They had a nice walk through the camp. It was clean, neat, orderly. Professional, like the guys that picked him up. They were clearly part of a larger order, highly experienced, trained, and equipped. That implied a dominant military power, and not the kind hiding behind a bunch of trees. More evidence for an invading force.

There was some kind of operation going on here beyond what met the eye. Maybe they needed the slaves. Maybe they didn't. But they for sure didn't need the numbers, the armor, and the brutality to push around a few simple villagers. No, there was more to it.

As they walked Oliver saw evidence of industry everywhere. There were plenty more people here, cooks and washerwomen, even a handful of kids dressed in neat, clean street clothes, chasing after a ball. There were a mix of nationalities represented, most looking vaguely European, but also a handful of dark skinned, slender folks as well.

After a few moments of silence, the captain turned to him while they walked.

"I pulled a few strings with the higher ups. Bukir and I are taking you to see the tribune." He said the name with some significance.

Oliver said nothing.

"I can respect your situation, Oliver. You're a good soldier – you keep your eyes open and your mouth shut. I wouldn't want a man of your training to go to waste. So I'll give you a piece of friendly advice."

He paused, waiting for Oliver to say something. Kept waiting. Oliver caught his eye, nodded. The captain went on after it became clear Oliver wasn't going to reply.

"Just tell him the truth. All right? It'll save us both a bunch of trouble. You must realize by now you won't get out of this. You're in over your head. You weren't prepared for this. I get it. It was supposed to be simple, right? Just a quick walk through the woods, count some troop numbers, check in with the locals, get out nice and clean."

Great. He was a talker. Not only that, but he was barking up the wrong tree as fast as he could.

"But somewhere along the line, the job went bad. You made a mistake, somebody else made a mistake, and you were behind enemy lines. Now your only chance of surviving is to do exactly as I say."

They passed a field smithy, a tall broad blacksmith in a leather apron sharpening blades on a wheel he pumped with his foot. That was when it hit him. This wasn't a modern army. He still hadn't seen a single gun, and it wasn't because they were small, or well-hidden. He glanced around. It was because there weren't any. These people fought with swords, and with – there was no other word for it – magic.

The captain was saying something else as Oliver tuned back in.

"…tell him the truth, I'll put in a good word for you."

Oliver said, dryly, "You wouldn't believe me if I told you the truth, so why bother?"

"Try me," the captain said.

Oliver shrugged as he walked. They passed through an open square with a bunch of horses tied to posts, well groomed and with white blankets on protecting them from flies. They were heading towards the center of camp. "I'm from another world. I didn't mean to come here and I don't know how to get back."

The captain all but rolled his eyes. "Fine. You want to play it that way, go ahead. But I'd have thought more of you than keeping up with the games. Where's a little respect among soldiers these days?"

Oliver said, he couldn't help it, God bless his SERE school instructor he couldn't help it, "I told you so."

Bukir cut in from his other side, voice a reedy whisper even at full volume. "The tribune's a hard man. Can't afford not to be, not with a fifth of the lives of the tribune his responsibility. He's going to have you tortured, probably."

The captain shrugged. "Hopefully not. But we'll have to have the truth out eventually, one way or another."

They were passing one of the wooden structures, and Oliver got a look in through the open door as they passed. It was a barracks of some kind, officer's quarters probably. Built raised a couple of feet off the ground, wide planks – again, old growth lumber construction. This was not a tamed land, with young trees grown over old fields.

After a few beats the captain tried again. "Soldier, why don't you have a system reading?"

Oliver shrugged. "Don't know what system you're talking about."

"The system? Speculos? Vidastes?" And he threw in a couple of other words in languages Oliver couldn't begin to pronounce, odd mashings together of vowels and consonants that formed, he suddenly realized, proper nouns.

"No comprende," he said sarcastically, again violating a cardinal rule of POWs – don't needlessly antagonize your captors. In for a dime, in for a dollar. They were forced to stop as a few officers on horses rode by across their path, distinguished by their richly worked saddles only.

But he'd underestimated the captain, again, saw something on his face when he turned, not anger. He didn't like that expression, the keen curiosity.

"What language was that, soldier?" A snap of command on his tongue in contrast to the casual tones he was using and a reminder that he held the power here.

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

"Spanish," said Oliver, thinking hard. This was the first full-length conversation he'd had since coming here and he decided to play for more information if he could.

The captain chewed on that for a while, then said, "And what language am I speaking now?"

Oliver shook his head. "Sounded like the same language to me."

The captain shook his head, looking a little puzzled, "No. It was Ephresian. And you just responded in Ephresian."

Then they were stopping at a perfectly ordinary tent amongst the rows of white a-frames, albeit one with a man standing just outside casually. He was dressed in full armor, visor down.

The captain addressed him. "Captain Iraeus, here to see the tribune with the prisoner we sent word about."

The soldier standing guard nodded and went into the tent, saying something to its occupant. After a moment he ducked back out, holding the flap open, the metal bracer on his arm glinting in the sunlight.

They stepped into the tent to find a sparsely decorated interior. There was a rug on the ground, a brazier full of extinguished coals to one side just off of it, a cot, and a simple wooden desk laden with scrolls at the back of the tent. There were a couple of wooden chairs, crafted to fold in an unusual manner, and no other furnishings.

