The fire crackled softly, throwing warm light across the ring of tired faces. Beyond the camp’s edge, the horses shifted and snorted, their silhouettes blurring into the tall grass. Night had settled full and heavy over the valley, bringing with it the smell of smoke, leather, and cooling steel.
Al sat cross-legged near the flames, sleeves rolled up, the faint blue shimmer of the System still ghosting beneath his skin. The guards had removed most of their armor; in the softer light, they looked less like wardens and more like women sharing a long, quiet watch.
The taller one—Evan—poked at the fire with a stick, sparks leaping skyward. “So, Aleric,” she said at last, breaking the silence, “where do you come from? You never said.”
Al leaned back on his hands, the question pulling a faint smile from him. “Wichita, Kansas. Middle of the States—flat land, long roads, good people. That’s where I was born and raised.”
Idris tilted her head, brows drawing together. “Witch-what?”
“Wichita,” he repeated, slow and patient. “It’s a city—kind of like your capitals, I guess, but with more dust and fewer castles.”
The two guards exchanged curious glances. Evan smiled faintly. “And who raised you there? Your mothers?”
He laughed, caught off-guard by the phrasing. “Just one. Trust me, one mother was more than enough.”
Both women blinked, surprised by the answer. Idris frowned slightly. “Only one? Then who took care of you when she was away? Your other mothers, your aunts, your house-kin?”
Al shook his head, still smiling. “Didn’t have any others. Just Mom and me most of the time. My old man shipped out when I was young. She handled everything—work, bills, me getting into trouble.” He chuckled softly. “She was tougher than most Marines I’ve known.”
The guards exchanged a look, confusion shading into disbelief.
Evan spoke carefully, as though testing the edges of a foreign idea. “You mean you had no other mothers? None in your household, your circle, your—what do you call it—tribe?”
“None that I’ve ever met,” Al said simply.
The silence that followed was thick enough to feel. Idris blinked, then laughed softly, the sound edged with disbelief. “You poor creature. One woman to manage a home and raise a child? That’s near impossible.”
“Maybe,” Al said with a small shrug. “But she did it anyway.”
Evan studied him over the fire, the flicker of respect in her eyes impossible to hide. “Then your mother must have been formidable.”
“She was,” he said quietly. “Still is.”
The flames popped, sending sparks into the dark. For a moment, none of them spoke. Somewhere down the slope, a horse stamped, and the wind carried the faint smell of rain from far off.
In that hush, Al realized that for the first time since arriving in this strange world, he wasn’t surrounded by suspicion—only curiosity.
The silence held a while longer, warm and comfortable, the fire’s crackle filling the spaces words didn’t need to.
Then Idris leaned forward, elbows on her knees, studying him in the firelight. “So what were you doing before all this, Marine? Before the dungeon, before the chains?”
Al hesitated, staring into the flames. “Before all this?” He huffed a quiet laugh. “Standing in front of the President, actually. There was a ceremony—big crowd, cameras, brass everywhere.”
Evan tilted her head. “President?”
“He’s… the leader of my country,” Al explained. “Not a king or anything like that. We don’t have those. He’s elected—chosen by the people to lead for a while.”
Both women looked faintly bewildered, but Idris motioned for him to go on. “And what was the ceremony for?”
Al rubbed the back of his neck, suddenly self-conscious. “A medal. For heroism, they said. I didn’t feel like a hero. I just did my job.”
The two guards exchanged glances. Evan’s tone softened. “What kind of job earns you a medal from your ruler?”
He stared into the flames for a moment before answering. “A bad one. We were overseas—another country, a lot of fighting. Things went wrong. People got hurt. I made sure more of mine came home than didn’t.” He let out a breath through his nose. “That’s all.”
Idris’s expression shifted, the teasing gone. “You saved lives.”
Al shrugged. “I tried to. Sometimes that’s all you can do.”
Evan poked at the fire again, her eyes distant. “And after the ceremony? What were your plans then?”
He smiled faintly, a tired kind of smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “After? Go home. Maybe take some time off. My mom kept saying I’d earned a break, that I needed to find something normal again.”
“Normal?” Idris echoed.
“Yeah,” he said softly. “A house. A job that doesn’t involve getting shot at. Maybe even… I don’t know. A family.”
They were quiet for a long moment. The wind whispered through the grass, cool and steady.
Evan finally nodded. “You sound like a man who’s been at war too long.”
“Yeah,” Al murmured. “That makes two worlds in a row, I guess.”
The guards said nothing more, but something in their eyes had changed—not pity, not fear, but understanding. The kind soldiers shared when they recognized another who carried ghosts of his own.
The fire crackled softly, and above them the first stars began to bloom.
The guards had gone quiet, the fire crackling low between them when the sound of approaching footsteps broke the calm. The nobles’ silhouettes appeared against the lamplight of the camp—fine cloaks, polished armor, and the unmistakable air of command.
