"It's time to ride."Lady Pryce said looking over the man. "Its a shame we are on short rations." Al looked up from where he was tightening the last strap on his borrowed pack. The woman’s tone was smooth—too smooth—the kind of casual insult meant to test boundaries, not start a fight.
He straightened, meeting her gaze evenly. “I think i can feed mayself,” he said, voice dry.
Lady Pryce’s lips curved faintly, not quite a smile. “Oh, I wasn’t suggesting that you starve, soldier. Only that a creature your size might… complicate things. Horses tire. Rations dwindle. And men have … appetites.”
Evan, adjusting her saddle nearby, snorted softly.
“I’m sure I’ll manage, my Lady. Marines need little—just coffee, poor decisions, and a reason to fight.” Al smirked. “That about covers it.”
Catrin swung up onto her horse, the movement crisp and efficient. “Enough chatter. We’ve lingered too long already.”
Rhyosyn, standing by the map case, glanced at Pryce with quiet reproach. “We’ll find a supply post before dusk. There is an old garrison road through the foothills. There should still be a station there.”
“Assuming it hasn’t fallen to ruin like everything else in this cursed valley,” Pryce muttered.
Al pulled himself into the saddle, feeling the horse shift beneath him. He’d ridden before—but rarely. Idris noticed, guiding her mount closer.
“Lean forward a bit on the incline,” she advised quietly. “And if she stumbles, don’t fight her mouth—just keep your heels light.”
He nodded gratefully. “Thanks. Guess it’s been a while since I did anything without an engine.”
That drew some curious glances. Pryce frowned but didn’t ask.
The morning mist had begun to burn off, revealing the trail winding up the pass—narrow, cut into the side of the ridge, with the valley yawning below. The horses’ hooves clattered against the stone, the echoes rolling down into the green depths.
Pryce let her mount fall back until she was beside Catrin, lowering her voice just enough that the words wouldn’t carry to the man. “He doesn’t belong here. You know that as well as I.”
Catrin didn’t look over. “And yet the stone bound itself to him. You saw it. We all did.”
“Which means he’s either chosen or cursed,” Pryce hissed. “Either way, he’s not ours to keep.”
“Perhaps not,” Catrin said quietly, eyes on the trail ahead. “But until we know which—he’s our responsibility.” She said speculatively.
Behind them, Al adjusted his grip on the reins, catching snatches of the conversation but not enough to make sense of it.
He chuckled under his breath. “Short rations, hostile stares, and a mountain road,” he murmured. “Feels like home already.”
Evan grinned, falling in beside him. “You get used to it, Just remember—around here, the nobles bite harder than the monsters.”
“Yeah,” he said, glancing toward Pryce’s rigid back. “Starting to pick up on that.”
The wind shifted, carrying the faint tang of iron and the sound of something distant—metal on stone.
Rhyosyn’s head snapped up. “Do you hear that?”
Catrin’s hand went to her sword. “Ahead?”
“No,” Rhyosyn said, her tone grim. “Below.”
The trail curved sharply, the valley floor falling away into shadow — and far beneath, something moved where sunlight should not reach.
Al froze in the saddle. His eyes narrowed, scanning the slope. Instinct took over before thought. He reached into empty air — and something shimmered there, coalescing into a compact, olive-drab object no larger than his fist. It was a small metal cylinder with glass at either end, the kind of thing no one in that world had ever seen.
He flipped it open, one half rotating into a slender tube.
Idris’s eyes widened. “What in the name of the Triumvirate—?”
Al didn’t answer. He brought the monocular up to his eye, elbows steady, peering down toward the valley floor.
The air was heavy with silence, the horses stamping uneasily behind him.
“What is it?” he hissed, not looking away.
“I do not know,” Idris replied, keeping her mount steady. Her gaze flicked toward the object in his hand. “I saw… something appear. What is that device?”
“Monocular,” Al murmured, adjusting the focus. “It lets me see farther.”
He fell silent again, scanning the distance. The glass glinted faintly, reflecting the low sun.
Below, the fog shifted. Through the lens, he caught glimpses — shapes darting between rocks, quick and low to the ground. At first he thought they were animals. Then he saw the glimmer of crude blades, the hunched forms of scaled bodies.
“Kobolds,” he said softly. “At least a dozen. Maybe more.”
Idris stiffened. “Scouts?”
“Looks like it,” he said, lowering the monocular slightly. “They’re fanning out. Trying to surround the base of the ridge.”
The device didn’t vanish when his hand dropped. It stayed, dangling from a cord that hadn’t existed moments before, resting against his chest. Al blinked, realizing only then that the System hadn’t reclaimed it.
He turned it over in his hand, the faint etching of his own unit’s markings still visible along the casing — USMC, M22 Monocular, Gov’t Issue.
“Damn,” he muttered. “I didn't think you'd stick around.”
Idris leaned closer, voice low. “You mean you… created that?”