The tribune stood with his back to them, perusing something at his desk. He was in greaves but no breastplate, with black quilted armor padding for a shirt. Short, fit, clean-shaven, with slightly bowed legs marking him as a man accustomed to life in the saddle.

He turned as they came in, and Bukir and Iraeus saluted, fists clasped over their heart, the backs of their thumbs brushing their chests. As if they were stabbing themselves with invisible blades.

He returned the salute, keen gaze flicking over Iraeus and Bukir before coming to rest on Oliver. He examined him for a moment, then focused on Iraeus with a nod of acknowledgement.

"Captain. Thank you for the mission report, and for bringing this matter to my attention."

The tribune's tone was clipped, voice stern, utterly devoid of humor. Though younger than Iraeus, he too carried himself with the bearing of command, and Oliver saw the weight of the man's responsibility held in his shoulders, the ramrod straightness of his posture and the trim, neat lines of his clothes.

This was not a man who took his position lightly; it traced crows' feet in the corners of his eyes and permanent frown lines about his lips. The look of a commander.

"Certainly, tribune. As I alluded to in my missive, this man is something of a curiosity." The captain was speaking.

"You did," said the tribune.

"Yes, well. He assaulted one of my men – quite ineffectually, I might add – along an old hunting path leading from the operation zone."

Oliver grunted. His tackle should have taken the man down. Should have.

The captain went on. "He clearly has the bearing of a soldier, and refuses to answer any of my questions. As you can see from his skin, not to mention his height, he's not native to the region. He speaks Ephresian without an accent, Maran too. And he doesn't have a system reading. That's as far as we've gotten with him. Thought it was best to leave him to you."

The tribune nodded. "You did well in bringing him to me, Captain Iraeus. I'll see you at the evening debrief for a fuller account with the rest of the staff."

He saluted again, clearly a dismissal.

The captain gave a little displeased jerk, startled, then glanced at the guard staring impassively out across the tent. Then he motioned to Bukir with one hand, saluted, and the two left.

It was a measure of the integrity of the command structure, Oliver reflected, that he didn't ask any questions or question the tribune's judgement.

As he pondered this the tribune turned back to the desk, exposing his unarmored back to Oliver. Oliver had the sudden absurd urge to sink something, anything, a pen, the poker by the coals, into that exposed back, but suppressed it. Madness.

When the tribune turned again, he was holding two silver glasses of wine. He held one out to Oliver.

"It's good stuff. Khelvan. Came in last week."

Oliver took it wordlessly. The wine was dark yellow, with a floral, fruity scent.

The tribune raised his glass. "Emperor's grace," he said. Oliver raised his glass but said nothing.

They sipped together. The wine was good; a touch fizzy, sweet without being too sweet, tasting of honey and with a bit of a kick.

Then the tribune sat down and motioned for Oliver to sit in the wooden seat across from him. He did.

The tribune said nothing, just took another sip of wine, watched Oliver from head to toe.

Oliver was only too happy to afford him the spectacle. Here in the tent the noise of the camp was muted somewhat, and it was cooler rather than warmer inside, a comfortable temperature. He realized just how much his knees and feet ached.

"My name is Grappis, called by some the Lesser," said the tribune finally, "and you are Oliver Grace. Yes?"

He too had butchered the pronunciation. Oliver chose not to make a point of it. He inclined his head.

"I am presented with something of a conundrum, Oliver. You show up in the middle of my operation, like a ghost. You stand and walk like a trained soldier. You're not from my army. You're not a native. We can't read your system. You speak multiple languages without an accent. And you're a human. Do you know what that says to me?"

Oliver sighed. "A really, really lost boy scout?"

The joke went over like a lead kite. The tribune frowned. "Scout. Spy. Third party. This is a delicate operation we've got going here. Look, I'm going to give you a chance. A chance. What do you want me to think you are?"

"You wouldn't believe me if I told you. Your captain didn't."

"Iraeus suffers from a certain lack of imagination. The product of… limited horizons, let's say. It's one of the reasons why I made tribune and he never will." The tribune took another sip of wine, and Oliver followed suit.

He paused for a moment, thinking, trying to figure out how to explain the situation, how much he wanted to reveal. There was another gamble to be made here. Finally, he just decided to go with the whole truth. It was easier to lie when most of the time you didn't.

"I'm not from here. I'm pretty sure I'm not even from this world. I don't know how I ended up here. I don't know what a system is. I just want to go home."

As he finished speaking a white light flashed in his peripheral vision, almost like seeing the glint on a mirror in the distance, just closer.

He glanced down to see the light had come from a gem set in a slim silver ring on the tribune's index finger. It faded even as he watched.

The captain held up his hand. "Have you ever seen one of these before? It's a truth-teller. Lights up whenever a lie's been told."

Sip. Pause. Oliver shook his head, waited, stomach suddenly churning. He wasn't sure he liked where this was going.

"So, you see, I have to believe you. It's a curious story, I'll admit. I'm certain my superiors will want to have a look at you. We'll need to know where you came from, whether there are more of you. How you ended up without a system. We're at a critical point in the mission, and we absolutely cannot afford another variable."

Oliver nodded. He'd expected as much. It was generous, in fact, more than generous. It would have been easier to toss him in a prisoner of war camp until he rotted, or even just kill him on the spot. They didn't seem to be too big on the Geneva convention here.

That wasn't what concerned him.

"But Oliver, when the light went off – when you said you wanted to go home – you were lying."