The streets of Thallmarch were a swirling mix of chaos and wonder. Everywhere I looked, there was something that didn’t belong in the world I’d left behind—or maybe it was me who didn’t belong here.

Cobblestone roads stretched out in every direction, uneven and worn from countless footsteps and wagon wheels. Stalls lined the streets, their wooden frames draped with cloth in every color imaginable. The merchants shouted over each other, their voices rising in a cacophony that filled the air.

“Fresh bread! Still warm!”

“Spices from the Eastern Isles!”

“Rabbit pelts! Cheap!”

It smelled like wood smoke, roasted meat, and an undertone of sweat that wasn’t entirely pleasant. Still, I couldn’t help but be fascinated. This wasn’t a museum or a movie set. This was real.

A man passed me with a wheelbarrow full of apples, his clothes patched and stained. Two women stood by a stall, haggling over a bolt of fabric while a scruffy dog weaved through the crowd, sniffing for scraps.

Holy shit, I thought, running a hand through my hair. I’m actually in the past. This is insane.

For a moment, I forgot how out of place I looked. My jeans and sneakers were definitely getting some side-eyes, but most people were too busy with their own lives to pay much attention.

The tavern caught my eye the second I rounded the corner.

Its sign was carved into a thick slab of wood, hanging by chains above the door. The image of a foaming mug was painted in black, the words The Drunken Mare etched beneath it.

A warm, golden light spilled from the windows, and the faint sound of laughter and clinking glasses drifted into the street. My stomach growled, and my throat felt parched from the walk.

Alright, I thought, adjusting my grip on the stick I’d been using as a makeshift walking staff. Let’s see if medieval ale is as good as they say.

The inside of the tavern was everything I’d imagined—and more.

The room was crowded, the air thick with the smell of spilled beer, roasted meat, and something faintly herbal I couldn’t place. Wooden tables filled the space, most of them occupied by groups of men and women laughing, drinking, or arguing loudly.

A massive fireplace roared at one end of the room, its heat radiating across the floorboards. Above it hung a wild assortment of objects: antlers, rusted swords, and even a cracked shield.

Behind the bar stood a man with a thick beard and arms like tree trunks. He was wiping a mug with a rag that didn’t look entirely clean, his eyes flicking to the door as I entered.

I walked up to the bar, trying not to look as out of place as I felt.

“One ale, please,” I said, flashing what I hoped was a friendly smile.

The bartender raised an eyebrow, his eyes scanning me from head to toe. “You’ve got coin, stranger?”

“Yeah,” I said, pulling a twenty-dollar bill from my pocket and sliding it across the bar.

He stared at it like I’d just handed him a dead rat. “What the hell’s this?”

“It’s money,” I said, feeling my face flush. “Uh…paper money.”

The bartender snorted, holding it up to the light like it might reveal some hidden treasure. “You think we take scraps of parchment for payment?”

I opened my mouth to argue, then realized how stupid I sounded. Of course, they didn’t take dollars. This was the past.

“Right,” I muttered, grabbing the bill and shoving it back into my pocket. “Never mind.”

“Thought so,” the bartender grunted, turning his attention to someone else.

I stood there, feeling like an idiot. My stomach growled again, louder this time, and I considered just walking out and pretending this hadn’t happened.

“Rough day?” a voice said from behind me.

I turned to see a man in armor standing a few feet away. Not the shiny, heroic kind you see in movies, but dented, well-worn steel that looked like it had seen its share of battles. He wasn’t much taller than me, but his presence was…commanding.

He had short-cropped hair, dark eyes, and a faint scar running down his jaw. There was an air of confidence about him, like he knew he could handle whatever the world threw at him.

“You could say that,” I replied, forcing a weak laugh.

The knight tilted his head, studying me. “You’re not from around here, are you?”

“Not exactly,” I said carefully.

“Thought so. Your clothes, your accent—they’re…different.” He smiled faintly, as if amused by the understatement. “First ale’s on me, stranger.”

Before I could protest, he stepped up to the bar and slapped a coin onto the counter. The bartender grunted and filled a mug with frothy, amber liquid, sliding it across the counter to me.

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“Thanks,” I said, taking the mug and raising it slightly in his direction.

“Don’t mention it.”

We found a table near the fireplace, away from the loudest groups, and the knight sat across from me, his gauntlets resting on the table.

“What do I call you?” he asked, taking a sip from his own mug.

“Connor,” I said. “Connor Hayes.”

“Connor Hayes,” he repeated, the words rolling off his tongue awkwardly. “Unusual name.”

“Yeah, well, it’s an unusual day,” I said, trying to sound casual.

The knight chuckled, shaking his head. “You’re a strange one, Connor. Most travelers don’t walk into a tavern with no coin and no plan.”

“Guess I’m not most travelers,” I said, taking a sip of the ale.

It was…strong. Bitter, with a faintly sweet aftertaste that lingered on my tongue. Not bad, but definitely not what I was used to.

“You’ve got the look of someone who’s lost,” the knight said, leaning back in his chair. “And I don’t just mean directions.”

For a moment, I didn’t know how to respond. He wasn’t wrong—I was lost in every possible sense of the word.

“Let’s just say I’m far from home,” I said finally.

The knight nodded, as if that explained everything. “Well, Connor Hayes, far from home, you’ve got my curiosity. Maybe even my help, if you play your cards right.”

I raised an eyebrow. “Help with what?”

He grinned, a flash of white teeth against his tanned skin. “Whatever it is you’re looking for.”