“Summoned it,” Al said. “Didn’t think it would stay.”
Her eyes followed the smooth lines of the device. “That doesn’t look like any relic I’ve ever seen.”
“It’s not,” he said, sliding it back into a pouch that hadn’t been there yesterday either. “It’s a tool. We used them to scout from a distance. Saves a man from walking into an ambush.”
He glanced down the trail again. “And I’m betting we’re about to have one.”
By now, the others had turned their mounts, drawn by the tension in his voice. Catrin rode forward first, her hand resting lightly on her sword hilt.
“What have you seen?” she demanded.
“Kobolds,” Al said. “At least fifteen, maybe twenty. Down there in the rocks.”
Pryce frowned. “And how could you possibly see that far?”
Al tapped the pouch at his chest. “Because I brought the right gear for it.”
Her expression soured. “Gear. Of course. Another word from your world that means nothing.”
Rhyosyn edged closer, her eyes narrowing as she examined the faint shimmer of mana still clinging to the object. “No, Lady Pryce. It means advantage.”
Catrin studied him for a long moment. “You’re sure?”
“Sure enough to bet my life on it,” Al said. “Question is, do we keep moving, or set a trap of our own?”
Rhyosyn’s lips curved faintly. “Perhaps your American Magic has more uses than fire and noise after all.”
“Yeah,” Al said, rechecking the strap on his saddle. “You’d be surprised what a little observation can do.”
Behind them, the wind shifted — carrying with it the faint clatter of stone on stone.
Catrin drew her sword in one smooth motion. “Then we’ll ride. Eyes open.”
Al slipped the monocular back into its case, the device gleaming faintly in the sun before vanishing into shadow.
Whatever magic the System had granted him, it was adapting — just like he was.
Al knew what he was about to do was dangerous. Dangerous in the petty, precise way of plans that relied on timing and luck: the kobolds were terrifying in close quarters, and the horses—giant, panicked targets—would be slaughtered if the ambush hit them in the pass. The trail they rode hugged the ridge and then doubled back, bringing their column to a place directly above the likely kill-zone. He’d ridden that kind of line before; he’d also seen improvisations in helicopters and convoy tricks that made men laugh until the smoke cleared.
He inhaled and let the memory of a pilot’s offhand story anchor him: a mason jar, a fragmentation round, and a drop through a narrow throat to make the rocks do the shooting for you. It was a nasty trick, stupid and effective, not something you bragged about. It was exactly the sort of ugly solution the Maw required.
He closed his eyes for a second and dredged the image into the System. The HUD answered in a thin, clinical tone.
[System Query: Intent acknowledged.]Requested construct:Improvised shock device (protected classification).Mana estimate: HIGH — proceed with caution.
Al swallowed the warning and reached outward. The air in front of him pulsed like a skipped heartbeat. A glass jar—heavy-walled, mouth wide—coalesced into his palm, cool and weighty. He set it on the pommel of his saddle and then, bracing with his legs, let his will shape the second, smaller object: an egg-shaped munition, dull-gray and humming faintly with the System’s own blue light.
When it formed, a thin line on his mana bar blinked and then sagged. He felt it in his limbs—a draining ache like a marathon that hadn’t ended. The last bit of recent energy pooled at the base of his skull and then slipped away.
Idris, who’d been watching from his flank, made a small noise of surprise. “By the Triad—what is that?” she said.
Lady Rhyosyn’s hand went to the haft of her staff. Her face tightened; curiosity sharpened into irritation. “What is this new thing you summon?” she demanded. Up close, she could see the soft pulse of the Stone of Seven Sons reflected in the gray casing of the device.
Al gave her a smirk that didn’t cross into arrogance. “A surprise,” he said flatly. He tested the munition in his palm; it thrummed in answer, a tremor under his skin. “If I arm this…” He lifted the egg-shaped object so everyone could see its small, harmless-looking silhouette. He kept the language clinical, because that kept him honest. “…it will detonate where it lies, releasing a violent shock in a radius. The idea is to let the drop do the shooting. Put it in a container, drop it through the throat of the pass, and let gravity and momentum do the rest. The glass will shatter, and then—” He did not show them the flash he’d imagined. “—it will hurt whatever’s below before they can react.”
Pryce’s nostrils flared. “You would risk horses and men with that?” Her voice was flashlight-bright with outrage.
“No,” Al said, leaning forward in the saddle so his voice stayed low and controlled. “We don’t drop it on our horses. We drop it into the narrow throat where the kobolds will funnel. It’s meant to buy us the few seconds to ride through before the shock hits them. A tactical nuisance to them, hopefully fatal to enough that they break off.”
Rhyosyn’s irritation eased into apprehensive curiosity as she studied the jar and the device. “And your mana—” she began, eyeing the faint afterglow around his wrists.
