They were given a single stone chamber in the south tower, lit by a lantern that hissed and smoked. Outside, Fort Dawnhold settled into the rhythmic clatter of the night watch—boot steps on timber, the creak of the gate chains, the low bark of commands. Inside, the nobles’ voices fell to careful, guarded whispers.
They thought him asleep.
Al sat cross-legged in the shadow of a support beam, back to the wall, pretending to adjust his gear. In truth, his attention was split between the flickering light and the murmur of the three noblewomen at the table.
“…must be a false blessing,” Pryce whispered. “No male wields that kind of magic. Not without a price.”
Catrin’s reply was measured, the strategist even in secrecy. “False or not, it’s power. The kind the Triumvirate would kill to harness. We need to keep him quiet and hidden until we decide where he belongs.”
“Belongs?” Rhyosyn’s voice carried a soft heat, the kind that smoldered instead of flared. “You speak of him like a weapon, not a person.”
Pryce’s tone sharpened. “He is both. Look at what he conjured—those weapons, that fire from the air. He’s worth more than any ten of our battle-mages.”
Catrin sighed. “Worth more or worth dying for. You know what happens to unclaimed males who draw that kind of attention.”
Al leaned his head back against the stone, closed his eyes, and exhaled slowly. So this is what I am now. A topic. A resource.
He flexed his hand, calling up his System overlay. A faint shimmer rippled through the air—only he could see it. Lines of text scrolled past:
[Summoning Protocol: Stable] [Mana Reserve: 34%] [Inventory Access: Open]
He reached in, pulling out a small brown plastic packet stamped U.S. Department of Defense – Meal, Ready to Eat.
The sound of the crinkling wrapper filled the silence between whispers. He tore it open and dug out a spoon. Chili Mac. Not exactly home cooking, but the smell—plastic, spice, and memory—hit him like a punch.
From across the room, Rhyosyn’s voice drifted faintly. “If the Triumvirate learns he’s intact, they’ll never let him go. They’ll take him for one of the cribs.”
Al paused mid-bite. Cribs?
He shifted, the MRE pouch warm in his hand, listening more intently.
Catrin’s whisper came next. “We can’t let that happen. He’d vanish into a registry before sunrise. He’ll be guarded, measured, drained. You’ve seen it done.”
“I have,” Rhyosyn admitted, her voice heavy. “And I don’t want it done again.”
Al set the meal aside, his stomach suddenly in knots. The lantern guttered, casting the room in pulses of shadow and light.
When he looked up, Evan and Idris were just inside the door, settling in for first watch. They’d seen him eating, but neither seemed alarmed—just curious.
Evan gave a low whistle. “You always pull food out of thin air, Marine?”
He gave a faint smile. “American magic.”
“Looks terrible,” Idris said, crouching near the fire. “Smells worse.”
“It’s not the worst I’ve eaten,” Al said, forcing humor into his tone.
The guards exchanged a look—half amusement, half unease. Evan leaned her shoulder against the wall and spoke more softly. “You have to understand, some of the women out there…” She nodded toward the window slit, where torchlight moved across the courtyard, “have never seen a man. Not even the one who fathered them.”
Al blinked. “How’s that possible?”
Evan hesitated, then continued. “The Crown—what’s left of it—and the Triumvirate maintain cribs for women of merit. They’re taken young, before they cause trouble, and used for breeding. The state owns their seed. Families trade rights like coin.” She said this while avoiding his gaze.
Her words landed like small hammer blows.
Idris rolled up her sleeve, showing him a narrow tattoo that ran from wrist to elbow—delicate lines forming a branching tree. “Family registry,” she said simply. “It marks our lineage back seven generations. It’s how they track inheritance… and blood. Birth defects are something we try to avoid.”
She said it plainly, but what went unsaid hung thick in the air. With tens of millions of women and so few men, the odds grew shorter every generation.
Al stared at the ink, the pulse of the MRE heater still hissing faintly beside him. “Jesus,” he murmured. “So you’re all… what, managed breeding stock?”
Evan gave a humorless smile. “You say that like it’s a bad thing. It’s just how the world works. Is yours not that way?”
Al looked down at the steaming pouch, then back at them. “You call that surviving. Back home, we called it captivity.”
Neither woman answered. The silence stretched, broken only by the clink of Idris setting her sword down beside her.
After a long moment, Evan sighed. “Get some rest, Marine. We’ll take the first watch. The nobles want a guard rotation in case the Fort gets curious.”
He nodded, lying back against the stone floor, eyes open to the wavering lantern light above.
In the corner, his half-eaten MRE sat cooling beside the heater pack. He couldn’t help thinking the smell of it—salt, plastic, and home—was the only real thing left in the room.
As the quiet settled, one thought dug in deep, cold, and sure.
I’m already trapped. The only question is how long it takes them to admit it.
The fire in the brazier had burned down to dull orange coals. The guards whispered softly near the door, their voices blending with the wind outside and the creak of the tower’s beams.
Al lay half-awake on the rough blanket they’d given him, staring up at the low ceiling. He’d been trained to rest anywhere — in Humvee seats, on sand, or on the floor of cargo planes — but here, sleep refused to come.
The numbers kept turning over in his head. One man for every fifteen… maybe twenty women.
To some, it would sound like a fantasy — the kind of locker-room joke soldiers made overseas when the boredom got too deep. But here, in this world, it wasn’t a fantasy. It was a prison.
