Much to my surprise, Sir Vasily and the others barely react. They gawk as I’m rather forcefully manhandled by a pair of soldiers and a rough rope is tied around my shoulders. One of them uses the ‘Resolve’ ability on me, and then they place a red silken band over my mouth. The moment the cloth touches my lips, I feel all the mana in my body instantly drain. The sensation is unlike anything I’ve felt before. I just suddenly become… empty, and despite only being in Inktown with stats and mana for a few days, I know what has happened. The man saw that I’m a wizard, and he basically gave me the wizard equivalent of handcuffs.

The red silk also makes it impossible to speak. I’m sure the device wouldn’t be nearly as effective against someone like Sir Vasily who can cast without speaking and has boatloads of mana, but against a level five, I’m essentially rendered useless.

There’s simply nothing I can do. I’ve never been arrested before, and the experience is a bit jolting. They hoist me onto the back of a horse, and then I have to awkwardly grab at the man in front of me with my hands still tied together to keep from falling. I’ve also never ridden a horse, so staying upright is nearly impossible. I suppose for people native to Inktown, riding is as normal as driving a car would be for me, but of course the soldiers don’t understand.

I actually do fall off twice on the ride to Castle Murblood. Fortunately, one of the wizards traveling with the guards catches me both times using magic, and I’m spared a nasty bruise or worse from the stones below. We reach the castle, and everything looks like a fairytale. I’d been to Disney World once when I was a little kid—before Florida was turned to radioactive glass in the war—and Castle Murblood certainly has a similar vibe. Pennants and streamers flutter in the breeze, guards dressed in ornamental outfits patrol the streets, and there are people absolutely everywhere. I don’t know for sure, but my guess is that the front part before the keep is open to the public and a very common gathering place.

Merchants line most of the walls, just like the amusement park from my memory. There are carts selling hot foods, musicians playing instruments I’ve never seen before, and an odd number of cats running around. I worry that the horses will inadvertently trample some of the cats, but it seems the small critters are used to the larger ones. Then I see a somewhat portly man with a scruff of five o’clock shadow chasing one of the cats, and I would burst out laughing if I could. For whatever reason, he looks as out of place as I surely do. He trips and nearly bashes his head on the hard ground.

Then our retinue turns, and the man is no longer in my sight. We ascend a large stone ramp that leads to the castle’s inner keep. Here, the crowd of people thins considerably, and the number of armed guards increases. Across the keep’s highest battlements, a score or more soldiers with bows and crossbows watch our group intently. We stop before a metal gate, the soldiers exchange some words, and then the wizard behind me levitates me from the horse’s back to stand on my own feet.

I nod to the wizard, thankful for the assist, but his stoney face doesn’t respond. Oh well.

The soldiers escort me inside a lavish hall decked out in similar fashion to Gnomeslayer Estate. When the gate is closed behind us, one of them removes the rope from my hands while another takes off the silken band over my mouth.

“Thanks,” I say, hoping for some kind of reaction. I get none. My mana returns to full when the band is removed, but what good is it? I can’t exactly mildly comfort my way out of medieval prison.

I’m led through a series of tall stone corridors until we come to some kind of receiving room with an echoing marble floor. Several others stand in a line and patiently wait, though I quickly notice that none of them are under armed escort. The first man in the line approaches a panel of officials seated at a long wooden table and starts to plead his case.

The farmer, as I quickly learn, is upset about someone running a flock of sheep over his crops and trampling them. No one shows up for the other side, and the panel of five—judges? Magistrates? I have no idea their titles—issues a written decree that the man takes with a happy bow. I assume he won his case, but the Inktown legal system isn’t exactly familiar.

I have to stand in line for what feels like several hours as a handful of other cases proceed. Most of them sound like petty disputes between neighbors, though a few are more complex and involve serious criminal accusations. One thing that sticks out is the lack of attorneys. Looks like basic legal representation for the indigent is a foreign concept here. Oh well. I’ve talked myself out of some fairly shady situations before, albeit typically with a little more prep time.

You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.

The guards usher me to the front of the line, and one of the officials behind the table looks me up and down with a bureaucratic sneer. “Name?” he demands.

“Uh, Sarah O’Connor.”

