“What was that… that… thing!” Lady Pryce’s voice snapped across the smoke, sharp enough to cut through the ringing in their ears. Her gloved hand still trembled on the hilt of her rapier.
Al didn’t bother to lower his gaze. He patted ash from his palm and answered flatly, “That was a grenade — used as an improvised explosive device.”
Pryce’s eyes went hard. “A what?” she demanded.
“It’s not some newfangled sorcery,” Al said. “Not an invention in the magical sense. It’s just physics and intent.” He offered a rueful half-smile as the memory of the mason-jar trick settled back into him. “Just a portable bit of war. Simple, ugly, and effective.”
Evan stepped forward, curiosity overriding caution. “A grenade?” she repeated slowly. “I have seen fireballs from mages, but that… that seemed so simple.” She squinted at the scorched throat of the pass where the jar had shattered. “It looked like a small thunder, not a spell.”
Al chuckled, the sound rough and tired. “Grenades are very simple: hollow casing, explosive charge inside, and a way to set it off. You can make them from metal, glass — anything that will hold pressure for a heartbeat. When they go, fragments fly and the blast pushes outwards. It’s not pretty.”
Idris wiped soot from her forearm, eyes thoughtful rather than shocked. “So… an artifice that scatters metal and shards.” She said. “I can see the utility. Entering an enemy fortification would be… easier.” Her voice carried a grim acceptance of someone who had known war in many forms.
Catrin, always practical, added, “It makes a breach, breaks morale, and forces defenders to think in seconds rather than hours.” She looked at Al with a new, grudging respect. “You planned that quickly.”
Pryce’s face twisted between moral outrage and cold calculation. “And what of the innocents? The horses? The stores?” Her glance cut to the smoking lip of the pass. “This is reckless.”
Al’s smile faded. “We didn’t drop it on our mounts. We dropped it where they’d funnel. The point was to avoid a long, bloody fight in a place that favored the smaller fighters. It’s ugly, but it’s a choice between a clean, surgical risk and a mess that costs lives.”
Rhyosyn, who’d been watching the darkened throat with a scholar’s detached interest, knelt and ran a gloved finger through a bit of dust. She looked up at the group. “It is fascinating. Your tools are crude, but efficient. A spell that takes hours to weave can be rendered moot by a small piece of metal.” She frowned, considering the implications. “It makes the old equations—magic for power, tools for utility—blur.”
Evan laughed softly despite the soot on her cheek. “The simplicity is almost insulting,” she said, but there was no mockery in it; only the delighted recognition of something useful.
Pryce’s jaw worked. “Useful does not excuse barbarity.” She studied Al with narrowed eyes. “You speak of choices like a man who has killed and had to sleep afterwards. Do you sleep easily, Marine?”
Al shrugged, the corner of his mouth lifting. “Not always. But if sleeping means more of us wake up tomorrow, I sleep just fine.” He glanced down at the faint blue pulse under his shirt where the stone’s mark hid. “War isn’t polite where I come from. We do what works.”
Idris gave a short, wry smile. “We call that pragmatism. Here, we call it dangerous.” She vaulted back into her saddle, loosening her shoulders. “Danger breeds discipline. Discipline wins fights.”
Catrin pushed her horse forward a finger’s length, remounting with fluid motion. “Enough words. We move while the pass is still a mess.”
Pryce hesitated, then drew in a breath and nodded once, rigid. “Very well. But one slip and I will hold you accountable.” Her tone left no room for argument.
Al returned the stare calmly. “Fair enough.”
They fell into formation—Rhyosyn to the rear to watch the hum of the Stone, Catrin and Pryce to the flanks, Evan and Idris close to Al’s side. The horses stamped, the air still smelled of gunpowder and scorched rock; and the valley behind them echoed with the skittering of confused kobolds.
As they urged their mounts down the trail, a thin wind ruffled the maps and the banners, carrying the faint metallic tang of ore and the distant hum of something deep and awake in the earth. The night was coming; decisions had been made. The group moved on, each step carrying the small, terrible wisdom that in war, sometimes the simplest tools are the most dangerous—and the most necessary.
