The first sensation was the smell of old wool and unwashed hair, followed closely by a pounding, cranial pressure that suggested a week-long bender culminating in a head-first dive off a cathedral roof.
Sergeant First Class David 'Deacon' Hayes blinked against the thin, weak sunlight filtering through a greasy, diamond-shaped pane of glass. He was lying face down on a surface that smelled faintly of sour wine and dust. He tried to move, but his limbs felt heavy, and his muscles, which should have been coiled steel after a decade of military conditioning, protested with a dull, unfamiliar ache.
Where the hell am I?
The last thing Deacon remembered was the rhythmic thump-thump-thump of the HVAC unit inside the Tactical Operations Center (TOC) at FOB Bastion, somewhere hot and dry he was no longer paid enough to care about. He'd been running logistics, planning the next supply convoy—a tedious, vital process of calculating fuel burn, convoy security, and estimated time of arrival. Then, a shudder, a flash of sickly green light that momentarily overloaded every screen, and silence. Not the quiet of an ambush, but the absolute cessation of all mechanical noise.
He pushed himself up onto his elbows. The room swam. This wasn't the TOC.
It was a bedroom, small and oppressively furnished. The walls were panelled with dark, heavy wood, adorned with faded tapestries depicting a stiff-looking man hunting an even stiffer-looking stag. The bed he'd been lying in was massive, four-posted, and draped with curtains that looked a century out of date.
He swung his legs over the side of the bed. They were longer than he remembered. His hands, resting on his knees, were pale, finely manicured, and utterly devoid of the callouses that came from constantly handling weapons, tools, and the rough nylon of a combat pack.
This is a dream. A stress dream. Must have been some kind of gas leak.
He stood up. The floor was rough, cold stone. He felt… tall. Too tall. He walked over to a dark wood cabinet. The bronze handle was cast in the shape of a snarling, winged cat. He tugged it open and saw himself reflected in the polished inside panel.
His stomach clenched, and the pain in his skull intensified. He pressed his palms against the smooth, pale cheeks staring back.
The face was not his.
It was younger, perhaps mid-thirties, with angular features, a strong jawline, and a shock of wheat-blond hair that fell over piercing, ice-blue eyes. Deacon's eyes were brown. His hair was regulation short, close-cropped brown. This man was aristocratic, well-fed, and definitely not a Sergeant First Class in the U.S. Army.
He was wearing a heavy wool tunic over a linen shirt and breeches—not modern clothing, not a hospital gown, and certainly not the Army Combat Uniform he'd been wearing moments ago.
"No. No, no, no," he muttered, his voice catching in his throat. The sound that came out was deep, resonant, and unfamiliar. It didn't belong to Deacon Hayes.
The sound of a heavy door opening downstairs jolted him. He froze, his body instinctively dropping into a low, defensive stance, though his unfamiliar muscles felt slow and unresponsive.
A woman's voice, sharp and laced with worry, drifted up the stone staircase.
"Lord Cassian! Are you awake? The Overseer is demanding your attention, and the market master is threatening to empty the storehouse unless you sign the new requisition!"
Lord Cassian?
He scrambled to the door, opened it a crack, and peered out. The hall was equally dour, with stone arches and flickering oil lamps. He saw a sturdy woman in a dark dress standing at the foot of the stairs, looking impatient.
He swallowed the terror rising in his throat. Rule One of Sudden Displacement: Do not panic. Maintain situational awareness. He pulled the door shut quietly and leaned against it, trying to process the data points: Pre-Industrial technology (oil lamps, wood furniture), Medieval/Fantasy nomenclature ('Lord,' 'Castellan,' 'Overseer'), and, most critically, Identity Theft.
He was occupying the body and, apparently, the role of this "Lord Cassian."
His mind, trained to manage complex logistics under fire, started to process the new mission: Survive. Integrate. Gather Intelligence.
He had to get downstairs. He had to be "Lord Cassian."
He straightened his back, mentally shedding the identity of SFC Hayes and stepping into the boots of the nobleman. He smoothed down the tunic, took a deep breath, and opened the door, walking down the stairs with the authoritative gait he knew only came from rank, hoping the illusion would hold.
The woman's expression instantly shifted from impatience to relief, mixed with a hint of disapproval. "My Lord, you look pale. Did the—did the incident yesterday not agree with you?"
The incident. The thing that brought me here. "I am well, Elara. Just… a difficult sleep. What is the immediate crisis?" His voice was steady, the authority ingrained, even if the sound felt alien.
Elara was instantly placated. "The immediate crisis is the Steward. He says you need to attend the Court of Complaints. Also, the patrol leader, Commander Harl, insists the Northern Watch needs doubled. The bandits are pressing closer."
Bandits. A conventional threat. Good. Better than dragons.
"The Castellan's Office," he announced, hoping that was the local term for his command center. "Lead me. And brief me on the way. Steward, Commander Harl, and the requisitions. In order of urgency."
He followed her through winding corridors that led into a large, central stone keep. This was the Castellan's Hold—the seat of authority for the town of Oakhaven, according to Elara's rapid-fire, whispered briefing.
The Castellan's Office
The "office" was a cramped, messy room filled with scrolls, inkpots, and a large wooden desk. A tall, impeccably dressed man—the Steward or Overseer, no doubt—was already waiting, tapping his foot impatiently.
"My Lord Cassian," the Steward began, his tone formal but clipped. "Your presence is needed. And perhaps your full faculties. Your father, the late Lord, managed the tax rolls in his sleep."
This man is insubordinate. Threat level: Yellow.
