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

It was like a punch to the gut, a conclusion Oliver had been dancing around over the past few days, trying not to think about.

The tribune continued inexorably. "So, the question I have to ask myself is this: where are you from, that being taken a prisoner in this tedious backwater, having your life threatened, and then being forced to march for five days is preferable?"

The tribune's words pierced through his defenses, peeling back the layers of his soul and revealing a simple truth he'd been hiding from this whole time: he was enjoying it here.

As much as he longed to be back again, to comfort Joanna, see his family, paint the nursery, argue about baby names, wanted it so bad he could see every detail in his mind's eye – there was a simplicity, a familiarity here, that had been lacking back home.

A savage kind of peace in the knowledge that today could be his last day, that living or dying in this moment was up to him.

He didn't have to worry about taxes, paying the house insurance on time, or which hospital they'd go to when it the baby was coming. He couldn't afford to. Had to focus everything on the struggle to survive, just like the old days.

It quieted the demons in his head. And he hated himself for finding any kind of relief here, and for not being capable of finding it at home.

Something of his emotions must have shown in his face, because as he opened his mouth say he wanted nothing more than to get back, the tribune went on.

"Truth-tellers are things of subtlety; they are attuned to various degrees, according to the means and ends of their wielders. Mine cannot bear even a trace of unsurety. Also, they may be deceived. So, a wise man relies not on a truth-teller alone, but on his own eyes and ears too."

He paused, observing Oliver, then went on. "What I mean to say is that it cannot easily reveal the truths of a heart, only those of the mind."

Oliver looked from the man's face back down to the ring on his hand, the glint fresh in his mind. "Is it – magic?" he asked tentatively, feeling somewhat foolish.

"Magic?" laughed the tribune. "Yes, I suppose you might say that." He sipped his wine.

Oliver took a sip as well. It was the best thing he'd tasted in five days and he was already over halfway through the glass.

"Now, as to your system," the tribune said, businesslike, setting his wine down and standing. "You stated that you do not have one, and you meant it. You will pardon me if I find this unbelievable. I have never met a grown man without a system, whether he be Ephresian, Maran, Khelvan – even the savages have their own barbaric ways. So. If you'll allow me."

Raising his hand, palm open and facing at Oliver, he muttered a few words under his breath and waited for a couple of heartbeats.

Then he lowered his hand, frowning. "What is your Path?"

"Path?" echoed Oliver. It was a title of some kind.

"Do you follow the way of the body or the way of the mind? The soul, perhaps?"

"None of those. I don't know what you mean."

Instead of growing angry, or frustrated, the tribune seemed intrigued. "Perhaps it is as you say. In any case, the magisters will know more. A word of advice: do not allow any others to know you lack a Path. You will not survive long if you do."

Oliver was clearly being dismissed, so he drained the rest of his glass in one go as he stood, and set his glass beside the tribune's.

The tribune was already turning towards the silent soldier standing in the room beside them, but Oliver dared ask anyway. "What is a system?"

He half-expected to be ignored, but the tribune turned back to him with a thoughtful expression, and replied after a pause. "In an academic sense, the system is a means of harnessing the energy that flows around us, through us, from us – mana. And practically speaking, it is nothing less than the salvation of mankind and the foundation of modern civilization."

He delivered the phrase with a tone of finality, then turned back to the visored figure who had been watching wordlessly.

"Escort him to the cells and have him fed. And get him cleaned up."

The anonymous soldier nodded with a dull scape of metal on metal, the movement obscured by his helmet, then took a step and raised the flap of the tent, looking to Oliver expectantly.

Oliver ducked out of the tent into the harsh sunlight, stepping back into the late day warmth and sounds of the camp. It was a remarkably sudden transition.

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The guard stepped out before him, then took him by the arm with a grip of steel and started him walking. They passed through a different part of the camp this time, heading out from the center of camp and into a quarter where there were more solid buildings. Armories, stables, even a couple of long low kitchens.

Around them swarmed the people of the camp running to and fro. Here, a unit on their afternoon jog; there, a couple of surveyors chatting, long chalk-covered strings in their hands as they planned out the foundation of a new building that would replace two rows of tents.

It was a familiar hustle and bustle, calling back memories of military camps that evoked both a bittersweet nostalgia and memories of much misery and discomfort.

Then they were at the cells, an aptly named building constructed from thick, wide planks of wood and consisting of a number of small rooms open to the air.

The rooms sported tough doors with small, steel-barred windows, steel bars and a two-foot overhang to keep away the worst of the weather.

There was an unarmored soldier guarding at the cells, which were largely empty, and this one bore a ring of keys at his hip. He looked over at them and nodded in greeting.

"Ho the cells," called out his guard, and he was surprised to learn that he was actually a she.

"Ho, yourself," replied the guardsman with an easy smile. "Another one for the block, eh? Food and water for him?"

He stood as he spoke, going over and unlocking an unoccupied cell.

