“What do you think?” Lady Arwen asked quietly, her eyes never leaving the young man.
Lady Rhyosyn’s lips curved into a slow, lascivious smile. “I think some sisters are going to be very upset when they find their brother is missing.”
Lady folded her arms, gaze thoughtful and voice edged with worry. “You realize this is going to set loose a fox in a henhouse. There will be inquiries—endless inquiries. Where he came from, whose banner he bears, which family claims him. Once word spreads that a man was found in a binding circle, every House in the capital will want a piece of him.”
The others grew still, their earlier amusement cooling into wary silence. Beyond them, Evan and Idris continued rifling through the cultists’ corpses for anything useful.
“Rhyosyn,” Lady Pryce said, her tone suddenly clipped, “go assist them. See if any grimoires survived—anything that might explain what sort of ritual this was.”
The red-haired mage let out a theatrical sigh but turned obediently. “That’s Lady Rhyosyn,” she said over her shoulder, the words dripping with mock civility as she stalked off toward the carnage.
When she was gone, Lady Pryce’s gaze slid toward the swords woman. “Well? What do you think, Catrin?”
Catrin Arwen’s eyes narrowed, assessing the young man as he buttoned the tattered remnants of his uniform. “I think you’re being as sly as a merchant again—trying to buy the goods too cheap and sell them too dear.”
Lady Pryce arched a brow but said nothing.
Catrin’s tone sharpened. “I know not where he came from, but he smells wrong. Look at him—he dresses wrong, speaks wrong. That is a martial uniform, not a noble’s garb.”
The blonde scoffed softly. “No House would ever allow their men to serve in the army.”
“I know that,” Catrin replied flatly. “But those are medals upon his breast, and those markings—tabs of rank, though none I recognize. Whatever he is, he’s not some stray serf or conjurer’s accident.”
She turned fully toward Lady Pryce, her smirk returning, blade-sharp. “So when you start offering your coin for him, triple your Pryce—and then insert it where the babies come from.”
Lady Pryce laughed, the sound rich and sharp as glass. “If only it were so easy,” she said, amusement glinting in her eyes. “Tell me then, of this smell you claim to sense—or should we ask him instead, perhaps about these mysterious sisters of his?”
“Ask if you like,” Catrin replied coolly. “But I doubt he will speak of them. As for the scent…” She paused, head tilting slightly as though tasting the air. “There’s a hint of naphtha, a trace of oil and burned metal. Steel and iron. I do not know the realm he hails from, but if scent speaks truth—it is one bathed in fire.”
Lady Pryce’s brow lifted in intrigue, but before she could respond, the blonde gave a dismissive snort.
“Humph. You’re both fools,” she said, lips curling in a smirk. “If nothing else, he’s an opportunity. A man like that would fetch marks by the score in any brothel this side of the capital. What commoner would not pay good red gold to be serviced by someone with those looks?”
Lady Pryce chuckled again, low and dangerous. “Ever the pragmatist, my dear. But perhaps we should find out whether he’s more than just pretty before you start counting coins.”
Catrin’s hand rested lightly on her sword hilt, eyes never leaving Aleric as he struggled to make sense of their words. “Pretty or not,” she murmured, “the System brought him here for a reason. I only pray we discover what that reason is before someone decides to sell him.”
"You, boy, tell me of your sisters. How did they lose you?" Lady Pryce said imperiously.
The blonde’s remark hung in the air, drawing a few uneasy glances. Aleric had caught enough of the tone—if not the exact words—to know they were talking about him again. Probably not kindly.
He looked over at the woman who’d just spoken, brow furrowed, and grunted as he shook his head. “No habla español,” he said flatly. “Sprechen Sie Deutsch? Tu parles français? Nǐ hǎo?”
The words came out rough, half reflex from years of military briefings and border postings.
The women froze. Lady Pryce blinked, her expression flickering between confusion and curiosity. Lady Catrin’s eyes narrowed in suspicion, hand drifting instinctively toward her sword hilt.
“Those aren’t any dialects I know,” Lady Pryce murmured. “He’s not speaking Imperial, or even Northern trade cant.”
Catrin’s voice was quieter, but edged with unease. “No. Whatever tongue that is… it’s foreign even to the System.”
Aleric sighed.
“Wait—wasn’t he speaking our language just moments ago?” Catrin said. “I could have sworn—”
Lady Pryce looked at her companion. “You’re right. Boy, what are you playing at?” she demanded.
Again, he looked at her, then stood. The movement was slow, deliberate. She realized, with a startled blink, that he was the tallest man she had ever seen—he towered over her by at least three inches. She took a half-step back, though he made no move toward her beyond standing there, eyeing her with calm, unreadable focus.
When he spoke, his tone was low but firm. “I’m no dog, so don’t talk to me like one.” He paused, then added, “As for who I am—Corporal Aleric Tanim, United States Marine Corps. Late of the Second Transportation Support Battalion.”
