Trace lay on the bed and stared at the beams overhead. The mattress was soft enough to drown in, but he had not let it. He wore the formal clothes they had left for him. The dark trousers fit well enough, and the fine weave tunic bore silver stitching at the cuffs. The belt sat braided and neat around his waist. It almost made him look the part. Almost. The scuffed Salomon boots on his feet ruined the illusion, and that was just the way he liked it.

  His dog tags pressed cool against his chest. Anchor. Reminder.

  For a breath, the metal seemed to hum with a weight not its own, then stilled.

  He thought about the glow of numbers he had seen earlier.

  [Strength: 14]

  [Agility: 11]

  [Constitution: 15]

  [Level 1]

  On and on, a neat list of his life boiled down into categories like a video game character sheet.

  “Level 1?” he asked the empty room. “Back home, that means you kill rats in a basement until the music says you matter. Here? Rats carry swords.”

  The mattress shifted when he sat up. He dragged a hand down his face. “No, save the file. No reload. Just me. Great tutorial.”

  A knock thudded on the door.

  “Outworlder,” a guard’s voice called. “The feast awaits.”

  Trace stood, smoothed the tunic, and left the bottle on the table though it ached to stay in his hand. “Prom night,” he said under his breath, and followed the guards through the palace’s glowing veins of torchlight.

  The feast hall roared with light and heat. Wrought iron chandeliers burned overhead while the long table bent under a feast fit for kings. Roast boar gleamed with fat while pheasants lay stuffed with herbs. Bread rose in golden pyramids alongside bowls of fruit that caught the torchlight. The crowd glittered in silks and jewels, turning as one when he walked in. Their whispers clung to Trace like smoke.

  The hall murmured with clipped laughter and snide remarks that felt like hands tugging at him. Court politics dressed as small talk.

  The guards guided him to a seat near the head, far closer to King Althric than he wanted. The king sat in his warplate, helm at his side, cloak trailing crimson down the dais. His scarred face did not flicker. A servant poured wine before Trace could wave him off. He reached for bread instead. Hunger asked fewer questions.

  “You look misplaced, Outworlder,” the stag-ringed man growled. “There’s no shame in stepping aside. A modest stipend from House Hartwell buys protection. Bandits forget your name. Taxmen do, too. All it costs is silence.”

  Trace tucked bread into his mouth between words. “Back home, that is called severance after you have been used.”

  The man’s smile did not change. Around them, a few faces logged the exchange like ledgers.

  On his left, a woman in sea-green silk watched like a cat testing a new toy. “You are large and badly dressed,” she said, cold as marble. “House Merisent holds the eastern front. I need allies who do not faint at mud.”

  “So, this is recruiting.”

  “A test.” she sighed. “If the king seats another champion in two weeks, your price drops. Act before that.”

  Trace filed the fact and ate. The rest of her was a study in measured danger.

  A bard crooned of past champions and shining blades. The song sounded like varnish. Trace grumbled under his breath and kept his eyes moving. Every glance had a price now. Who watched for advantage, who for sport.

  A red-faced noble challenged him to drink. By the fourth cup, the man snored face-down, and the room whispered about peasant tricks.

  The System shimmered:

  [Alcohol Detected: Neutralized. Mild Stimulant Applied.]

  [Observation Increased: +1 Perception]

  The tags at his throat pulsed faintly, as if in agreement, though he hadn’t moved.

  The hall sharpened into details. He noticed the blistered hands of apprentices and read debt in the way stewards moved their lips.

  A hawk-nosed lord asked about the western passes. Trace answered bluntly. “I am Level 1. Ask a man who has bled there.” The answer snagged a few surprised looks. Honesty bought him a sliver of credit.

  A server moved near them with a goblet too steady for a crowded room. His eyes flicked once toward the dais and then away. The motion was small enough to miss if you were not watching.

  The sea-green lady leaned nearer as a juggler tossed knives down the center aisle to polite applause. “If you are not a strategist, you are a symbol. Symbols pull coin. Coin buys food. Food keeps men who hold lines. Your usefulness is not in the swing of your arm but in the swing of opinion.”

  You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.

  “Good to know what I am to you,” Trace said. “A hook to hang a purse on.”

  “To me, you are a dilemma.” Her eyes were almost kind, which made them more dangerous. “If the king replaces you swiftly, then today’s promises are lies. If he cannot replace you, then the Dominion eats us a village at a time. Either way, I plan.” She lifted her cup to hide the last sentence. “Do you?”

  He did not answer. Planning required ground that did not move under your feet. His was still sliding.

  Near the end, a lean man in a rose coat slid into the empty chair. “House Valen. Roads, levies, collections. Put your name on a cup, and coin flows our way.”

  “Sounds like I drink, you get rich.”

  The man’s smile did not shrink. “Both can be useful.”

  Midway, the king’s voice cut the hall. “Archmage Calvessan.”

  Althric’s scarred jaw worked. “How soon before we can attempt the summoning again?”

  “Not swiftly, my king,” Calvessan said. “The circle lies broken. No less than a fortnight with full preparation.”

  Althric leaned closer, voice low and measured. “Two weeks. The court will not forgive delay.”

  Calvessan’s eyes glinted. “Then let a cup fail. Let a weak weave explain the rest. They will prefer that story.”