"Sure, and get him cleaned off, too. He's to be kept until further notice. Tribune's orders."

"All right, all right. Just sign him off and I'll take things from here," said the guardsman, producing a small pad and a quill pen from a pouch at his waist.

He ushered Oliver into the cell with a mocking bow as Oliver reached the cage, and closed the door and locked the door behind him. A wise guy.

His armored guide took the pad on reaching him, scribbled a few things done in an unfamiliar language as Oliver watched curiously, and handed it back.

Transaction accomplished, the guard settled back down onto his stool, fiddling with his key ring as he did so.

Oliver looked around the cell. Eight by four, maybe. Dirt floor. A solid wood door that opened inwards, with hinges and lock on the outside. Bucket in the corner, with some suspiciously dark crusty spots on the inside wall. A few flies lazily drifting around. And a small patch of sunlight illuminating a few hay stalks laying on the floor.

He walked to the wall, put his back to it, and slid down, shirt catching slightly on splinters in the rough wood. Peace and quiet, warmth, and some space to himself for the first time in days.

He took a deep breath and exhaled slowly, feeling contented. The wine was at work in his system and he felt his entire being unclench for the first time since he'd arrived.

Unbidden, his mind drifted again to Joanna, home, and a then fist of anxiety clutched around his heart. It was a physical thing, nausea roiling in his stomach.

Instead of trying to turn his attention away, he let the anxiety grow, focusing on it, wallowing in it. He deserved to feel it.

How could he want to stay in this place? He needed to get back. Needed to do something. Only, there wasn't anything to do. In his mind he replayed the glint of light coming from the ring, the tribune saying that he'd lied about wanting to go home. Then he did it again, and again, over and over.

The patch of sunlight crawled across the floor, up the wall, and soon was gone.

—

Shortly after the afternoon had given way to dusk, he heard somebody approach the cell block. He couldn't be bothered to move, muscles stiff after the prolonged break, so when the door opened it came most of the way open and got stuck on his shins.

The person opening the door cursed and stuck his head in. It was the jailor, carrying a bowl in one hand.

"Hey! What are you doing down there? I've got dinner here and a cleanup for you. Stand up."

"I'm standing, I'm standing," he grumbled, taking his time as he got to his feet.

Then he looked at the guy in the doorway and jerked away instinctively. He was holding something at chest level, pointed right at Oliver.

The guy laughed. "What, you never seen a wand before?"

Oliver looked closer. It was a short stick, maybe six inches long, thick as his thumb, and polished smooth. Tiny symbols were engraved along its length.

Then the guard waved the stick around in a little twirly motion, keeping it pointed right at him. There was the oddest sensation of tingling, inside and out, and for a moment he thought he was going to be sick. Then the feeling went away.

The guy held the bowl out. "Dinner time."

"What was – what was –" Oliver managed, brain catching up with the phenomenon.

The guy's expression fell slightly, and now he looked more concerned than anything. "Where did they pick you up? This," speaking slowly now, enunciating every word exaggeratedly, "is a wand. That was a cleaning spell."

Oliver didn't respond. Seeing magic done was one thing, having it done to him against his will was quite another.

The guy snorted, waggling the bowl. "All right, look. This? This is dinner. I'm gonna leave it here in case you ever come out of it." He put it down by the door, stepped out, swung the door closed. "Nighty night," he called, leaving.

Then Oliver realized the faint buzz he'd had was gone, too. He turned and looked at the bucket behind him; clean as the day it was made. There was no straw on the ground now, and no flies buzzing either.

Heck of a spell.

—

The next couple of days went by in a blur of pushups, crunches and squats as he made the most of his captivity to limber up, pushing his limits and exercising again with life on the line.

It was amazing, and terrifying, just how out of shape he'd become in the soft life of home's safety. The worst part was, like the frog in the boiling pot of water, he hadn't even realized it was happening.

He also took time to examine the cell thoroughly. He tested the sturdiness of the door and checked to see if he could fit anything through the crack of the door. It was rough, but well made, and without a very determined effort he couldn't see himself breaking out. Certainly, it wouldn't be a silent escape.

But that was fine. He knew roughly what would happen next. He'd be loaded onto a secure transport and brought to some kind of city, probably one of the cities this army had grown up in. Then he'd talk to the magisters the tribune had mentioned.

Doubtless they'd know how he got here, and if he could persuade them to, they'd be able to send him back home. Or teach him enough to find his own way back.

He just needed to find a way to become valuable enough for them to want to do either of those things.

But he had a sneaking suspicion that simply being here was enough to do that. He was a walking miracle, a man from another world living and breathing in this one. Who only knew what Earth's scientists would give to study him?

And if he could be confident of one thing that would stay the same across two worlds, it was the human capacity for curiosity, the drive simply to know. Yes, if he could get to them, he'd have a chance of getting home.

As it happened, the only thing he didn't account for was the brutal attack that came the third night.