He rubbed a hand over his face, feeling the faint buzz of the stone beneath his shirt. Fifteen to one, he thought again. That wasn’t opportunity — that was scarcity, weaponized. A breeding ratio. A ledger entry.
Yes, he wanted a family someday. A wife, maybe kids — little hands smudging the walls, toys in the hall, a life with choice. But this? This world didn’t have families. It had programs.
He exhaled slowly, the air cold against his teeth. I'm not a stallion, nor a prize bull or a bloodline investment.
I'm a man.
Back home, they’d taught him the worth of that — the duty, the discipline, the line between freedom and servitude. He’d fought to protect that line. And now here he was, in a world that measured men by fertility and the strength of their seed.
He turned over, watching the embers fade. Evan and Idris murmured near the door, their tones quiet and professional. Every few minutes, one of them would glance back to ensure he was still there—not as a comrade, but as a responsibility.
A rare resource.
He rolled the words in his mind like pebbles in his hand. They felt wrong. Heavy. Cold.
He could almost hear the nobles’ earlier voices echoing in the silence: He belongs under my seal. My protection. My claim.
“Not yours,” he muttered under his breath, eyes half-closed. “Not anyone’s.”
The wind rose outside, carrying the scent of rain and pine through the arrow slit. The fort settled into its night rhythm—the sound of boots, the distant crackle of torches, and somewhere far off, a wolf’s cry echoing through the valley.
Al lay still, his muscles tense, his mind racing through everything he’d seen and heard since waking in this world.
Fifteen women to one man. And every one of them a reminder that, in this place, freedom was rarer than gold.
I can't even think of one woman I want to be with, much less…
***
The first pale light of dawn crept through the arrow slits, turning the tower’s walls from black to slate. A cold draft slipped through the cracks, carrying the damp smell of old timber and horses.
Al sat up slowly, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. The brazier had gone out sometime before dawn, and the room was filled with the hushed sounds of armor being buckled and leather straps drawn tight.
Catrin was already fully dressed, her cloak clasped at her throat, sword belted. Rhyosyn stood near the window, murmuring a spell to chase the chill from her gloves. Pryce was pacing, lips thin, her expression sour as the early light.
The guards—Evan and Idris—had been up before any of them. Their armor gleamed faintly with dew from the ramparts, and their eyes were alert but weary.
“Up, Marine,” Evan said, tossing him a folded cloak with the Vaughn crest stitched small on the inside. “We ride at first bell. Best you look the part before anyone from the garrison gets curious.”
He caught the cloak, pulling it over his shoulders. The fabric was heavy, expensive compared to his uniform. It didn’t fit, but it concealed his frame well enough.
“Still feels like dress-up,” he muttered.
Rhyosyn turned from the window. “It’s survival,” she said. “Better to wear a noble’s colors than end up in the registry.”
Al looked between them, sensing the tension that had deepened overnight. “So, which one of you won the argument?”
Pryce’s jaw tightened. “House Vaughn will carry the claim,” she said curtly. “For appearances only. It’s less likely to raise questions from the mages’ courts than a soldier’s seal or a merchant’s signature.”
“Lucky me,” Al said dryly. “Do I get a say in any of this?”
Catrin adjusted her gloves, avoiding his gaze. “You’re alive, aren’t you? That’s your say.”
He snorted. “Hell of a democracy.”
Evan shot him a quick look—half warning, half sympathy—as she cinched her gauntlet strap. “Best not to test their tempers before breakfast, Marine.”
Outside, the fort was already stirring. The sound of boots and shouted orders drifted up from the yard. Women soldiers moved between stables and barracks, their hair braided tight, their faces marked by the calm focus of discipline. Al didn’t see a single man among them.
Rhyosyn crossed to the table, pulling a folded parchment from her satchel. The seal of House Vaughn glimmered faintly in the dawn light. “This is your temporary contract,” she said, her tone as clinical as a doctor’s. “If questioned, you are listed as a bonded escort. House property.”
Al stared at her, silent for a long moment. Then he took the parchment, folded it once, and shoved it into his pocket. “Fine,” he said finally. “House property it is.”
Pryce frowned. “You seem ungrateful for someone who’s just been granted protection.”
He looked up at her, his voice calm and even. “I’ve been under protection before. Usually meant someone else decided when I lived or died.”
That silenced her.
Idris appeared in the doorway, helmet under one arm. “Gate patrol’s changing shift,” she said. “If we move now, we’ll get through before the quartermaster gets nosy.”
Catrin nodded. “Mount up. We ride for the valley road.”
The group gathered their gear quickly, but before they stepped out, Evan paused beside Al. Her voice was low and careful.
“You did well to stay quiet last night,” she said. “If you keep doing that, you might just see another sunrise.”
He gave a short nod. “Working on it.”
As they stepped into the yard, the air bit cold and clean. Mist hung low over the fort walls, curling around the horses’ hooves. The soldiers at the gate stopped to stare as they passed—not hostile, just curious.
Al felt every pair of eyes follow him until the gate closed behind them and the sound of the fort faded into the mountains.
Only then did he breathe easier.
But even as the road opened before them, the words from the night before wouldn’t leave his head. Fifteen women for every man. Cribs. Registries. Breeding lines.
He adjusted his reins, the cloak brushing against his knees. “Free,” he muttered under his breath. “I’m still free.”
But the echo that came back from the mist didn’t sound convinced.