The guards did not grab him this time. They held him in place on either side. Trace walked because walking felt safer than being dragged.

  The palace unfolded through long corridors under vaulted ceilings ribbed with dark oak. Storm-cloud banners bore silver stags, while stained glass scattered fractured battle scenes across the marble floors. The air carried old wood and lamp oil, threaded with the iron smell that lived anywhere soldiers did. Servants stared, whispers trailing him in their wake.

  Whispers thickened as he passed, each word sticking to him like burs.

  “Too old.”

  “Not armored.”

  “Reeks of drink.”

  Trace caught fragments, never the whole. Eyes forced forward, the weight of them pressed down anyway. Marble pillars climbed high overhead, etched with reliefs of kings and stags, of champions holding banners aloft. In one carving, a man raised a spear toward a sky split with fire. In another, a woman stood on a pile of broken blades.

  Had someone dragged any of them here half drunk, or were the carvings just propaganda?

  Compared to his trailer’s peeling linoleum and sagging ceiling tiles, the palace looked like it belonged to another species entirely.

  “False champion,” one voice hissed from behind a column.

  “Look at his size,” another murmured, equal parts awe and scandal.

  He should have been dizzy. Half a bar’s worth of beer and bourbon sloshed under his ribs like a lake in a storm. But his steps did not falter. The world was sharper now, vision clean, balance steady.

  Rolling a shoulder, the joint sang cleanly. That was new.

  “From Maggie’s barstool to palace marble floors,” he muttered. “Hell of a promotion.”

  The guards led him through a steaming doorway, and the air changed instantly—warmer, thicker, carrying cedarwood and herbs. Carved marble and mosaic lined the chamber, a sunken pool shimmering in torchlight.

  Three attendants waited beside the water, moving with precise silence. They reached for the thin cloak clinging to his shoulders. When they drew it away, he felt exposed.

  His grip tightened on the bottle. The attendants noticed the boots and dog tags but made no move toward them. The bottle went down within reach. Boots and tags stayed close.

  They guided him toward the pool. Steam coiled from its surface, faint runes glowing beneath the water.

  He lowered himself in, jaw tight. Instead of poison, heat seeped into him, dragging aches from his shoulders, clearing the pounding in his skull. Relief spread, borrowed and unsettling.

  The water felt alive. Currents curled across his skin, pulling at him gently… hungrily.

  Attendants worked in silence, brushing cloths along old wounds. Their rhythm made his teeth clench.

  Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

  “Marked,” one whispered at the scar across his ribs.

  “A survivor’s path,” murmured another at his shoulder.

  Not kindness. A claim.

  When they drew him from the water, they draped a pale robe across him. In a bronze mirror, he saw a man remade—clean, upright, someone who might belong here.

  He hated it.

  The guards led him again. This time they stopped before a carved oak door banded in iron. Inside waited a chamber larger than his entire trailer.

  A wide window showed the training yard below—soldiers drilling, shield lines bracing, archers loosing arrows in rhythmic volleys.

  A feast covered a low table—roast meat steaming, bread cracking with heat, pears shining like polished gems.

  It all felt like a cage disguised as comfort.

  On the bed lay a set of expensive clothes, formal enough to pass as noble.

  One escort gestured. “Eat. Rest. In five hours, we return for the feast.”

  The other sniffed. “Do not leave the chamber. The king expects you to arrive… sober.”

  Trace gave a dry laugh. “Right. Because staying sober worked out so well before.”

  They locked the door behind him.

  He ate first. Hunger didn't care about politics. Everything tasted too good, too rich. The pear nearly hurt with sweetness.

  Then the flicker came.

  Movement at the edge of his vision—sharp now, insistent.

  He leaned back. “Alright. If you’re real, I’m looking.”

  The world answered.

  [Outworlder Integration Detected]

  [Analyzing Host Body…]

  [Language Protocol Active]

  [Local Tongue: Vaelthari Common – Fluency 100%]

  Trace rubbed his temple. “So that’s why I can understand these people. Rosetta Stone done gone sci-fi.”

  The glow intensified.

  [Scanning physiology…]

  [Musculature: Above baseline (military conditioning)]

  [Reflex Profile: Trained combatant]

  [Injury Record: Severe trauma, partial recovery]

  [Psychological Profile: Survivor. Alcohol dependence present.]

  His pulse hammered. It read him like a file.

  [Assigning Attributes…]

  [Strength: 14]

  [Agility: 11]

  [Constitution: 15]

  [Intelligence: 9]

  [Perception: 12]

  [Willpower: 13]

  [Charisma: 10]

  [Level: 1]

  “Hell of a way to put a guy under a microscope.”

  [Skill Recognition…]

  [Tactical Awareness I]

  [Rural Foraging I]

  “Yeah. Sounds about right.”

  Then—

  [Anomaly Detected]

  [Blood chemistry shows long-term ethanol saturation]

  [Tolerance extreme]

  [Free Ability Assigned: Iron Stomach]

  [Effect: Immune to toxins, venoms, poisons.]

  [Alcohol counts as a mild stimulant.]

  “So my big heroic power is drinking myself poison-proof. Perfect.”

  Then the knife-twist:

  [Psychological Trauma Logged]

  [Incident: Rotorcraft crash]

  [Casualties: Multiple teammates deceased]

  [Condition: Aviophobia]

  [Debuff: Vertigo]

  [Effect: While airborne, Perception –80%, Coordination –60%]

  His breath froze.

  The screams. The fire. The crash.

  Even in another world, it hadn’t left him.

  [Integration Complete]

  And the glow vanished.

  A knock sounded—three taps.

  Trace straightened. “Come in.”

  A young servant entered, bowed. “My lord. I bring word from a friend at court.”

  Trace frowned. “Which friend?”

  “One who values your survival. Skip the feast. Claim illness. A ship leaves for the Eastern Kingdoms at dawn. Passage can be arranged.”

  “Why?”

  “Certain lords… view you as provocative.”

  Trace studied him. The concern felt rehearsed.

  “Generous offer. Your master’s name?”

  “Discretion forbids.”

  Right.

  The servant’s hand drifted toward his belt.

  In one smooth motion, Trace twisted his wrist, disarmed him, and pressed the blade to his throat.

  “That’s more honest. Who sent you?”

  “Lord Hartwell!” he blurted. “He only wanted—”

  “He wanted me gone before I could make allies.”

  Trace pounded the door. “Guards! Special delivery.”

  They rushed in. Trace handed the man over.

  After they dragged the servant away, he noticed the untouched goblet of wine. The color was wrong. The clarity off.

  He lifted it. His stomach felt nothing. Not even a buzz.

  Poison.

  He set it down carefully.

  “Two attempts in one afternoon. Either I’m making friends fast… or Lord Hartwell’s getting desperate.”

  Footsteps whispered outside the door.

  Trace leaned back, bottle in hand.

  “Yep. Definitely not hospitality.”

  The silence pressed in, thick enough to count as company.