Deacon, or rather, Lord Cassian, walked past the desk and stood before the large, dirt-smudged window, surveying his new domain.
Oakhaven was a small city, perhaps ten thousand souls, surrounded by a squat stone wall and nestled beside a lazy, brown river. Beyond the walls, the fields looked sickly—yellow-brown where they should be green. The docks were mostly empty.
Elara's hushed summary confirmed the disaster:
Famine: The last two harvests failed, exacerbated by the previous Lord's poor management and excessive taxation. Rations were dangerously low.
Abuse: The previous Lord, a harsh man by all accounts, ruled through fear. The common people hated the Castellan's office.
Defense: The town militia—a hundred untrained men with mismatched spears—was the only defense. The regional Imperial forces had withdrawn three weeks ago to fight a larger conflict, leaving Oakhaven exposed.
The Threat: Bands of monstrous raiders, called Goblins in this world, were rumored to be gathering in the nearby Blackwood Forest. An attack was imminent.
It was a logistical nightmare. No supplies, low morale, insufficient manpower, and a pending assault.
"My Lord?" the Steward prompted, annoyed by the silence.
Deacon turned, his blue eyes hard, the years of managing chaos giving him a mask of cold competence.
"Steward," he said, his voice quiet, forcing the man to lean in. "We will address the tax rolls when we are not facing annihilation. Where are the current defense reports?"
He gestured to the largest table. "Clear this. I want a map of Oakhaven. I want troop positions, resource caches, and the state of the wall fortifications. Now. I am assuming emergency powers until the threat is neutralized."
The Steward sputtered, momentarily stunned by the sudden steel in his usually lackadaisical master's voice. "My Lord, the complaints court—"
"Is cancelled," Deacon cut him off. "Until the Goblins are pushed back, any complaint filed is against the priority of defense. Tell the people the Castellan is preparing to defend them, for the first time in a long time. Go."
The Steward, thoroughly subdued, backed out. Deacon turned to Elara. "Find Commander Harl. Tell him I want him to gather his best officers—all two of them—and meet me in one hour. This room. Bring me food. Something that won't incapacitate me. And hot, strong coffee, if such a miracle exists in this backward world."
Elara didn't question the coffee request; she simply nodded and hurried out.
The Lily Pad
Alone, Deacon walked back to the window. He was a Sergeant First Class, a logistics chief, not a battle commander, but the Army had taught him to lead in the absence of higher command. The mission, however impossible, remained.
He stared at the town, his mind frantically ticking through his list of known unknowns. He needed a headcount of his actual soldiers. He needed weapons. He needed communications.
He saw a delivery cart rattling along the main street below. The driver was a stocky, muscular man, struggling to control a pair of weak, skinny horses. Something about the man's posture—the way he held his shoulders, the deliberate, controlled frustration in his movements—was familiar. Too familiar for a random medieval wagon driver.
The man paused the cart near a well, climbed down, and looked up at the Castellan's Hold. His eyes, though shadowed by a wide, floppy hat, seemed to lock onto Lord Cassian's window.
Suddenly, the driver stopped fiddling with the horses. He glanced around quickly, ensuring he was alone. He then reached down, pretended to adjust the lantern hanging on the side of the cart, and began to flash it.
Long. Short-short-short. Long. Pause.
Deacon's breath hitched. His heart pounded, not from fear, but from a jolt of pure, professional recognition. He had run countless nighttime drills with that light pattern.
Dash. Dot-dot-dot. Dash.
M-O-R-S-E.
The delivery man was signaling the letter K.
K for Kilo. In military radio procedure: K means "Over. Awaiting Response."
Deacon closed his eyes, a wave of profound relief and dizzying terror washing over him. He was not alone. The whole lily pad—the FOB Bastion unit—had been dragged here, scattered and disguised among the townspeople.
But the relief was instantly soured by the realization of the true scale of the disaster: if his men were alive, then his Commander was likely also here. His CO, Major Miles "Mack" Kiley, a hard-charging, aggressive field commander, was now a civilian living under his junior NCO's accidental command.
And he, SFC Deacon Hayes, was just seconds away from sending a covert response that would confirm to a highly trained, deeply traumatized soldier that their former Sergeant was now their hated Castellan.
He knew he couldn't use the lantern. He had no excuse to be playing with lights. He had to respond in kind, using the medieval tools at hand.
He moved quickly to the desk, grabbed a piece of vellum and an inkpot, and scrawled a note to Elara.
Have a runner find the merchant, Brandt, who owns the cart near the South Well. Tell him the Castellan needs a dozen of his best-quality grain sacks delivered to the Hold immediately. The sacks must be marked with a single, blue knot.
He handed the note to a nearby servant, a boy who looked terrified. "Go. Hurry. And be discreet."
The delivery man was Brandt. The single blue knot was the signal. It was simple, non-electronic, and conveyed an unmistakable message to a trained soldier: "Affirmative. Command is established. Mission: Status Quo. Await Contact."
As the boy hurried out, Deacon took his position back at the window. He watched Brandt receive the message. Brandt's shoulders slumped, not in failure, but in rigid, military acknowledgement. He quickly adjusted his cart, securing a single blue thread around the top of one sack, and set off toward the Hold.
One down. Ninety-nine to go.
The pounding in his head returned, but this time, it was the clarity of a newly established purpose. His mission was no longer just to survive, but to save Oakhaven, hide the fact he was a fraud, command his superiors, and prevent his scattered, traumatized soldiers from breaking cover—all before the Goblins arrived.
SFC David Hayes, now Lord Cassian, Castellan of Oakhaven, had just inherited a city, a war, and a highly unstable, invisible army.