The ride into the city was long and humiliating.
David's wrists were bound with coarse rope, the other end looped around the pommel of the blonde knight's saddle. She rode ahead, never once looking back. Her warhorse moved at a steady trot, forcing David to half-walk, half-jog behind. Every few steps the rope jerked taut, burning his skin.
The city gates loomed ahead—massive iron-bound oak reinforced with black iron bands, flanked by towers bristling with archers. Guards snapped to attention as the knight passed beneath the portcullis. The moment David stepped through, the noise hit him like a wall.
Merchants shouting prices. Hammers ringing on anvils. Children darting between legs. And eyes—hundreds of eyes—turning toward him.
Whispers rippled outward.
"What in the Seven Hells is that clothing?"
"His skin… so pale."
"Is that… metal beast following behind? No reins, no driver?"
David kept his head down, staring at the cobblestones. His jeans, black work boots, and faded gray hoodie stood out like a neon sign among the wool tunics, leather jerkins, and rough-spun cloaks. Someone laughed. Another spat near his feet.
The knight didn't slow. She guided them through crowded market streets, past stalls selling glowing blue mushrooms, racks of strangely curved swords, and cages of iridescent birds that sang in perfect harmony. David felt every stare like needles on his skin.
Finally they reached the barracks—a squat, grim fortress of gray stone attached to the inner city wall. The knight dismounted smoothly, yanked the rope once. David stumbled forward.
"Down," she ordered.
He knelt on the cold stone without protest.
Two armored soldiers approached. One was enormous—broad shoulders, shaved head, arms thick as David's thighs. The giant grabbed David by the upper arm and hauled him upright like he weighed nothing.
"Move," the big man growled.
They dragged him through a low archway, down damp stone steps, and into the undercroft. The smell hit first: mildew, sweat, old blood, and something sour that made David's stomach turn. Iron-barred cells lined both sides of the narrow corridor. Eyes gleamed from the darkness within—curious, hostile, broken.
The big knight shoved David into an empty cell. The door clanged shut. A heavy key turned.
"Enjoy your stay, outlander," the giant rumbled, then walked away laughing low.
David slid down the wall until he sat on the filthy straw. He pressed his bound hands to his face and exhaled slowly.
"Great. Just great."
He patted his pockets. Wallet. Keys. Lighter. And—thank God—the half-crumpled pack of cigarettes. He shook one out, lit it with shaking fingers, and inhaled deeply. The smoke curled upward, briefly cutting through the stench.
Across the corridor, a skinny prisoner with a scarred cheek leaned against his bars.
"You're not from around here, are you, stranger?" the man rasped.
David didn't answer. He just stared at the glowing ember between his fingers.
"Thought so," the prisoner continued. "They don't like things they don't understand. Especially not now. War's got everyone twitchy."
David finally looked up. "War?"
The man grinned, showing missing teeth. "Forenian versus Dormanian. Been bleeding each other for three summers now. Border skirmishes turned into full legions. They think every new face might be a spy. Or worse."
David took another drag. "I'm not a spy. I'm just… lost."
The prisoner snorted. "Tell that to the interrogators."
Above them, in the barracks command chamber, the blonde knight stood at attention before a grizzled man in dark plate armor adorned with a silver hawk emblem. Commander Torren.
She removed her helm and set it on the table with a dull clang.
"Report," Torren said without looking up from the map spread before him.
"Found him on the eastern meadow, sir. Alone. Inside a metal carriage that moved without horses or magic. No visible runes, no summoning residue. He claims he was pulled through a rift in his world. Calls himself David. No weapons. No crest. No guild mark."
Torren finally raised his eyes. "And you believe this tale?"
"I believe he is either the clumsiest spy ever sent by Dormanian… or something we have never seen before." She paused. "He carried strange small sticks that burn and produce smoke. He used one in front of me. No incantation. Just flame from a metal box."
Torren rubbed his jaw. "Interrogate him personally, Ser Alira. Gently at first. If he lies, break him. If he's telling the truth… we may have a problem far worse than spies."
Ser Alira inclined her head. "Understood, Commander."
She turned to leave.
"One more thing," Torren called after her.
She paused at the door.
"If he is Dormanian," Torren said quietly, "I want his head on a pike before the week is out. If he is something else… I want to know what he can do before the enemy does."
Ser Alira's expression didn't change.
"Yes, sir."
She stepped into the corridor and started down the stairs toward the cells, gauntleted hand resting on the hilt of her sword.
In the darkness below, David finished his cigarette, crushed the butt under his boot, and leaned his head back against the stone.
He didn't know what was coming.
But he knew it was coming soon.