The transition from the wild, misty forest to the iron-clad reality of the fortress was jarring. The air inside the gates was cold, sharp, and laden with the smell of wet metal and sweat. Chandrel moved with fierce purpose, his hand firmly grasping Vyren's arm, pulling him past the enormous, bronze-plated gates.
"Keep your head down," Chandrel ordered, his voice barely audible over the clatter of a passing supply wagon. "Look small. Look lost. Your chaos is now your shield."
Vyren tightened his grip on the blanket draped over his shoulders. He felt ridiculous—a high-tech physician from the future, bundled in wool, being guided like a scared child—but he knew this humiliation was his only camouflage. He forced his perfect eyesight to blur his surroundings, trying to mimic the confusion a truly sightless person might feel.
They were deep inside the massive stone fortress now. Torches sputtered on the walls, casting huge, dancing shadows that made the figures of the warriors seem even larger. Vyren's eyes, despite his efforts to appear helpless, cataloged everything: the rough-hewn stone architecture, the intricate insignia of the Dragon and the Sun on every banner, the lethal efficiency of the guards' movements. This was more than a record; this was a living, breathing, high-fantasy nightmare.
They reached the doors of the main command chamber, enormous slabs of reinforced wood banded with iron. Chandrel hesitated, running his thumb over the brass handle.
"General Vanya is the iron fist of this kingdom," Chandrel whispered. "She has no patience for fragility or weakness. My lie about your Inner Sight is your only defense. Do not falter."
The doors were pulled open by two guards.
The chamber was overwhelming. A huge, low-lit space where the oppressive feeling of military power was absolute. Enormous maps were spread across stone tables, illuminated by oil lamps, detailing enemy troop movements and contested territories with terrifying accuracy.
General Vanya was waiting. She was seated behind a table, a woman in thick, polished military gear, leather, bronze, and chainmail her posture radiating an authority that chilled Vyren more than the outside mist. She looked up, and her eyes, the color of cold river stone, fixed instantly on Vyren.
"Chandrel," she said, her voice sharp and perfectly controlled. "Who is this fragile traveler? The King is very clear about strangers within the command center."
Chandrel pushed Vyren forward gently, placing his hand protectively on Vyren's shoulder. "He is the Historian, General. He requires immediate guidance."
General Vanya rose slowly from her chair. The movement was calculated, demanding attention. She walked deliberately around the heavy stone table, her boots making a soft, rhythmic scrape on the floor.
"Historian," she commanded, standing before him. She didn't raise her voice, but every word felt like a command of iron. "I require your first entry. Tell me, what did you sense near the Western Border?"
Vyren's mind raced. He had to convert his visual data (the jackal, the direction Kaelith came from) into believable sensory information. He tightened his grip on the blanket, forcing himself to appear small.
"I... I sensed the Fear of the Northern Clans," Vyren stammered, using the language Chandrel had taught him. "Their movements are heavy, yet hesitant. I smelled their desperation. Their supply lines are weak, and they seek a quick entry before the next harvest."
General Vanya stepped closer, her armor almost scraping his blanket. She smelled of leather, oil, and cold fury. "Precise. Your Inner Sight is... useful." She ran a judging look over his chaotic, trembling form. "But you are an immense liability to the Northern Watch, Chandrel."
"He is my responsibility, General," Chandrel insisted, his voice unwavering. "And his records will be invaluable to the war effort."
Vanya nodded once, sharply. "Very well. You will be escorted to a private room. Rest. You will begin tomorrow. And Historian..."
She paused, stepping so close that Vyren had to hold his breath. She placed a single, gauntleted hand on his shoulder—a touch that felt like the weight of the entire fortress.
"We know you are not from here," she whispered, her voice dropping to a horrifying, confidential tone that was meant only for Vyren. "We know of the foreign magic that connects you to your distant home. Your ability to leave this place is not a secret to us."
Vyren's blood ran cold. The sheer specificity of the threat was impossible. How could a 15th-century General know about his 26th-century technology?
"Should you try to betray our confidence—should you try to simply abandon your duties and leave this kingdom—we will not just execute you," Vanya continued, her eyes boring into his. "We will ensure that the threads of that magic are severed forever. Your essence will remain trapped within our borders, stripped of the ability to travel, long after your body dies wherever it belongs. You will never return to your dreams again."
The consequence was absolute horror: an eternal prison, trapped in a dead dream file with a non-responsive future body.
Vyren looked desperately at Chandrel, who remained impassive, his face a mask of loyal servitude. He had led Vyren to this fate.
"I understand," Vyren finally whispered, the blanket suddenly feeling less like a comfort and more like a permanent shroud.
"Good," General Vanya said, stepping back, satisfied. "Chandrel, escort the Historian to his quarters. He is your responsibility until further notice. He will only leave with your explicit permission."
Chandrel placed his hand firmly on the small of Vyren's back, a touch that was both proprietorial and confining. "Understood, General."
As they walked away, Vyren felt the weight of General Vanya's gaze boring into his back. He looked at Chandrel, the blind man who now fiercely protected his life and his lie. He realized he was no longer a doctor, a tourist, or even a liar. He was a prisoner of the dream and an instrument of the lie.