My vision flickered, fading in and out like a busted TV. My hands were tied behind my back, rope biting into my wrists, chafing them bloody. These fucking assholes, I thought, cuffing me like I'm the bad guy when I got jumped. "You fuckin' pricks couldn't even kill me with those bitch-ass numbers!" I shouted, voice hoarse, expecting a CO's baton to shut me up. But my eyes adjusted, and—what the fuck? This wasn't a cell. It was a tent, stinking of sweat and damp leather, packed with scrawny boys, maybe 12 to 16, their faces pale, eyes wide like spooked deer. They wore ragged tunics, some in patched leather, like they'd raided a Renaissance fair's dumpster. What kind of freak show is this?
"Aethel, stop yelling, they'll hear!" a kid hissed, dark hair flopping over darker eyes. Edward, I knew his name somehow, like it was burned into my brain. How the hell do I know this kid? I glanced down at my hands, now free as Edward cut the ropes with a jagged stone. They weren't my hands. No Viking warrior tattoo on my forearm, no knotted muscles from years of prison iron. These were smaller, smoother, a teenager's hands. Am I dreaming? I stumbled to a bucket of water by the tent's edge, splashing my face, and caught my reflection. A kid stared back—15, maybe, straight blond hair, bright blue eyes, angular jaw, pretty as a damn model. Jesus, I'm a fuckin' heartthrob. But my wrists stung, raw and bloody. Dreams don't hurt like this.
"Jamie, you need to start thinking," I muttered to myself, shaking off the haze. Edward waved me over, but I eyed the tent flap, ready to bolt. "Aethel, don't go," he whispered, voice cracking. "They won't let you leave." I snorted. "Listen up, bud, name's fuckin' Jamie, first off. Second, I've been in the clink 15 years. I'll be damned if I'm locked up in my dreams too." The boys protested, their voices a scared murmur, but I ignored them, shoving through the flap.
Outside, a camp sprawled—tents ringed by fires, men in leather vests and breeches, gripping spears and shields, their faces hard under matted beards. Two riders on scrawny horses patrolled, while oxen pulled creaking carts piled with loot. This ain't Texas. Before I could process, a brute—six feet of muscle, leather armor creaking—growled some guttural language and charged. His fist cracked my jaw, stars bursting, then he grabbed my hair, yanking me down, slamming my face into the dirt. Earth filled my mouth, gritty and sour. Kicks pounded my ribs, each thud stealing breath, pain flaring like fire. I twisted, hooking his ankle with an imanari roll—prison jiu-jitsu, baby—and locked his leg, ready to snap it like a twig. Crack his ankle, Jamie. But another guard, hearing the scuffle, sprinted over, his boot smashing my face. Teeth rattled, blood sprayed, and I saw stars, letting go. They dragged me back to the tent, tossing me like garbage, spitting curses in that same harsh tongue.
Edward knelt beside me, wiping blood from my lip. "You okay, Aethel?" I spat, tasting iron. "I'm all good, man, but where the fuck are we?" He frowned. "You don't remember?" I shook my head. He whispered, "We were raiding with our fathers, seasoning us up, when the Franks hit us. Half our band fled, but we got caught. Been marching southwest a few days." Franks? That word hit like a brick. Torches, tents, raids—this wasn't modern. I was in the goddamn past, reincarnated or some shit. Or it's a shitty dream. "Germany? France? Where are we?" I pressed. Edward just stared, confused, like I'd asked for a GPS. I was about to rip into him for being useless when the tent flap opened, and they threw in a kid, maybe 13, tears streaming, curling into a fetal ball, sobbing. I almost called him a pussy, but Edward punched my arm. "Shut it," he hissed. The other boys—lost, traumatized eyes—gathered the kid, checking his bruises.
"Every so often, he takes a boy," Edward whispered, nodding toward the big tent. "Does awful things." I knew that look, those hollow eyes. Same as the pedo I smashed in prison. My gut twisted. This fucker's getting the same treatment. I'd swiped a flint shard from the guard's satchel during the scuffle, sharp as a razor. I tucked it in my breeches, hiding it from the boys.