By late afternoon, the air had turned gold and heavy with dust. The mountain road dipped into a shallow basin where scrub pine grew thick along the ridgeline, and beyond that—rising from the shadows like the bones of an old fort—the timber walls of a stockade came into view. The pennants above the gate fluttered lazily in the wind, each marked with the sigil of the Triumvirate.
The sight brought little comfort. The group had ridden in tense silence since the explosion in the pass. Their mounts were weary, their armor dulled with soot, and though none spoke of it, the morning’s battle had changed the rhythm between them. The nobles kept their distance from Al now—not quite fear, but a wary calculation, like they were unsure what to do with him.
Evan broke the quiet first. “Stockade ahead,” she said, nodding toward the dark wood walls. “Looks like a garrison outpost. Probably a Triumvirate supply point.”
Catrin’s gaze lingered on the fluttering banners. “We’ll need rest and provisions,” she murmured.
Rhyosyn’s tone was cautious. “We’ll also need a story.”
Al frowned. “A story?”
The silence that followed told him more than words. He’d noticed the looks—the small, sidelong glances traded between the women every time a settlement or road marker came into view—but no one had said anything outright until now.
Finally, Evan spoke, her usual humor gone. “What of him?” she asked. “You all know we can’t just ride through the gate like this.”
Lady Pryce sighed, tension pulling tight across her shoulders. “We cannot pretend to be his sisters,” she said sharply. “That’s too much of a lie, and too easy to disprove.”
“What’s the problem?” Al asked, sitting straighter in the saddle. “You’ve been acting like I’m radioactive since we left the mountains. Let’s just say it plain.”
The nobles exchanged uneasy looks before Catrin finally exhaled. “It’s not you, Aleric. It’s… what you are.”
“That sounds worse,” he said dryly.
Rhyosyn picked up where Catrin faltered. “Men are… rare in this world,” she said, her voice carefully measured. “Extremely rare. The birth of a boy happens only once in fifteen to twenty children, sometimes less.”
Al blinked. “So… like a one-in-twenty chance?”
“Yes,” Catrin said quietly. “One in twenty, and that number has fallen for generations. You’ve seen our cities—our armies. Entire legions of women. It’s not ideology, it’s necessity.”
Rhyosyn’s tone softened, though her eyes stayed sharp. “Men are considered precious, not free. They’re property—protected, guarded, and traded. Their bloodlines are recorded, their health monitored, their movements restricted. A healthy, fertile man of noble birth can sell for tens of thousands of kronar. Even a common man—strong, able-bodied—fetches hundreds.”
Al’s grip tightened on the reins. “Wait. You’re telling me men are bought and sold? Like horses?”
Rhyosyn hesitated, but nodded.
He stared at them in disbelief. “What the actual hell?”
The women avoided his gaze. Even Pryce, who usually met every argument with venom, looked away.
“It’s survival,” Catrin said softly. “The balance between life and extinction. The Triumvirate calls it stewardship, but it is… control. No man lives without belonging to a House.”
“Yeah,” Al muttered, bitter laughter under his breath. “And here I thought being drafted back home was bad.”
Evan looked over, her expression a strange mix of pity and amusement. “If the guards in that fort realize what you are, they won’t draft you, Marine. They’ll lock you up and breed you.”
Al’s jaw tightened. “Not if I have anything to say about it.”
Pryce’s voice was cold and clipped. “Then you will say nothing at all. You’ll keep your head down, your cloak tight, and you will let us speak for you. One unguarded word, and we’ll have a hundred questions we cannot answer.”
He looked at each of them in turn, seeing the worry behind their eyes. For once, it wasn’t arrogance or disdain—it was fear.
“Fine,” he said finally. “You want me quiet, I’ll be quiet. But if someone tries to lay a claim on me, I’ll make sure they regret it.”
