Julian drifted in darkness.
Not the restful kind of sleep, but the heavy, drowning black where every breath felt stolen, where the weight of death itself pressed on his chest. Voices swam at the edges of his mind—muffled, sharp, then gone. A cool touch brushed his face once, twice, like hands checking if he still lived. Somewhere, faintly, the sound of iron being dragged. Chains.
He tried to open his eyes, but the world dragged him back under.
When he woke again, it wasn't to silence.
It was to the slow drip of water and the rasp of steel sharpening against stone. His eyes snapped open, lungs pulling in a ragged breath. The ceiling was low, made of rough-hewn wood beams. The air smelled damp, stale, tinged faintly with rot. He tried to move, and the sound came—clink.
His wrists were bound.
Heavy iron shackles dug into his skin, linking him to a wooden post sunk deep into the floor. He sucked in a sharp breath, pulse pounding as reality sank in. He wasn't dead. He wasn't free. He was a prisoner.
The sharpening stopped.
"You're awake."
The voice was gravelly, low, carrying the kind of authority that came from years of shouting orders over battlefields. From the shadows at the edge of the room, a man stepped forward.
He was broad-shouldered, his armor mismatched and battered—one pauldron steel, the other leather, his breastplate scratched with old scars that told stories of survival. A mercenary, or deserter, Julian thought. His hair was streaked with gray, his jawline hard and lined. In his hand, he held a long dagger, its edge gleaming from the whetstone he'd been using.
Julian swallowed hard.
"Where am I?" His voice cracked.
The man didn't answer right away. He crouched, bringing himself level with Julian. His eyes were cold, unreadable, but sharp—like a hawk weighing whether prey was worth the strike.
"You were found half-dead in the mud," the man finally said. "Sword in your hand, blood all over you. You don't wear the colors of any lord. You don't carry a crest. You're no soldier. And yet…" His gaze flicked to Julian's shoulder wound. "You survived a rider's spear and lived to swing back. Strange."
Julian's throat felt dry. He wanted to speak, but he had no idea what to say. I died in another world. I don't belong here.Who would believe that?
"I'm no one," Julian managed. "I don't know how I got here."
The mercenary's eyes narrowed. "Everyone's someone. And nobody just appears in a war zone without reason."
He stood, pacing once around the room. Julian glanced past him, trying to take in his surroundings. It wasn't a dungeon, exactly. The walls were reinforced wood, not stone. A hide curtain covered what might be the only exit. A makeshift fire pit smoldered in the center, casting smoke up through a crack in the beams. A camp, Julian realized. He was in some kind of camp.
The man turned back to him. "My men think you're a deserter. Caught fleeing a battle. They want me to put you to the sword." He tapped the dagger against his palm, watching Julian's reaction. "I haven't decided yet."
Julian's heart thundered. He pulled at the chains instinctively, the iron biting into his wrists.
"I'm not a deserter."
"Then what are you?"
Julian opened his mouth. Nothing came. The truth would damn him. A lie could do worse. He stayed silent.
The man's lips twitched in something almost like amusement, though it never reached his eyes. He sheathed the dagger.
"Then you'll earn the right to live long enough to prove it."
He turned, pulling aside the hide curtain. Light from outside flooded in for the first time, nearly blinding Julian. Beyond, voices barked orders. The clang of steel, the low rumble of horses. A warband's camp, alive with restless energy.
But it wasn't the camp that made Julian's blood run cold.
It was the banners.
Dark red cloth, stitched with a black sigil—two crossed spears impaling a crown. The same banners he had seen burning on the battlefield before he collapsed. Whoever these men were, they weren't saviors. They were part of the slaughter.
The mercenary looked back over his shoulder. "You'll march with us tomorrow. If you fall behind, you die. If you try to flee, you die. If you raise your hand against us…" He let the sentence hang, the weight of it heavier than the chains on Julian's wrists.
Julian's stomach twisted.
The curtain fell shut. Darkness swallowed him again, save for the weak glow of the fire. The clink of chains echoed in his ears as he slumped back against the post.
His mother's face flickered in his mind—her eyes, her blood, her words. You're stronger than you think.
But how strong could he be, shackled and alone in a world that wanted nothing more than to break him?
Julian closed his eyes, teeth grit against the rising tide of despair.
Outside, the sound of a horn split the night. Long, low, and haunting. Shouts followed, feet pounding, steel unsheathed. The camp roared to life.
Julian froze.
Something was coming.
The horn's echo lingered in the night air, deep and foreboding. Julian stiffened, chains rattling as he instinctively pulled tighter against the post.
Shouts erupted outside, urgent and disorganized. The scrape of steel against scabbards, boots hammering against the mud, horses whinnying in panic.