They kicked us awake at dawn, ribs throbbing from another boot. We stumbled out, forced to pack the Frankish camp—tents down, oxen yoked, fires doused. Edward introduced me to Kendal and Morgan, two redheaded brothers, 16, tall at 5'9", strong builds, their leather tunics patched, eyes hard but loyal. "Aethel's not right," Edward muttered to them, tapping his head. "Doesn't remember much." I ignored him, sharpening my flint on a rock as we marched, the shard taking a wicked point. Two riders led the column, spears glinting, while thirty Frankish warriors herded us, shields slung, barking orders. Oxen groaned, carts rattling with stolen iron and grain.
"What's with the rock, Aethel?" Edward asked, voice low, as we paused by a stream. "You can't take these guys. They killed Father, our warband." His eyes glistened, ready to cry. I sighed. "Edward, stop being a little bitch. Don't limit me. You can box yourself up, but I'm getting the fuck outta here. Help me or stay." Kendal and Morgan nodded, like I'd dropped some ancient wisdom. Kids, man. "Get the boys ready, the ones with guts," I said. "When that bastard picks me for his tent, I'm ending him."
The camp was a shithole by dusk, fires spitting, the air thick with smoke and the stench of unwashed Franks. My flint shard was razor-sharp now, tucked in my breeches, ready to carve some justice. This fucker's gonna choke on his own blood. The boys—Edward, Kent, Kendal, Morgan, and a dozen others—huddled in our tent, their torn tunics and patched leather reeking of fear and dirt. Edward's dark eyes darted, Kent's were dead from his time in the big tent, and the redheads, built like teenage oxen, kept glancing at me like I was their damn messiah. What am I, a fucking Viking guru?
The tent flap ripped open, and the curly-haired Frank stormed in, bare-chested, scars crisscrossing his chest like a drunk's map. He pointed at me, barking some guttural shit, waving me over. Oh, you sick bastard, it's on. The boys froze, Edward's face white as a sheet, Kent curling tighter into his ball. "Aethel, don't," Edward whispered, but I smirked. "Chill, kid, I got this." Time for some prison justice, stealth mode. A guard shoved me out, spear prodding my back, and I clocked the camp—two riders on scrawny horses circling, three warriors by the fires, spears glinting, shields slung, oxen carts quiet. Five guards awake, thirty total. Gotta be quiet.
Inside the big tent, it stank of grease and blood, a low fire crackling. The Frank, curly hair matted, grinned like a wolf, pointing to a wooden slab piled with roasted meat and crusty bread. Prison 101: don't take the honeybun, dumbass. But I needed strength to gut this prick, so I tore into the food, grease dripping down my chin, chewing loud to mask my nerves. Fuck your hospitality, creep. He babbled in his tongue, small talk, not caring if I replied. Keep yapping, asshole. My fingers grazed the flint, heart pounding like a jackhammer. He pointed to a pile of furs—his bed—eyes glinting with that sick hunger I knew from the clink. Showtime. I shook my head, giving him one chance to not be a complete scumbag. He didn't take it, grabbing my hair, yanking me toward the furs, his breath hot and sour.
I moved like a shadow, silent as death, flint slashing his throat in one smooth flick. Blood sprayed, a warm gush splattering my face, but I clamped my hand over his mouth, muffling his gurgle—vocal cords shredded, just a wet wheeze, like a punctured bellows. No screams, fucker. He stumbled, eyes bulging like boiled eggs, hands clawing his neck. I tripped him, easing him down quiet, no crash to alert the guards. My foot pressed his chest, pinning him, and I slashed again, deeper, blood pooling under him, dark and sticky, soaking the furs. His nose crunched under my heel, a soft squelch, then his eyeball popped, jelly oozing into the red sludge. Sick bastard got his, nice and quiet. I grinned, wiping the flint on his breeches, heart racing but steady. Prison taught me one thing: don't get caught.
I crept to the flap, peeking out. The guards hadn't moved—two by the fire, laughing, spears leaning, the riders circling far off. Nobody heard shit. I grabbed his iron dagger, a crude blade, and a leather pouch—coins, maybe loot. Slipping back to our tent, I slid in silent, the boys staring, eyes wide. Edward whispered, "Aethel, you okay?" I spat, tasting blood from my earlier beating. "Peachy, kid. Fucker's dead, throat cut, no noise." Kent's eyes flickered, less dead now, and Kendal and Morgan nodded, like I'd just won a fucking Oscar. These kids are nuts. "Get ready," I said. "We're busting outta this shithole soon, or we're all dead."