Andrew had learned how to sleep standing up.
Military high school had a way of carving habits into bone how to lock your knees without moving, how to breathe so a supervisor wouldn't notice your chest rise too much, how to exist without being seen. Duty nights were the worst: silence stretched thin as wire, boots polished until they reflected the ceiling lights, and the unspoken rule that exhaustion was weakness.
That night, the moon was wrong.
Andrew noticed it through the narrow window at the end of the corridor, a place he wasn't supposed to linger. Instead of its usual pale white, it glowed like something bruised violet bleeding into red, as if the sky itself had been wounded. The color felt heavy, pressing against his eyes, tugging at something behind them.
He told himself it was fatigue.
His rifle was steady against his shoulder. His uniform was perfect. His thoughts, however, drifted.
Just for a second, he thought. Just a blink.
Sleep took him not like rest, but like falling.
There was no dream only the sensation of being pulled sideways, as if the world had slipped its grip and let him slide through a crack between moments. The violet red light flared once, filling everything, and then,
Andrew woke up.
The ceiling above him was wrong first. Not concrete. Not fluorescent lights. Instead, dark wooden beams crossed overhead, carved with delicate patterns flowers, crescents, and symbols he didn't recognize. Soft fabric brushed his face. The air smelled of incense, powdered herbs, and something sweet, like crushed berries.
He sat up too fast.
Fabric slid from his shoulders in a way that made no sense. His hands tangled in layers of cloth and silk? Linen? cool and smooth beneath his fingers. When he looked down, his breath caught.
He wasn't wearing a uniform.
He was wrapped in layers of flowing garments, dyed in deep blues and pale golds, stitched with fine thread that shimmered when it caught the light. A fitted belt like thing hugged his torso, unfamiliar and constricting, while long sleeves draped past his wrists like ceremonial banners. His legs were covered in soft stockings, his feet bare against a rug so thick it swallowed sound.
A mirror stood across the room.
Andrew approached it slowly, every step uncertain. The person staring back at him was unmistakably himself , same face, same eyes , but altered in ways that made his stomach twist. His hair had been washed, curled, and partially braided, tiny metallic charms woven into the strands. Dark pigment lined his eyes, accentuating them, while faint color brushed his lips and cheeks.
Makeup.
His ears felt heavier. Jewelry , gold and gemstones hung from them, catching the light as he moved.
The room around him came into focus. This wasn't a barracks or a dormitory. It was a noble bedchamber, vast and opulent. Tall arched windows let in sunlight filtered through stained glass. Dress forms stood along the walls, draped in gowns, coats, and elaborate outfits meant for display rather than combat. Tables were cluttered with cosmetics, brushes, powders, ribbons, and delicate blades meant more for ornament than war.
Outside the window, he could see stone towers, banners fluttering in the breeze, and streets far below where men in decorated dresses walked confidently while women strode past in armor and practical tunics, swords at their hips.
The world was upside down.
Before he could process any of it, the door opened.
Servants entered bowing deeply, their expressions calm, unsurprised.
"Thank the heavens," one said softly. "Lord Andren Valecourt has awakened."
The name hit him like a blow.
Andrew opened his mouth to correct them.
But the world had already decided who he was here.
And whatever this place was this medieval world of reversed roles, silk instead of steel, expectation instead of discipline—it had plans for him.