Evan grinned faintly, the spark of mischief returning. “Try not to start another war, Marine.”
Al adjusted his cloak, hiding the faint pulse of blue from the Stone of Seven Sons beneath his shirt. The gates of the stockade loomed larger now, voices calling faintly from the watchtowers above.
He sighed. “Yeah,” he muttered, half to himself. “No promises.”
The gate creaked shut behind them with a heavy thud, the sound of iron bolts sliding home echoing like a verdict. Fort Dawnhold wasn’t large—two squat towers and a few rows of barracks—but the air inside the walls felt dense with watchful eyes. Soldiers moved about in pairs, most of them women, all armed.
Al felt those eyes on him as they led the horses to the stables. No words, just lingering glances that stayed a beat too long. He kept his hood low, but he knew he stood out—too tall, too broad-shouldered, his gait not the cautious shuffle of the few collared men he’d seen here.
The Quartermaster met them by the stable doors, lean and hard-faced, ink stains darkening her fingers. Her inspection was quick, but when she got to him her gaze sharpened. “Your escort?” she asked.
“Under House Vaughn’s seal,” Rhyosyn said smoothly.
“Unusual,” the woman replied. “Foreign men are typically… rendered safe before they’re given arms.”
“Rendered safe?” Al asked before he could stop himself.
The Quartermaster looked at him like he’d asked what air was. “Sterilized. Gelded. The Triumvirate learned long ago that unclaimed men are weapons waiting to be stolen.”
Catrin’s hand twitched on her reins. Pryce went pale, eyes darting between the Quartermaster and Al. Rhyosyn’s voice, when it came, was tight. “He is under my personal authority. Record him as such.”
The Quartermaster shrugged, made a note, and left. But the silence she left behind was heavy enough to crush bone.
Al exhaled slowly. “So that’s how it is,” he said, voice flat. “You keep men alive just long enough to control them.”
Catrin’s jaw flexed, the mask cracking for the first time since he’d met her. “You don’t understand what you are here,” she said quietly. “A man like you—whole, unclaimed, unregistered—can shift the balance between houses. The birth of one male child can decide a generation of succession. The Triumvirate keeps careful count. You’re not a person to them. You’re potential.”
Rhyosyn added, almost to herself, “A strategic resource.”
Pryce’s gaze turned calculating. “If word spreads, you won’t last a day without a collar. Every House with an empty lineage will want you—buy you, steal you, breed you.”
Evan gave a bitter laugh. “And if they can’t have you, they’ll make sure no one else can.”
Al stared at them, feeling the world tilt beneath him. Back home, he’d been a Marine, one man in a sea of uniforms. Here, he was an asset with a price tag.
“Hell,” he muttered, “I’ve been property before—government issue, serial number and all—but this?” He shook his head. “This is new.”
Catrin leaned in, voice low and fierce. “Then listen to me. If we ride into that courtyard with you unregistered, someone will report it by nightfall. You need a claim of protection, or the Fort Commander will have you seized for verification. You must be spoken for.”
Al’s brows furrowed. “Spoken for?”
Rhyosyn’s lips pressed thin. “You become ours,” she said. “For your safety—and ours. A declared bond under House Vaughn’s name. Temporary. Legal.”
Pryce’s tone dripped with disdain. “Or we let the Triumvirate take him and dissect him like a breeding stallion.”
He looked at each of them in turn—their fear, their calculation, their politics—and felt the weight of their world settle over him like a chain.
“Fine,” he said finally, the word like gravel in his throat. “If that’s what it takes to stay alive, then say whatever you have to. But let’s get one thing straight.”
He met Catrin’s gaze, unflinching. “No one owns me.”
The women exchanged glances—uneasy, uncertain. Even Rhyosyn, who’d spoken most gently to him, couldn’t quite meet his eyes.
From the parapet above, a bell clanged twice—the evening call. Shadows lengthened across the yard, swallowing the lines between faces and banners alike.
Catrin turned away first. “Then we ride at dawn,” she said.