I wasn’t sure if I should feel relieved or suspicious. But for now, the ale was cold, the fire was warm, and for the first time since I woke up in that field, I didn’t feel completely alone.

The knight set his mug down with a soft clink, leaning forward slightly. The firelight cast flickering shadows across his scarred face, making him seem both approachable and dangerous at once.

“Name’s Godric,” he said, his voice even, almost casual. “Godric of Weldrake.”

I nodded, repeating it in my head to make sure I didn’t forget. “Well, thanks for the ale, Godric. I owe you one.”

He waved a hand dismissively. “Ale’s cheap. Information, now that’s expensive.”

The hint of a grin tugged at his lips, but his eyes were sharp, assessing me like a merchant appraising goods. He wasn’t just being friendly—he wanted something.

I took another sip of my ale, trying to buy time. My mind was racing, cataloging everything I’d read about knights. Not the shiny, Hollywood knights with pristine armor and chivalrous speeches, but real ones—mercenaries, landowners, enforcers of the medieval pecking order. They weren’t necessarily good or noble, and from what I’d gathered, they weren’t above bending the rules to suit their needs.

“What kind of information?” I asked carefully, meeting his gaze.

He tilted his head, considering me. “For starters, where you’re from.”

“Far away,” I said vaguely, hoping he wouldn’t press.

He chuckled, a low, almost knowing sound. “Aye, that much is clear. That accent of yours—I’ve heard traders from the Low Countries speak more like us than you do.”

“Guess I’m just special,” I said, forcing a grin.

“Special’s one word for it,” he said, sitting back in his chair. The wooden frame creaked under the weight of his armor, which I noticed wasn’t quite as complete as it seemed from a distance. His chestplate was solid, but his arms were protected only by a mail hauberk, and his gloves looked more like sturdy leather than steel. Practical, not flashy.

“Let me guess,” he continued. “A bastard son of some lord? Ran away to seek your fortune?”

The assumption caught me off guard, but I realized it made sense from his perspective. Someone like me—cleaner than a serf but rougher than a noble—didn’t just walk into Thallmarch without raising questions.

“Not exactly,” I said, choosing my words carefully. “Let’s just say things at home weren’t working out.”

He nodded slowly, as if that answer satisfied him. “Fair enough. I’ve known many men who left home chasing something better. Few of them found it.”

I didn’t know how to respond to that, so I stayed quiet, letting the hum of the tavern fill the space between us.

As I glanced around the room, I noticed the other patrons were giving Godric a wide berth. No one was openly avoiding him, but there was a clear deference in how they moved, keeping their distance without making it obvious.

“You’re someone important,” I said, more as an observation than a question.

He smirked, taking a slow sip of his ale. “Important enough.”

“Knight?” I guessed.

“Aye,” he said, though there was no pride in the word, just matter-of-fact acknowledgment. “Sworn to Lord Eadric of Weldrake.”

That sounded familiar—or at least plausible. If memory served, most knights in this era were bound to a lord or baron, serving as both enforcers and warriors. They weren’t the solitary adventurers pop culture made them out to be.

“So, what’s a knight like you doing in a place like this?” I asked, gesturing to the tavern.

Godric snorted. “The same as anyone else. Eating, drinking, waiting for orders that’ll likely get me killed.”

He said it so plainly, like the prospect of death was just another part of the job.

“Must be a hell of a career,” I said, raising an eyebrow.

His grin widened, though it didn’t reach his eyes. “Better than tilling fields or shoveling muck for the rest of my days.”

I couldn’t argue with that. The medieval world wasn’t exactly overflowing with career opportunities. You were born into your role, and for most people, that meant hard, back-breaking labor from sunrise to sunset.

Still, I couldn’t help but feel like there was more to his story.

“You’ve got the look of a man with questions,” Godric said, interrupting my thoughts.

“Is it that obvious?”

He chuckled. “Aye. You’ve been staring at me like a monk eyeing forbidden wine. What is it?”

I hesitated, debating how much to say. But if I was going to survive in this world—whatever it was—I needed allies. And Godric seemed like a good place to start.

“Alright,” I said, leaning in slightly. “Let’s say…hypothetically…that I’ve never been to a place like this before. How does a guy like me avoid making a complete ass of himself?”

Godric’s grin returned, broader this time. “You’ve already failed step one, lad. Walking into a tavern without coin is a surefire way to look like a fool.”

“Noted,” I said dryly.

“Step two,” he continued, “keep your head down. Don’t stare at the lords or the ladies, and for God’s sake, don’t mouth off to the guards. They’re more likely to beat you senseless than listen to your excuses.”

“Friendly place,” I muttered.

He shrugged. “It’s the way of things. But if you’re smart—and lucky—you’ll find work soon enough. Tradesman, scribe, even a farmhand if you’re desperate.”

I nodded, filing that information away. “And what about you? What’s next for Godric of Weldrake?”

His expression darkened slightly, the playful edge fading. “Whatever my lord commands.”

The weight in his voice was impossible to miss. Being a knight wasn’t about glory or freedom—it was about duty. And judging by the look in his eyes, that duty was wearing on him.

The conversation drifted after that, touching on mundane topics—weather, local gossip, the quality of the ale (mediocre, according to Godric). But underneath it all, I could feel the unspoken tension.

Godric wasn’t just making small talk. He was studying me, trying to piece together the puzzle of who I was and why I was here.

And I couldn’t blame him. If our roles were reversed, I’d be doing the same.

As the night wore on, the tavern grew louder, the fire burned lower, and my mug of ale sat mostly untouched. My mind was spinning with questions, doubts, and the nagging feeling that this was only the beginning.