  Althric’s hand tightened on the table. He let the thought settle for a breath, then nodded once. “See that it is done. If it fails, then send him to the yard to be broken and remade. If he survives that, perhaps the weave was not in error.” Around them, the hall shifted from outrage to lesson. The attempt on his life remained real. The court absorbed the attempt into its script, repackaging murder as policy.

  A servant poured again. The movement was too smooth. The rim smelled faintly wrong, bitter and metallic. Trace’s ranger instincts ticked through possibilities: bitter almond, nightshade, old briefing room ghosts. He did not know this world’s poisons, but he knew the look of intent.

  His hand hovered over the cup longer than it should have. One sip, and he might drop in front of them all. If he ignored it, the act itself would mark him as weak. In a room like this, weakness was blood in the water.

  The System flared.

  [Status Effect Detected: Poison]

  [Iron Stomach: Negated]

  The tags at his neck pulsed once, faint but undeniable, as if something else had swallowed the venom for him.

  Relief came edged with anger. Someone had just tried to kill him in the open, at the king’s table, in front of a hundred witnesses. Not a duel. Not an accident. A quiet decision.

  His fingers tingled, not from toxin but from old adrenaline routines coming online. Every exit marked. Every guard counted. His hand drifted toward the knife near the roast— not bravado, reflex.

  He set the cup down hard enough to ring against the wood. His voice cut sharply across the nearest ten feet. “Really? Dinner and poison? Hell of a welcome.”

  The hall gasped. Forks froze. A woman dropped her knife with a clatter. The bard strangled his strings into silence. The sea-green lady’s eyes widened a fraction, then shuttered. Valen turned, curious, as if checking whether his investment had just burned down.

  Althric rose, gauntlet slamming the table. The sound cracked like a shot. "Who dares poison my hall?" Guards seized servants. Nobles shouted innocence. A steward cried with convenient volume. The king's fury played well from a distance, broad shoulders squared, scars like knife-strokes under torchlight. Up close, Trace saw something else. Calculation working behind the fury.

  The king’s gaze settled on him. Not warm. Not quite cold. Measuring.

  Althric’s gauntleted hand rested heavy on the table. He pitched his voice lower until the hall leaned in to steal it. “Someone will pay for this insult,” he said. “But one truth stands clear. This Outworlder is but Level 1. Too raw. Too untested. He does not belong at a king’s table until he has earned the strength for it. For his own safety and for the realm’s protection, I will send him to train with my guards. Among soldiers, he may yet find discipline. If he survives their yard, then perhaps the weave’s choice was not in error.”

  The king turned scandal into a lesson. The poison became a pretext for policy, and the room sighed with relief.

  Nobles bent their heads together, reshaping the story even as the servants dragged the accused away. One whispered it proved the weave rejected him. Another swore it was mercy, the king saving them from embarrassment. A third laughed softly and called it a fine reminder that the court punished arrogance.

  Trace caught fragments and filed them. Who smiled at the excuse, who hid behind outrage, who looked disappointed the poison had failed. Some sought safety in the king’s words. Others measured him anew, calculating whether a man who shrugged off poison might be more dangerous than they had believed.

  The sea-green woman lifted her cup with the slightest, unreadable tilt.

  The court had hunted him, and the king renamed the hunt a lesson. A steward produced a velvet case. Inside, a silver bracelet etched with runes. “Take this,” Althric said, a gift and a leash. Trace slipped it on. The runes flared and dimmed.

  [Storage Slot Bound]

  It sat heavily on his wrist. Heavy like a shackle.

  “Great,” he muttered. “Free trial loot box.”

  Althric’s mouth ticked as if he had heard and noted the insolence for later.

  The guards closed in, not rough but firm. The feast's noise rose again, the room happy to be returned to a song it knew the words to. Whispers drifted past him—two weeks, a real champion, the Dominion closing fast. None of it included his name. The poison was already a story about his frailty. His survival was an inconvenience.

  On his way out, he caught the sea-green lady’s eyes one last time. She tilted her goblet, not looking at him as she murmured, just loud enough for him to catch. “Be early to the yard.”

  Trace gave the faintest nod. He read the subtext. Do not give them the satisfaction of seeing you stumble. Or maybe, some of us still have a use for men who do not faint at river mud.

  In the corridor’s cooler air, his thoughts came in cleaner lines. They will replace me in two weeks if they can. They will bury me sooner if it is tidy. The king can turn a blade in my back into an etiquette lecture and get applause for it. My immunity stays quiet. He flexed his fingers and felt the phantom of a blade where there was none. Trust no cup. Trust no smile. Earn my safety with performance or vanish.

  The shrug was armor, but beneath it a map formed, crude and ruthless. If he wanted to live, he would study their tells, choose allies for need, not comfort, and make the yard his stage. Two weeks. Level 1. Poison on the menu. Boots on.

  A guard pulled at a strap, the gesture small and human. Not everyone here was a politician. Some were soldiers who would answer competence. That was ground he knew.

  He looked down at the bracelet, at the faint runes, at his boots. The three things that anchored him remained unchanged. His boots against the stone, his tags against his chest, his bourbon now secured behind runic walls.

  And if the court had ears to the stones, it would have heard a quiet promise in the rhythm of his steps. I will learn your rules. Then, I will break them where it counts.

  From here on… things get real.