The guards came at dawn.
Niklas was jerked from sleep by the cold clang of his cell door. Two heavily armored women stood in the doorway—taller than most men, their braided green-and-blue hair tied under iron helms. One carried a short spear. The other wore brass knuckles and a coiled leather leash.
"No talking," the first one barked.
Niklas didn't resist.
They clamped manacles on his wrists and shackled his ankles together. One of them gave the leash a tug, and they dragged him out into the corridor like a mule on parade. He kept his head down, eyes scanning every inch of the corridor—door positions, guards, locks, torch placements.
Every piece of data could become a key.
They passed several other cells. In one, a pale, half-naked man clung to the bars, begging for water. In another, two women laughed while throwing dice on a prisoner's back. No one looked surprised. No one cared.
The Queendom of Thalvera didn't just tolerate cruelty. It ran on it.
After a long, spiraling climb through a stone stairwell, they emerged into a large war chamber. It was nothing like a court back on Earth—no robes, no soft tones. This was a place for decisions made with steel and blood.
At the far end, atop a raised platform, sat High Marshal Alrenia.
Niklas had imagined a dozen versions of her during the night—some cruel and brutish, others seductive and sadistic.
She was neither.
She was regal. Composed. Utterly commanding.
Her armor gleamed black and gold, molded to her tall, muscular form like it was forged for a goddess of war. Her hair—an icy teal with silver streaks—was coiled in an elegant braid that fell over one shoulder. Her eyes, deep green and heavily lidded, didn't blink as she stared at him.
The hall fell silent.
"Bring him forward," Alrenia said.
The guards shoved Niklas to the center of the room, where a circular mosaic of the Queendom's sigil—a sword over a blooming rose—glinted beneath his bare feet.
Alrenia stood slowly and descended the dais. Each step was deliberate. Calculated.
She walked a slow circle around him, inspecting him like a general does a warhorse.
"So," she said finally, her voice smooth but edged with iron, "this is the rebel."
Niklas remained quiet.
"Alerik of Varnhold. Slave. Laborer. Fugitive. You bloodied a noblewoman. Killed two guards with your bare hands. And then, upon capture… suddenly lost your tongue." She paused in front of him. "Curious."
He met her gaze. "I'm not Alerik."
One of the guards hissed. Another stepped forward to strike him—but Alrenia held up a hand.
"Speak."
"I'm not the man you think I am. I don't remember any of what he did. I'm… someone else. I don't belong here."
Alrenia tilted her head. "Amnesia?"
"Not exactly."
"Possession?"
"No."
"A soul fracture, perhaps? Astral inheritance? You're either insane… or something rare."
Niklas blinked. "You're not surprised."
"I've seen many strange things. Men born with two minds. Women who kill themselves and return in other bodies. This world is old, and its rules are not always obedient."
She stepped close. He could smell polished leather and faint lavender.
"You speak differently than other men. You think before you beg. You argue without whining. Why?"
"I was raised differently," he said.
"Raised how?"
"Where I'm from," Niklas said carefully, "men are scholars. Engineers. Alchemists . Leaders."
"And where would that be" she asked amused.
"Another world"
A pause.
Then Alrenia smiled. Not cruelly. Not dismissively. It was a slow, intrigued smile, like a lion hearing a songbird sing Latin.
"How interesting," she murmured.
She stepped back.
"What if I told you," she continued, turning slowly in place, addressing the whole room, "that this man claims he is not of this world? That he comes from a land where men rule… where they build machines and command armies… where they challenge the gods themselves?"
Gasps rippled through the room. One of the guards murmured, "Madness."
Alrenia raised a hand. "Perhaps. But madness, when useful, becomes genius."
She turned back to Niklas. "You intrigue me, Alerik-or-whoever-you-are. But intrigue alone does not buy freedom."
"I didn't ask for freedom."
She arched a brow. "No?"
"I asked for a chance."
There was silence.
Alrenia descended another step, now eye-level with him. "And what would you do with such a chance?"
Niklas took a breath. "Understand your world. Learn your language. Master its systems. Then find a place where I can survive—and serve, if I must."
"Serve?" she echoed.
"Survive," he corrected. "But serving might be the start."
Her eyes sparkled. "Clever boy. Most men don't think that far ahead. Most men cry, beg, or piss themselves at this point."
"I'm not most men."
She smirked. "I've noticed."
A long silence followed. Then she gave a lazy wave to her officers.
"Take him to the gray wing. He's mine now. Not for labor. Not for the pits. He will live—for now."
"Marshal—" one of the guards began.
"Do I sound unsure?" Alrenia's voice dropped like thunder.
"No, Marshal," they replied in unison.
Alrenia stepped back onto the dais. "Feed him. Clean him. Assign a watcher to monitor him. If he truly comes from another world… we'll see what he's worth in this one."
Niklas bowed his head slightly.
She was dangerous. That much was clear. But she wasn't cruel without purpose.
A tool, she said.
Good. Niklas could be a tool—until he became the hand holding the blade