The nobles exchanged long, uneasy glances.
“He believes in armies of millions,” Pryce murmured at last. “He speaks of invading nations as if it were sport. And he still claims to come from some… ‘America.’”
The redhead folded her arms, lips pursed. “Either he’s a liar, or he’s mad.”
The dark-haired swords woman gave a slow, wary nod. “Mad perhaps—but useful madness. If he truly believes he’s a soldier of such a force, he’ll fight when told.” She turned toward the guards. “You two will watch him. Keep him safe.” Her gaze sharpened, adding, “And for the gods’ sake, don’t bed him. If his mind’s fractured, we don’t need that kind of contagion spreading.”
The taller guard smirked faintly. “Understood, my lady. We’ll keep our hands to ourselves.”
“See that you do,” Pryce said curtly. “And keep him out of trouble. Men are… delicate things.”
Al’s brows drew together. “Delicate?” he snorted.
The women ignored him. Orders were already being handed down, the nobles stepping away to confer in low tones. Within moments, the guards—both armored, both armed—had formed up around him like an escort.
“Come along, Sir,” the taller one said with a grin that didn’t reach her eyes. “Wouldn’t want our fragile treasure wandering off.”
“I’m fine on my own,” Al muttered, but they were already moving, herding him toward the tunnel.
The redhead mage gave him one last considering look as the group started up the passage. “You may be taller than most of us, stranger, but here, strength isn’t measured in size. Try not to prove us wrong.”
Al bit back the urge to laugh. He could outpace any of them, he was sure—but for now; he let them surround him. The heat of battle had faded, leaving the cold weight of confusion.
Mad, they thought. Dangerous. Fragile.
He flexed his hands, the last ghost of the chains tingling on his wrists. Maybe they’re right about one of those.
They marched in silence for a long while, boots scraping softly against the damp stone. The torches hissed as they passed, throwing long, twitching shadows over walls carved with runes Al couldn’t read but which the others seemed to understand instinctively.
The guards flanked him like handlers with a dangerous beast—one ahead, one behind—watchful, professional, unyielding.
Al didn’t speak. His mind was still trying to put the pieces together.
The fight, the chains, the glowing words in his head—the System. Every so often, faint lines of text flickered at the edge of his vision: short phrases like [Data Integration: Pending] and [Vital Signs: Stable]. It was like having a heads-up display wired into his brain. Useful, if it didn’t make him feel like a lab rat.
And the women…
They were soldiers, clearly—trained, disciplined, lethal—but none of them treated him like one. To them, he was a curiosity. An anomaly. Something too rare to break but too dangerous to trust.
The nobles had already decided he was mad. The guards had been ordered to protect him—though, judging by their posture, “guard” also meant “contain.”
He could feel their eyes on him, weighing his every step.
So that’s how it is here, he thought grimly. Women in command. Men obey. Different world, different rules.
He didn’t resent it exactly. It wasn’t the first time he’d had to adapt to somebody else’s chain of command. Hell, Semper Gumby—always flexible—had been drilled into him since boot camp. The Corps had a saying for everything, even this.
Still, he couldn’t shake the memory of their faces when he’d mentioned two hundred thousand Marines. The sheer disbelief—the fear. In their world, an army that size was unthinkable. Maybe in a place like this, power didn’t come from training or tactics, but from birth and blessing.
He rubbed his wrists absently. The marks from the broken chains still tingled. The System’s voice echoed faintly in his mind.
American Magic.
He frowned. What does that even mean?
It sounded absurd—like some inside joke the universe was playing on him. But when he’d said it aloud, they’d all gone still. As if the words themselves were dangerous.
Maybe it wasn’t just a label. Maybe it was something new. Something the System had never seen before?
The taller guard glanced over her shoulder, breaking his thoughts. “Still breathing back there?”
He gave her a tired grin. “Yeah. Just thinking. This would be an easy march in the sand pit.”
“Don’t think too hard,” she said lightly. “The Maw eats thoughts if you let it.”
The other guard said nothing, eyes sharp, silent as a shadow.
Al exhaled, letting his thoughts settle. The System still hummed in the back of his skull, alien yet oddly familiar—like the weight of a rifle he’d carried for years.
Different world, same mission, he told himself. Adapt, improvise, overcome.
He flexed his fingers, the faint blue glow of the System dancing beneath his skin.
Semper Gumby, he thought with a wry smile. Always flexible.
And he kept walking.
The tunnel sloped upward, the air growing cooler and cleaner with every step. For the first time in what felt like hours, Al smelled sunlight — that dry, distant scent of wind and open earth.
The guards were the first to react. “We’re close,” the taller one said, her voice easing from the rigid edge of battle readiness to something almost relaxed.
A faint glow crept into the passage ahead, amber and soft. When they emerged, the transition nearly blinded him. The afternoon light spilled over a shallow valley — gold grass swaying in a slow breeze, the horizon painted with clouds rolling like smoke.
Al stopped dead at the sight of horses. Dozens of them, tethered in neat rows beside a line of pale canvas tents. The beasts stamped and snorted at the scent of the returning warriors, their tack gleaming with polished metalwork that caught the sun.
He hadn’t realized how much he’d missed the open sky until it was staring him in the face.
“By the Triad,” the redhead murmured, shielding her eyes. “We’ve been down there half a day at least.”
Pryce gave her an annoyed glance. “Longer. We’ll make camp here and head to the capital at dawn.”
The nobles moved off with purpose, conferring in low tones with waiting attendants. The guards didn’t follow. Instead, they stayed close to Al.
He watched them quietly, trying to make sense of this strange arrangement. The taller one—broad-shouldered, confident—was cleaning her sword with quick, economical motions. Her partner, the quiet one, was securing their gear with practiced efficiency, her eyes always flicking back to him.