Lady Pryce’s eyes widened. The words meant nothing to her—strange, alien syllables that carried the cadence of authority but none of the meaning.
“Marine Corps? Transport? Supply?” she repeated, tasting the unfamiliar sounds as if they might reveal their secrets. “What manner of gibberish is that?”
He pointed to the chevron patch on the sleeve of his dark blue uniform. “My rank is Corporal.” Then he tapped the insignia on his chest. “I serve in the United States Marine Corps. The United States is the government I serve.”
Lady Pryce’s eyes flicked between the strange symbols and the man himself. His words were meaningless to her, but the conviction behind them was not. The set of his jaw, the pugnacious glint in his eyes—he wasn’t boasting, merely stating fact. She found herself taking a half step back before she realized it.
Catrin saw it too: the quiet defiance, the discipline beneath his calm. Stronger-willed than she’d expected. Then she remembered the readings the System had given them—his strength, resilience, whatever strange metrics it used. Her throat tightened, and she swallowed reflexively.
“And your family?” Catrin asked, seizing the moment to redirect his attention away from the blonde.
He grunted, the sound short and thoughtful. “Some would say the Corps is the only family a man needs.” He nodded once. “They’re the brothers and sisters I never had.”
His gaze drifted over the cavern. The bodies strewn across the floor, the blood drying dark on the stone—he took it all in without flinching. Where most men would have recoiled, he simply assessed. Measured.
Catrin watched him, unsettled. Her father had been a hardened commander, but even he might have hesitated before such a sight. This stranger, however, stood unshaken.
“Curiouser and curiouser,” she murmured under her breath.
“Of your family, how many are women?” Lady Pryce continued, her tone sharp, probing.
Annoyed, the young man turned to look at her once more. Then, to her surprise, he paused to think. “Some twenty thousand whom I would call sisters in arms.”
The women drew in quick, sharp breaths. The redhead’s hand stilled mid-motion, and even the guards exchanged startled glances. Al caught the flicker of astonishment on their faces and allowed himself a faint, satisfied smirk.
“And your brothers?” asked the brunette swords woman, voice tight, suspicious. “Surely not as many?”
Again that moment of reflection, the measured tone of a soldier counting by habit. “At least a hundred… sixty thousand, give or take.”
The two noblewomen stared, unblinking. “A hundred and sixty—what?” Pryce demanded. “Are you speaking of an army?”
“No,” Al said, shaking his head slowly. “We aren’t the army. They’re a different branch of service.” He paused, eyes distant for a heartbeat. “My Corps are soldiers that serve on ships. We take on the hardest jobs—land first, hold ground, invade from the sea.”
The brunette’s brows drew together. “From ships? You mean… you fight while sailing?”
“Not while sailing.” He managed a faint smile, though it didn’t reach his eyes. “We sail in, land under fire, and fight our way ashore.”
Pryce’s mouth opened, then closed again. “You… invade whole nations that way?”
“When ordered,” Al replied simply. “It’s what we’re trained for.”
The red-haired mage frowned, clearly struggling to follow. “But how could ships carry such numbers? Thousands upon thousands—no fleet in history could hold them.”
“Not one fleet,” he said. “Dozens. Maybe hundreds. You use whatever you have.”
They looked at one another, pale and bewildered. Pryce’s voice dropped to a whisper. “You speak of a world built only for war.”
Al shrugged. “Built to be ready for it.”
“More than that, across all branches,” Al replied simply. “That’s just the Marines.”
They looked at one another, pale and uncertain. “Branches?” the brunette echoed.
“Of service,” Al said, as though it were obvious. “Army, Navy, Air Force. Each with hundreds of thousands. Millions, if you count the reserves.”
The air in the chamber seemed to still. The flickering fire cast harsh shadows over their faces — a tableau of disbelief.
“That’s impossible,” Pryce whispered. “There are not that many soldiers in the realm. The Triumvirate could not feed such an army, much less arm them.”
The redhead tilted her head, eyes narrowing in wary fascination. “Either he lies,” she said slowly, “or his world is one of endless war.”
“Or madness,” Pryce muttered. “A man who believes in armies of millions of men and women soldiers by the tens of thousands — it sounds like delusion.”
But the guards said nothing. The taller one’s gaze lingered on Al with an expression halfway between respect and fear. The quieter one finally spoke, voice low and thoughtful. “If he’s telling the truth… then where he comes from, every man and woman must be a weapon.”
Al met her eyes, his expression unreadable. “When you grow up in a world that doesn’t give you peace,” he said softly, “you learn to make soldiers of anyone who’ll stand.”
The sword-woman shook her head, disbelief and something like pity mingling in her eyes. “Either you come from a realm of giants or you’re mad, stranger. No crown could command so many, no people could spare that much blood.”
Al gave a short, humorless laugh. “We learned to make do.”
The words hung heavy between them, the echo of another world none of them could imagine—one of steel hulls, endless oceans, and men and women who made war their trade.
For the first time, the nobles seemed less scornful and more afraid.