He shuffles through some papers before settling on one and reading it quickly. “Says you cheated at the Inktown City Tournament. Heh. I was at the Tournament. Fourth row this year.” He looks to the other officials who all smile and nod, clearly also fans of the Tournament. “Sir Vasily won it fair and square.” He slides the paper aside and sighs. “Nonetheless, Queen Murblood has ordered you to explain yourself. Here, you’ll need this.” He inks a wooden stamp before pounding it on the paper and then holding it up to me. Once I have the paper, one of the guards grabs me by my arm, and we’re off to another line maybe thirty feet from the first.

I feel like I’m back at one of the endless, interminable debriefing sessions after my squad was extracted: dim lights, cold walls, echoing floors, and nameless bureaucrats. And just so much waiting. Waiting and waiting and waiting. They tried to prep us for being captured and tortured in one of our months-long training programs before deployment, and one of the biggest takeaways was the amount of waiting. Wars are slow. Interrogations are slow. Being a captured enemy combatant is about the slowest thing you can be.

We stand in front of a banded wooden door while other cases and complaints are heard behind us, and none of the guards say a word. I figure they’re not much for small talk.

Finally, the heavy door creaks open, and I’m led into yet another large, open room with a cold stone floor. At least this one has towering windows streaming in plenty of light. I half expect a grand throne with a huge staircase and some imposing queen figure perched at the top, and I’m a little disappointed when the room so thoroughly betrays my expectations.

The queen—an educated guess—is dressed more for a horseback ride than regal functions. She’s probably my mother’s age, slim build, long blonde hair, and wearing a tight leather outfit. Instead of a throne, she sits on a rather mundane leather chair with a few empty glasses next to it on a table. Behind her stand two guards, and each of them has to be at least seven feet tall. In fact, they’re probably the largest human beings I’ve ever seen with my own eyes. Each of them holds an axe that probably weighs as much as my body.

Don’t piss off the queen. Got it.

The woman stares me up and down for a few seconds. “Dismissed,” she announces curtly, and the guards who brought me in turn in synchronized fashion to exit the room.

I don’t know what to do or say. The closest I have ever come to royalty is probably a lieutenant colonel, and that’s not exactly close. I hold out the stamped piece of paper, but neither of the guards moves to take it, so I resort to a shrug.

“Resolve,” the woman says.

Again, I stand there like an idiot without a single idea of what to do.

She scrutinizes my stats for a moment, then waves them away. Finally, her posture relaxes, and she breathes a heavy sigh. “So, Sarah O’Connor… I have a few questions for you. I saw you at the Inktown City Tournament. I thought you were simply a familiar conjured up by the talented Sir Vasily Gnomeslayer. It seems I was wrong.”

I clear my throat, unsure if she expects a response or not. “Yes ma’am. He summoned me, though I am not a familiar.”

A small smile plays at the edges of her mouth. Her face is kind, almost happy with expectation. Her striking blue eyes pierce into mine, and I suddenly don’t feel so much trepidation. Perhaps it is a spell she’s silently cast. Perhaps she is just a nice older lady. Either way, I hate that I’ve let my guard down, even for a moment. I straighten my back and once more scan the room for any possible path of exit. Unfortunately, there is none. The only door I see is the one behind me, and I’m sure it is locked.

“Yes, I know you’re not a familiar. I knew that the moment I saw you kill Sir Barton with such… efficiency. I could hardly believe my eyes!” She stands from her chair and takes a step closer to me. “Please… do you mind? I just… I wish to touch your face.”

The request is so insane and unexpected that I have absolutely no idea how to react. If I fight her off, the twin Rambos will butcher me. If I run, same result.

I close my eyes and nod. If this gets weird… Fuck, it already is weird…

The woman’s cool hand brushes my cheek. She pulls back, and it sounds like she’s struggling to keep her composure.

When I open my eyes, the woman has tears streaming down her face. She turns to the guards and snaps out a series of quick commands: “Bring us another chair. And food, wine. Be quick about it.”

The woman strikes me as vaguely unhinged, so I make my voice small and try to be as non confrontational as possible. “Ma’am… What… exactly was it you wished to ask me? If I could just answer your question and be on my way, surely there’s no need for me to stay for a meal.”

Again, her eyes are filled with tears. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry. Where are my manners? My name is Ingrid. Ingrid Hales. I am queen of Murblood Castle and Inktown. Please… tell me of home. It has been so long. Decades. You’re… you’re the first I’ve seen.”

“Home?” I ask.

She nods quickly. One of the guards returns with a large chair in one hand and a sprawling platter of food propped on his opposite shoulder. “I was born in Savannah, Georgia, 1971. Do you know it? Have you been there? Please, just tell me what you know of home.”