He finally broke the silence. “You don’t have to hover, you know. I’m not going anywhere.”
The taller one gave him a crooked grin. “Orders say otherwise. You’re our assignment now. ‘Protect him,’ the lady said. ‘Keep him safe and sane.’ Her words.”
Al huffed out something between a laugh and a groan. “And if I’m not sane?”
“Then we’re to keep you safe anyway,” the quieter one said without looking up. “Preferably from yourself.”
He sat down on a flat rock, the weight of exhaustion finally catching up to him. The horses stamped and whickered nearby, restless but well trained. Someone had already started a small fire; the smell of wood smoke and faint spices drifted through the air.
It should have felt peaceful. It didn’t.
He glanced toward the nobles, still talking by the tents, their silhouettes framed by the dying sun. They kept looking his way—short, assessing glances like hunters measuring a wounded animal they weren’t sure they wanted to finish off or cage.
He looked back down at his hands. The faint blue lines of the System still pulsed beneath his skin, steady as a heartbeat.
This isn’t over, he thought. Not by a long shot.
“Semper Gumby,” he muttered under his breath.
The taller guard cocked her head. “What was that?”
“Nothing,” Al said, stretching out his legs. “Just reminding myself to stay flexible.”
The taller guard chuckled, sheathing her sword. “That’s good advice here, Marine. The world bends for no one.”
Idris glanced over from where she was checking the horses, a sly smirk tugging at her lips. “Careful saying things like that, stranger. You’ll have people wondering just how flexible you are.”
Al blinked, caught between a laugh and a groan. “Pretty sure that’s not the kind of flexibility I meant.”
Her smirk widened. “Shame. Would’ve been nice to test it.”
“Idris,” the taller guard warned, though there was amusement in her tone.
“What? The nobles said not to bed him,” Idris said, feigning innocence. “They didn’t say we couldn’t ask questions.”
Al shook his head, rubbing at the bridge of his nose as the two women chuckled. “You’re a menace.”
“Only when I’m bored,” she said with a grin, tightening a saddle strap.
He smiled faintly, eyes drifting toward the horizon where the light bled into crimson. “Then I guess I’ll just bend with it.”
The wind shifted, carrying the scent of grass and woodsmoke. Somewhere beyond the ridge, a watch horn sounded, long and low. Night was coming fast.
And for the first time since he’d arrived in this world, Al felt almost ready for it.
***
The nobles’ tent sat a little apart from the rest of the camp, its fabric catching the last of the sunset in faint ripples of gold and red. Within, a low lantern cast long shadows across the table where maps and wax-sealed scrolls lay scattered.
Lady Catrin Arwen sat nearest the flame, posture straight, fingers drumming lightly against the hilt of her sword. Lady Elowen Pryce reclined across from her, composed but wary, her green eyes flicking between the others like a cat watching for movement. Near the tent flap, Lady Rhyosyn Vaughn stood silent, her hand raised slightly as a faint glow shimmered across her palm.
“You’re listening again,” Catrin said flatly without looking up.
Rhyosyn didn’t deny it. The firelight flickered in her hair, red turned to copper. “They’re talking. I can hear them.”
Pryce smirked. “Eavesdropping on the help? How noble of you.”
“Not on the guards,” Rhyosyn said, lowering her hand a fraction. “On him. The Marine. He’s still awake, still speaking.”
“About what?” Catrin asked.
Rhyosyn’s eyes unfocused for a moment, voice distant as she translated what her spell conveyed. “They’re teasing him—about his flexibility, of all things. He’s clever enough to answer without giving offense. There’s humor under it, but he’s… controlled. Disciplined.”
Pryce gave a slow, knowing smile. “A soldier who jokes. That’s rare.”
“A soldier who thinks,” Catrin corrected. “That’s dangerous.”
They fell quiet for a beat. Outside, laughter drifted faintly from the guards’ fire.
Finally Pryce broke the silence. “So. A man who claims to command hundreds of thousands, who fights from the sea, who breaks the Triumvirate’s chains by accident—and bears a blessing none of us have ever heard of. You can’t tell me either of you aren’t thinking what I am.”
"He never claimed to command, but he said they existed, and called them his brothers and sisters in arms." Pryce said.
Catrin’s eyes narrowed. “That he’s a weapon.”
Pryce’s smile sharpened. “Precisely. A weapon—or at least the making of one.”
Rhyosyn folded her arms, the glow fading from her fingers. “You both think too small. The System gave him choice before finalization. That’s impossible under the Triumvirate’s codes. If he can change his statistics, he might change more than that. Perhaps even the limits of what the System allows.”
Catrin’s voice was a quiet blade. “You’re suggesting he’s not just a soldier. You’re suggesting he’s a flaw in the Crown itself.”
“A flaw,” Pryce said softly, “or a key.”
The three women exchanged long looks, the flicker of ambition naked now in each pair of eyes.
Outside, the guards’ laughter rose again—warm, human, unaware of the quiet calculus unfolding just a few yards away.
Catrin broke the silence first. “We’ll keep him alive, for now. The Triumvirate will want to see him. But until then, he’s ours.”
Rhyosyn’s lips curved into a small, unreadable smile. “Ours to protect,” she said.
Pryce leaned back, gaze drifting toward the tent flap where the fire’s glow wavered beyond. “Ours to study.”
Catrin’s hand tightened on her sword hilt. “Ours to control.”
The wind outside shifted, stirring the canvas like a breath.
And from the guards’ fire came the sound of Al’s laugh—soft, tired, unguarded.
The three nobles listened. None of them smiled.