The hide curtain was shoved aside. A young soldier stumbled into the tent, barely older than Julian, his armor loose on his thin frame. Sweat plastered his hair to his brow.
"They're here!" the boy gasped, voice high with panic. "Scouts say they've breached the outer line! Raiders!"
The grizzled mercenary—the man who had questioned Julian—rose slowly to his feet. His expression barely shifted, but his hand slid to the hilt of his longsword.
"Steady," he growled. "They're testing the camp. Nothing more." He cast Julian a sharp glance. "Don't let him out of your sight."
The boy nodded shakily and backed out of the tent, torchlight flickering across his pale face before he vanished.
The older man paused at the entrance. For a heartbeat, the torchlight caught his profile: hard eyes, mouth set in an iron line, a man who had seen this before.
Then he was gone.
Julian's pulse hammered. He twisted against the chains, the iron biting deeper. Useless. His wrists were raw and slick with blood from pulling. The shouts outside grew louder, less organized. The unmistakable clang of steel on steel cut through the night, followed by a scream that curdled Julian's blood.
The camp was under attack.
The tent flap jerked again. This time, it wasn't the boy.
A man stumbled inside, clutching his throat, blood bubbling between his fingers. His eyes were wide, wild, already glazing. He collapsed to the floor with a wet thud, torch spilling from his other hand. Flames licked against the hide wall, smoke curling upward.
Julian froze. His heart stuttered in his chest.
The dying man twitched once, then stilled. His blood spread across the floor, seeping toward Julian's boots.
Footsteps followed. Slow, deliberate.
A shadow filled the doorway.
For a moment, Julian thought it was another soldier, but then he saw the figure clearly—taller, leaner, wrapped in furs dark with soot and ash. A crude helm masked most of the man's face, but his eyes glinted with feral light, and in his hand he carried an axe so notched it looked like it had bitten through bone more times than wood.
The raider's gaze swept the tent. It stopped on Julian.
Chained. Helpless.
Prey.
The man's lips curled into a grin beneath the helm. He stepped inside, dragging the axe across the ground with a slow scrape that made Julian's teeth clench.
Julian's breath came fast, shallow. His mind screamed to move, to fight, but his arms were pinned to the post, shackled tight. He could barely shift.
The raider raised the axe, lifting it high.
Julian shut his eyes, every muscle straining, every nerve alight with terror.
And then—
Clash!
Steel met steel.
The axe froze mid-swing, caught by a blade. The grizzled mercenary had returned, his longsword locking the blow in place. His eyes blazed in the firelight.
"Not this one," he growled.
The raider snarled, shoving forward with raw strength. The mercenary held his ground, sparks flying as the blades screeched against each other.
Julian twisted, chains rattling, his pulse racing so hard it hurt. Fire spread along the tent wall, smoke thickening, heat biting into his skin. He coughed violently, eyes stinging, lungs burning.
The mercenary shoved the raider back, driving his sword forward in a brutal thrust. The blade sank deep into the man's chest. The raider's eyes went wide, his grin fading to shock. He coughed blood, dropping to his knees before slumping forward, dead.
The mercenary yanked his sword free with a wet sound. He didn't look at Julian right away, only at the spreading fire.
"Damn it," he hissed. He slashed the burning hide with his blade, tearing an opening. Smoke billowed out into the night.
Only then did his eyes snap to Julian, chained and wide-eyed.
"You want to live, boy?" he barked.
Julian nodded furiously, coughing again as smoke filled his lungs.
The mercenary strode over, dagger flashing. With one hard strike, he severed the chains binding Julian's wrists. The iron fell away with a heavy clatter. Julian gasped, flexing his aching arms, blood rushing back into them.
"Then fight," the mercenary said, shoving the dagger into Julian's palm. "Or die screaming."
Julian stared at the blade, its edge still slick with someone else's blood. His hands trembled. His heart roared in his ears.
Outside, the camp erupted in chaos. Raiders poured through the defenses, torches blazing, voices howling. The air filled with the smell of burning wood and flesh.
The mercenary tore through the tent flap, sword raised. He vanished into the firelit night.
Julian stumbled after him, dagger clutched in his shaking hand.
The world outside was hell.
Flames devoured tents. Horses screamed, ripping free of their tethers. Men hacked each other down in the mud, blood and fire mixing into a grotesque canvas. The banners of the black crown fell, burning in the chaos.
Julian froze, his breath stolen by the carnage. His body screamed to run, to hide, to vanish into the forest.
But then-
One of the raiders turned toward him. Eyes feral. Axe dripping.
Julian tightened his grip on the dagger. His hands still shook, but his teeth clenched hard enough to ache.
His mother's words echoed in his skull. You're stronger than you think.
The raider roared and charged.
Julian raised the dagger.
And leapt forward.
And chained or not, he was about to be dragged into it.