I sat in the cold stone prison cell. The walls were worn from time and weathered hands. The door was made of aged wood, its iron bands flaking rust. I was literally wearing a potato sack. Steam drifted from a wooden bowl of thin potato soup near the stone slab that served as my bed. But I wasn't hungry.
It was my second day here.
How did I get here?
My nephew decided to have a shotgun wedding in Minnesota, In January. His high school girlfriend was pregnant, and her father was demanding a ceremony. I figured I'd do the family thing and drove out from Florida.
Somewhere along the way, the weather turned brutal. White-out snow. My phone lost signal, and the GPS locked up. Visibility was zero. I was on a highway with no plows in sight and snow piling up fast. I had to get off the road.
Anyone who's driven through Minnesota knows how empty it can be. I took what looked like an exit and followed a narrow road, hoping to find a gas station, diner, anything. Nothing. No signs of life.
I tried to turn around, but of course, my decrepit Toyota Camry got stuck. I sat in the car for a while, watching my gas gauge drop. I started turning the engine on and off, running the heat in bursts. Every time I restarted it, I'd get out and check the exhaust pipe for snow. Then I'd crawl back in and huddle over the vents, trying to coax warmth into my numb fingers.
The sun set, and the cold deepened. By 1 a.m., the tank was empty. The snow had slowed, thankfully. That's when I noticed a distant light—faint, barely visible through the darkness and drifting snow.
It didn't look like a streetlamp. That gave me hope. I layered up as best I could and trudged toward it through snow nearly up to my thighs. It felt endless, but I made it.
The light came from a barn.
No nearby house. Just the barn, standing silent and heavy under the snow. I walked around it, searching for signs of life—no luck. Desperate, shivering, I pried open the old wooden door just enough to squeeze in.
The air inside was freezing, but dry. Using my phone's light, I searched around and eventually found some old, rank-smelling horse blankets. They stank, but I didn't care. I bundled them together into a crude nest and collapsed. My whole body was aching, my breath fogged in front of me, and I couldn't feel my toes.
I passed out almost immediately.
When I woke, the light filtering through the barn door told me it was morning. My first thought was for my phone—gone. My second: I was naked.
I blinked, disoriented. I didn't remember undressing. Had I done it in my sleep? In a cold-induced haze? I couldn't remember. Panic crept up my spine as I scrambled on my hands and knees, searching for my clothes.
Then the barn door swung open.
A woman stood there. Middle-aged. Apron. Her eyes widened.
We locked eyes.
She screamed.
Instinctively, I lurched forward, trying to calm her, but I was still naked and crawling toward her like a lunatic. Not my best moment.
She ran off. I ran after her, yelling that I wasn't dangerous, that I could explain—but I forgot where I was. Forgot that I had no idea where I was.
Outside the barn, I found myself in the middle of a farm. There were chickens flapping, horses in a nearby stable, and a large farmhouse looming in the morning light.
Three young men burst out the front door, shouting in a language I didn't recognize. Their anger was immediate. I tried to explain, hands raised, but nothing I said landed.
Then an older man came out, armed with a small, ancient-looking crossbow.
I dropped to my knees and put my hands behind my head, praying the universal gesture of "don't shoot" translated well enough.
It must have. I wasn't shot. Instead, the young men tied me up. They argued loudly with their parents, the woman still shaken. Their speech sounded vaguely familiar—there were hints I almost understood—but I couldn't make sense of it.
After some time, they apparently decided to take me to the authorities.
Still naked, I was tossed into a wooden wagon hitched to horses. For the next six hours, I rode in silence, bound and freezing, bouncing over rough country roads. Fields of rye and wheat blurred past. I tried to speak, to plead, to ask questions—but no one answered me. Not even a glance.
Eventually, we reached a walled city straight out of the Middle Ages. I was escorted into a stone building and thrown into this cell, handed a rough burlap sack with armholes.
No one spoke to me for two full days.
Then the man in yellow robes arrived.
He was tall and neat, with a stern face and sharp eyes. His clothes—gold-trimmed and spotless—contrasted harshly with the filth around me. He didn't speak at first. Just glanced at my soup, then at me.
Then he handed me a thick metal disc.
"This device will allow us to talk, foreigner," he said.
I understood him perfectly. His words bypassed language and hit my mind directly. The shock of it paralyzed me for a beat.
