Historia tilted her head slightly, her blue eyes narrowing as if trying to peel back his words for something deeper. The stable's dim light caught the faint dusting of freckles across her nose, and for a split second, Alex forgot where he was—until the sharp whinny of a horse snapped him back.
"Not most people," she repeated, her tone still neutral but carrying a faint edge of curiosity.
Alex forced a shrug, keeping his movements casual despite the sweat prickling at the back of his neck. "Just here to do my job. Don't need to stir up trouble."
Her lips twitched—not quite a smile, but close enough to make his stomach lurch. She stepped closer, boots crunching softly on the straw-strewn floor. The space between them felt smaller than it should, and Alex caught the faint scent of bread and lavender clinging to her.
"Trouble finds people whether they want it or not," she said, her voice quieter now, almost conspiratorial. "Especially here."
He didn't know how to respond to that. His mind raced, flipping through everything he knew about her—Historia Reiss. The Historia from the manga was kind but guarded, burdened by a past she couldn't escape. This Historia, standing two feet away, felt… realer. Sharper. Like she was sizing him up not as a queen, but as someone who'd seen too much to trust easily.
He cleared his throat, setting the pitchfork against a stall. "Guess that's true. But I'm just a guy shoveling horse shit. Trouble's not exactly knocking."
Her gaze flicked to the pitchfork, then back to his face. "You don't talk like a refugee from Trost. Or act like one."
His heart skipped. Shit. Had he slipped? He'd been careful—no modern slang, no references to tech or anything that didn't fit. But her eyes were too sharp, catching details he hadn't even considered. He forced a laugh, rough and unpolished. "Evacuations mess with your head. Lost everything. Guess I'm just… adjusting."
She didn't buy it. He could tell from the way her brow furrowed, just for a moment, before smoothing out. But she didn't press. Instead, she reached into the small basket slung over her arm and pulled out a hunk of bread, offering it to him.
"Eat," she said simply. "You look like you need it."
He hesitated, then took it. The bread was coarse, heavy, but still warm. His stomach growled, betraying him, and he tore off a piece, chewing slowly to buy time. "Thanks," he muttered, avoiding her eyes.
She watched him for a moment longer, then turned toward the door. "Keep your head down, Alex from Trost," she said over her shoulder. "Trouble doesn't care how quiet you are."
And then she was gone, the gate creaking shut behind her.
Alex stood there, bread in hand, heart pounding. He didn't move until the sound of her footsteps faded completely. Then he exhaled, long and shaky, and sank onto a nearby crate.
What the hell was that?
The next few days were a blur of routine. Stable work kept him busy—mucking stalls, hauling feed, dodging the occasional kick from a temperamental horse. The camp hummed with its own rhythm: soldiers drilling, refugees shuffling through lines for food, whispers of Titans and Scouts and the queen's latest moves. Alex kept his ears open, piecing together scraps of information.
The walls were still standing, but Wall Maria was gone, lost years ago to the Colossal Titan. The Scouts were planning something big—another expedition, maybe. And Historia? She was everywhere and nowhere, slipping into camps to hand out food, then vanishing before the MPs could make a fuss. The soldiers grumbled about her recklessness, but the refugees loved her for it. Alex couldn't help but admire her nerve, even if it made his own situation more complicated.
He'd started keeping notes. Every night, by the flicker of a stolen candle, he scratched out what he remembered from Attack on Titan on that scrap of paper. Names. Events. Timelines. Eren's descent. The Rumbling. He wasn't sure where in the story he'd landed—post-Wall Maria but pre-Rumbling, maybe?—but he needed to be ready. If this world followed the plot, things were about to get ugly.
And then there was Historia. Her visits to the stables were sporadic but deliberate. A basket of bread here, a quiet word there. She never lingered long, but each time, her eyes seemed to linger on him a fraction longer than necessary. It wasn't flirtation—not even close. It was like she was testing him, waiting for him to slip up.
He didn't. He couldn't afford to.
But the camp wasn't a safe place to hide forever. Rumors swirled about conscription—refugees being drafted into the military to bolster numbers. Alex overheard a pair of soldiers talking about "fresh meat" for the Scouts, and his stomach twisted. He wasn't built for fighting Titans. He wasn't built for fighting, period. Back home, he'd been a desk jockey, not a soldier. His only weapon was his knowledge of the story—and even that felt like a flimsy shield.
One evening, as he hauled water to the stables, he caught sight of a familiar figure near the camp's edge. Historia, flanked by two MPs, was speaking to a group of refugees. Her voice was steady, carrying over the murmurs of the crowd. Something about food rations, new shelters. The refugees hung on her words, their faces a mix of hope and desperation.
Alex paused, watching from a distance. She looked small against the backdrop of the camp, but her presence filled the space. The MPs shifted uncomfortably, their hands on their swords, clearly unhappy with her being so exposed. Alex couldn't blame them. If he remembered the story right, Historia's position as queen was shaky at best. Too many people wanted her gone—or controlled.
He turned away, focusing on his buckets. Keep your head down, she'd said. Good advice. He planned to follow it.
That night, the barracks were quieter than usual. The sky hung low with the promise of rain, and the other refugees lay restless, murmuring about distant thunder and Titans. Alex lay on his cot, eyes fixed on the splintered beams above, the scrap of paper tucked tight beneath his shirt like a secret prayer. He was running out of space. Running out of time.
A knock—barely more than a tap—broke through the silence. He sat up, heart already thudding. None of the others stirred.
He slipped to the door and opened it a crack.
Historia stood outside. Alone. Her cloak drawn tight against the cold, her expression unreadable.
"Walk with me," she said.
They didn't speak as she led him past the low-burning cookfires, through a hush that made every step sound louder than it should. When they reached the stables, she stopped, one hand resting lightly on the doorframe.
She turned. "You're careful. I'll give you that."
Alex didn't move. "You brought me out here to say that?"
"No." Her voice was quieter now. "I brought you here because I don't like not knowing who's in my camp. And I don't like lies."
He stayed silent, reading the edge in her eyes. There was no accusation yet—only warning.
"I've met plenty of people running from something," she went on. "You don't walk like someone afraid of the past. You walk like someone afraid of the future."
That almost cracked him. Almost.
"I'm not a danger to you," he said, choosing his words like stepping around tripwires. "I'm just trying to stay useful."
"You are," she said, and for a second he thought she might leave it there. But she didn't. "Too useful, maybe."
She didn't ask him anything else. Didn't press. Just looked at him a moment longer, then walked away, her footsteps vanishing into the dark.