“Nearly bled dry,” Al admitted. “It drained deeper than I expected. If I push again right now, I’ll be useless for a while.” He looked at the monarch of the group—at the women who had every reason to distrust him—and felt the shape of the choice in his chest. “But think about it: kobolds in the pass, horses in the throat. If we don’t do anything, we lose mounts, stores, three or four people could die. This—this could stop the ambush long enough for us to get through.”
Evan’s mouth tightened. “And if it fails?”
“Then it fails loud,” Al said, blunt. “And we improvised badly.” He let out a humorless half-laugh. “That’s the part of the test I don’t want to pass.”
Catrin’s jaw worked as she measured him. “You do this, and you risk more than your mana. You risk the lives of those who carry us.”
Al met her gaze squarely. “I know. That’s why I’ll be the one to set it. If you want to argue morals, do it now. If you want to live, trust the plan.” He caught Pryce’s eye with a defiant tilt. “Or we can ride blind and let them shoot horses out from under us.”
The noblewoman’s expression flickered between contempt and calculation. For a beat she looked as if she might order him stopped, but the tremor in the valley below rolled again—closer, like answering thunder. The wind carried a ripple of small, hungry sounds.
Rhyosyn drew herself up, the staff’s tip catching the light. “Do it,” she said at last, voice tight. “But you swear to me—no unnecessary risk. You fail, and I will end this before it spreads.”
Al slid the jar into the stitched loop on the saddle and eased the munition into it with hands that did not tremble. The glass took the munition’s shape, cradling it like a fragile egg. He could feel the System’s disapproval—an inhuman ledger noting an act outside of ritualized magic—but the Stone’s warmth thrummed against his ribs like someone keeping time.
“Idris, Evan,” Catrin barked, giving orders as the trail narrowed and they reformed their line. “You keep their flanks. Pryce and I will hold the center. Rhyosyn—if he signals, create cover.”
They fell into position like bone and tendon reassembling. The horses snuffed and shifted, feeling the tension. Al looped a line of cord through the jar’s mouth and tied the other end to a short, weighted leather bag—primitive, but heavy enough to tumble over rock. He nodded once to Catrin and nudged his mount forward to the point where the trail bent and the ambush would pin them.
Everything in Al’s training tightened into focus: timing, distance, and the miserable arithmetic of sacrifice. He pictured the drop, the jar shattering on the packed scree, the blast erupting in the narrow throat. He imagined the kobolds’ surprised upturned faces, the scattering of momentum, the few fatal hits that would make the pack break.
He swallowed, felt the last of the mana ache in his chest. Then, with a small, private apology to the gods he didn’t properly pray to, he dropped the weighted cord through a fissure in the trail in the single, brutal second before they rode the bend.
The rock yawned beneath it. The jar disappeared into shadow and then clattered against stone below—the sound muted by the distance, but present. Al jammed his heels and put his shoulder into the mount. The horses surged forward as the kobolds below screamed and the pass erupted.
There was a sick, bright bloom of light and sound far below—a cavernous thunder that took the wind out of his lungs. The blast’s afterwash slapped at their faces and threw small stones like hail. Several kobolds were flung against the walls, others seized by sudden firepower, heads thrown back in a chorus of shrieks.
Rhyosyn’s cover flare rose like a second sun, and Catrin drove her horse hard through the echoing smoke. Evan and Idris kept the flanks clean, cutting down any survivors who scrambled toward the rim.
When the roar faded into a ringing silence, horses snorted and whinnied, some staggering but upright. Smoke curled from the throat beneath them, and the bite of gunpowder mixed with the copper tang of spilled ore.
Al sagged in the saddle, the exhaustion of mana and adrenaline finally crushing down on him. He looked at the nobles—faces streaked with ash and resolve—and felt the thing that had happened both a success and a debt.
Pryce’s lips were pressed so tight they were white. “You damned fool,” she breathed. Then, quieter: “It worked.”
Catrin let out a long breath she didn’t realize she’d been holding. “Good work,” she said curtly, and it sounded almost like praise.
Rhyosyn’s eyes flicked to the faint blue mark under Al’s shirt and then to the smoking throat. “We buy time,” she said. “But something else woke when that stone came loose. We should not assume this is over.”
Al nodded once. “I already know that.”
Idris swung down from her horse and peered into the smoke-choked throat, the grit on her lips making her look fiercer. “There’s movement down there,” she reported. “But it’s broken. They’re scattering.”
Al let his shoulders drop. He had spent more than he’d planned—his mana was shallow, his hands felt hollow—but the gambit had worked. They had horses, stores, and a route that still carried them forward.
He looked at the jar—now shattered in a shallow scrape at the throat’s lip, its fragments blackened and pitted—and thought about all the ugly compromises that kept men alive. The Stone hummed faintly against his ribs, seven slow beats like a promise and a warning.
“Ride,” Catrin said. “We move while they’re distracted.”
They rode on, the smear of smoke behind them, and the world narrowed to the simple, eternal calculus of survival: distance, speed, and the small, dangerous miracles that let them keep going.