"I am Magistrate Advocate Curtis," he continued. "Your crimes have been logged. Do you wish your name to be recorded with the decree, or shall it be left blank?"
I blinked. "Crimes?"
He nodded, his voice steady and emotionless. "You've been convicted of four offenses: trespassing, assault, attempted rape, and theft. Each carries a fine of ten silver."
My stomach dropped. "What? I didn't even have a trial."
"A visiting Reality-seer confirmed the crimes," he said. "Hydran and his family were questioned. The verdict was certified. The court paid the fines on your behalf. You now owe the Empire."
I stared at him, the disc in my hand suddenly feeling very heavy. It was hard to breathe.
"Can I speak to the Reality-seer?" I asked, my voice shaking.
"He has already returned to the capital. This translation amulet was loaned for your benefit, nothing more."
Of course. Just enough explanation to make my imprisonment feel official.
Other than trespassing, the charges were lies—fabricated to extort money from an outsider. But I kept my face neutral. Anger would only make things worse.
"If you cannot pay," he continued, "you may work off your debt. Two years of manual labor under court contract."
I felt hollow.
"Or," he added, "you can enlist in the militia . Foreigners are accepted. You'll receive training, food, shelter. After seven weeks, a soldier earns one silver and eight copper per week."
He studied me carefully.
"You have good size. Soft, but with potential. You'll adapt. You'll learn our tongue quickly. And if you qualify, there's the Legionnaire. Their pay is five times higher. They take outlanders, too."
It took everything I had not to flinch. I'd gone from wedding guest to criminal to conscript in less than a week.
Still… the militia meant food, shelter, training—maybe even answers. I needed a way to survive. I needed protection.
"I'll join," I said softly. "The militia ."
Curtis nodded, as if it were inevitable. "Excellent. First, we'll assess your potential."
He produced a stone tablet etched in silvery script. "Place your hands here. This device will reveal your aptitude."
I obeyed. The stone pulsed with light.
"This is an old model," he explained, "but accurate enough. The first number in each line is your current score. The second is your potential. Humans typically rate between 10 and 25 currently, with 30 to 60 potential."
He began reading aloud.
"Your physical stats—strength, endurance, coordination—qualify you for the army. Barely. But enough." He raised an eyebrow. "You also meet the Legion's minimums, which require higher thresholds—40s and 60s in key areas. Only one in three survive the training."
I nodded. I didn't need easy. I needed effective.
He moved to the next column. "Mentally, you're quite strong. Intellect, reasoning, perception—impressive. Magic… not so much. Your pool is shallow, your shaping is weak. However…"
He paused. "Your affinities are rare. Both of them. If your magical stats had been stronger, you could've attended a Mage College—with sponsorship."
The idea lit a spark inside me—Mage College? Magic? But it was snuffed out just as fast.
"Not in this lifetime," he added with a faint smirk.
I asked the one question that mattered most. "If I join the Legion… how long is the service?"
"Five years," he said. "All expenses paid. You'll be trained, equipped, and compensated well. If you fail the training, you'll be assigned to the standard army. No penalty, just lower status."
I didn't hesitate. "I want to try for the Legion."
His smile said he'd already assumed as much. "Excellent. I'll handle the paperwork."
Later, I learned he got a commission for each recruit—one silver for a soldier, a quarter-gold for a legionnaire.
That evening, my soup had meat in it. I was even given buttered bread. I wasn't stupid—I knew I was being fattened for the forge.
Two days later, I was placed in a wagon with other recruits. I had a sealed letter and a copy of my tablet reading. The amulet was taken. The silence returned.
The journey took six days. We stopped in small towns. More recruits joined at each one. I tried to pick up pieces of the language in that time, only figuring out to say "My name is Marcus".
By the time we reached the training camp, there were twenty-four of us. Most were assigned to the militia's main camp—long rows of barracks, men drilling in tight formations.
But three of us—larger, sturdier—were separated. We were taken to a different compound. Stone walls, fewer recruits. A large manor loomed beyond.
The legionnaires.
Inside the wooden barracks, I found an empty bunk and dropped into it. My body ached. My mind was still reeling.
But for the first time since that storm, I felt a sliver of certainty.
I wasn't home. I wasn't safe. But I had a path forward now.
And I was going to survive.