaving only his eyes visible. The polished bronze surface of the helmet reflected the sunlight, creating a mesmerizing gleam.

From his waist, a leather belt cinched tightly, holding his weapons in place. Hanging on his right side, a short xiphos sword with a gleaming blade and a decorated hilt awaited its moment of action. On his left, a circular hoplon shield, adorned with an unknown emblem, was secured by a leather strap, ready to provide him with crucial defense on the battlefield.

His legs were protected by bronze greaves, intricately crafted to safeguard his shins. Leather sandals, laced up his calves, provided flexibility and agility, allowing him to maneuver swiftly across the terrain.

Despite the weight of his armor, the soldier moved with grace and confidence. His eyes, shining with determination, revealed the depth of his commitment to his city-state and the values he held dear. Every step he took emanated an aura of discipline and courage, embodying the essence of a former Olga warrior.

"Face me, Philotas!"

Called by him, Demia frowned on her horse. The female heavy cavalry calmed herself. Astride a powerful warhorse, the proud lady exuded an aura of indomitable strength and grace. Clad in gleaming armor that glinted under the sun's golden rays, she cut an imposing figure on the battlefield. The intricately crafted plate armor covered her body, forming a protective shell against any adversary that dared to challenge her.

Her helmet, adorned with ornate engravings, crowned her head like a regal queen. It featured a fierce visage, a stoic expression carved into the metal, conveying determination and fearlessness. A plume of vibrant feathers cascaded from the top, fluttering in the wind as she galloped across the field, adding a touch of elegance to her formidable presence.

Strong, muscular limbs were sheathed in chainmail and leather, allowing her to move with agility despite the weight of her armor. Bands of steel encased her arms, extending from her elbows to her gloved hands. In her grip, she wielded a sturdy shield, its surface polished to a mirror-like shine. Emblazoned upon it was her family crest, a symbol of honor and heritage of the House of Harviala.

Her shield was not just a piece of defense but also a reflection of her character. It bore the marks of countless battles—a testament to her resilience and tenacity. Its edges were worn, evidence of deflecting blows and protecting her comrades in the throes of combat. Adorned with intricate engravings and embellishments, it spoke of her noble lineage and the weight of responsibility she carried.

At her side hung a light single handed sword, its blade gleaming like quicksilver. The hilt was wrapped in supple leather, allowing for a firm and steady grip. It was a weapon of elegance and precision, ready to be unleashed with lethal accuracy when the need arose.

Mounted atop her steed, the cavalrywoman was a vision of power and skill, her presence commanding attention on the battlefield. Her fiery gaze, visible from the exposed face under the helmet, betrayed a quiet determination and unwavering resolve.

She unmounted and faced the large man.

"You..are just a little girl?"

Philotas said as he now could see clearly the face exposed from the helmet. Demia Harviala was just eighteen years old after all.

Demia stood tall, her expression unwavering despite the condescending remark. Her eyes, filled with a mix of determination and maturity beyond her years, locked with Philotas's gaze.

"Age does not determine one's worth on the battlefield," she replied firmly, her voice carrying the weight of experience. "I may be young, but I have trained and fought alongside seasoned warriors. Do not underestimate me based on appearances alone."

Philotas chuckled, a deep, throaty sound that reverberated in the air. "Words mean little, girl. It is through the crucible of combat that true mettle is tested."

A confident smile tugged at the corners of Demia's lips. "Then let our swords do the talking, Philotas. We shall see who emerges victorious."

Without another word, the Orlais-Fanoss Union soldier unsheathed his xiphos sword and assumed a defensive stance. Demia mirrored his actions, her own blade gleaming in the sunlight. The tension in the air was palpable as the two combatants prepared to engage in a duel that would determine their fate on the battlefield.

As they circled each other, their movements calculated and precise, Demia's youthful vigor combined with her training and natural talent. She lunged forward with agility, striking with measured accuracy, her blade meeting Philotas's shield with a resounding clang.

Philotas grunted, surprised by the strength behind Demia's strike. He countered with a swift counterattack, his xiphos sword slashing through the air. Demia parried with practiced skill, deflecting the blow with her shield before retaliating with a swift riposte.

The duel continued, each exchange a testament to their skill and determination. Demia moved fluidly, her years of training evident in her every motion. She utilized her smaller stature to her advantage, evading Philotas's strikes with nimble footwork and countering with well-placed thrusts and slashes.

Philotas, though initially dismissive of Demia's abilities, soon realized that he faced a formidable opponent. Sweat glistened on his brow as he exerted himself, his attacks becoming more desperate and aggressive. But Demia remained steadfast, her focus unwavering as she skillfully parried and dodged, waiting for the perfect opening to strike.

"That woman...she is able to fight Lord Philotas on equal footing."

"That woman...Lord Philotas was a seasoned warrior. He won thousands of duels!"

The imported soldiers of Orlais-Fanoss Union commented. They were among many hundreds of  men who migrated with Philotas from the far north after the dissolution of the Olga Federation.

Whispers of admiration and surprise rippled through the ranks of the Orlais-Fanoss Union soldiers witnessing the duel. They had heard tales of Philotas's prowess in combat and his numerous victories, and yet here was a young woman holding her own against him. 

As the duel pressed on, Demia's movements grew more calculated and precise. She analyzed Philotas's every move, identifying patterns and weaknesses in his technique. With each clash of their blades, she adapted her strategy, exploiting opportunities to exploit his vulnerabilities.

Philotas, though experienced, found himself pushed to his limits by Demia's relentless assault. His pride, once unyielding, now struggled against the realization that victory might not be as easily attained as he had anticipated.

The duel reached a climactic moment as Demia executed a masterful feint, baiting Philotas into an overextended strike. With lightning speed, she capitalized on his exposed flank, delivering a swift and decisive blow that sent him sprawling to the ground. The clash of metal and the resounding thud of Philotas's armor hitting the dirt reverberated through the air.

Her sword deeply cut his neck.

As Philotas lay lifelessly on the ground, Demia stood over his corpse, her sword pulled from his neck. A mixture of confusion and disbelief washed over the onlookers, both friend and foe alike. The once proud and condescending soldier now died.

The battlefield fell silent for a moment, as the reality of Philotas's defeat sank in. The Orlais-Fanoss Union soldiers looked on in awe and shock, their previous confidence shattered by the prowess of the young warrior before them. Whispers of grief and terror swept through their ranks, mingling with the hushed murmurs of disbelief.

Demia took a deep breath, her heart still pounding from the intensity of the duel. She wiped the sweat from her brow, her gaze sweeping across the battlefield. Her victory over Philotas was not just a personal triumph but also a testament to the strength and capabilities of women on the battlefield.

Her fellow soldiers, especially those from Marquis Cyril vassals who had doubted her, approached cautiously, their eyes filled with newfound respect. The weight of their gazes bore witness to the shifting dynamics within the Orlais-Fanoss Union army. Demia had earned her place among them, not just as a capable warrior but as a symbol of inspiration and possibility.