Lady Pryce was the first to speak, her voice smooth as silk and twice as cutting. “So this is where the Crown’s treasure hides himself—swapping war stories with his keepers.”
Evan rose immediately, bowing her head just enough to show respect. Idris stood slower, expression unreadable.
Al didn’t move. He looked up from the fire, his face calm, eyes steady.
Lady Pryce’s gaze swept over him like a judge sizing up a criminal. “A hero, they call you. How quaint. Men aren’t made to be heroes.”
Al laughed—an honest, low laugh that caught even the guards by surprise. “Maybe not here,” he said, “but in my world? In mine, we’ve got plenty of heroes who were men. Some of them legends in the Corps—the Marines we try to be like.”
He leaned forward slightly, eyes catching the firelight. “Basalone. Dan Daly. Chesty Puller. Carlos Hathcock. Men who stood their ground when the world went to hell and made it back home just to do it again. I can tell you—the stories about them aren’t just tales. They’re true.”
Pryce’s lips parted, part disbelief, part intrigue. “You expect us to believe that your world breeds such men by the thousand?”
Al grinned faintly. “No. Just that it breeds enough.”
He glanced into the fire, voice softening with pride. “One of our greatest heroes—Audie Murphy—couldn’t even get into the Marines. Too small, too slight. So he joined the Army instead. Ended up holding back an entire enemy battalion from the top of a burning tank destroyer. When they found him, he’d run out of ammo and was still calling artillery on his own position.”
The words hung in the air, heavy as stone. The guards stared at him. Even the nobles were silent.
Finally, the red-haired mage—Rhyosyn—spoke, her voice quiet, almost to herself. “Maybe that’s what it means… this ‘American magic.’ Not sorcery. Not blessing. Just a refusal to break.”
Pryce scoffed, though her tone had lost some of its edge. “Or madness.”
“Sometimes,” Al said, leaning back and smiling faintly, “there’s not much difference.”
The fire popped, sending sparks into the night. The nobles said nothing more. But when they turned away, Rhyosyn lingered a moment longer, her eyes on him—not with scorn, but with something closer to curiosity.
Then she followed the others into the dark, the faint scent of rain and smoke mingling in her wake.
Lady Pryce’s eyes narrowed, her tone cutting through the quiet. “All these names, all these tales—your Basalones, your Dallies—hero stories for children. But you offer no proof. Words are wind, Marine. Show me something real.”
Al’s faint smile faded. He stared into the fire for a long moment before standing. The guards moved, instinctively, but he lifted a hand. “Easy. She asked.”
He tugged at the torn seam of his right pant leg, pulling the fabric up past the knee. The firelight spilled over a long, jagged scar running down the outside of his thigh—a rough, uneven mark, pitted in places where hot metal had torn through flesh and burned deep.
Pryce leaned forward despite herself. “What caused that?”
“RPG,” Al said quietly. “Rocket-propelled grenade. It hit the front quarter panel of the Humvee I was in. The blast threw me clear.”
They stared at him blankly.
“A… what?” Rhyosyn asked, brow furrowing.
“A kind of carriage,” he said, forcing a grin. “One made of steel. And the RPG? It’s a weapon. Fires an explosive charge—detonates on impact. Not magic, just engineering.”
The women exchanged uneasy glances.
“I landed hard,” Al went on, his voice low but steady. “Couldn’t hear anything at first. Everything was dust and smoke. The guys behind me were hit bad. I grabbed the grenade launcher off the truck and took out the ones firing on us.” He gave a small shrug. “Didn’t think. Just… moved.”
Evan’s expression softened, though her eyes still held disbelief. “You fought back. Wounded.”
“Yeah,” Al said. “We were pinned down. Someone had to keep their heads down long enough to drag the wounded out. The launcher did the trick.”
Rhyosyn shook her head slowly, her red hair glinting in the firelight. “You stood against armed foes while bleeding from the leg? Without a healer? Without aid?”
Al gave a small, humorless laugh. “Didn’t have time to wait for help. You fight, or everyone dies. That’s not heroism—it’s just the job.”
For once, Lady Pryce was silent. Her eyes lingered on the scar, on the calm certainty in his voice. “And you lived.”
The young man laughed “Yeah, if I didn't what does that make you?” Al said, lowering the fabric back down. “I lived. Others didn’t. That’s all the proof there is.”
Rhyosyn’s gaze lingered on him, thoughtful, the firelight dancing in her eyes. “Perhaps that’s what your world’s magic truly is,” she murmured. “Not sorcery. Not divine favor. Just will.”
Al chuckled softly, tired but proud. “Maybe. Or maybe it’s just American stubbornness.”
The fire popped, a thin line of sparks climbing into the night sky.
For the first time since meeting him, none of them spoke. Even Pryce turned away, the usual disdain replaced with a flicker of something she wouldn’t name.