Four hours....Four miserable, painful, dragging hours.
Ian’s boots were caked with dust and mud. His legs ached like hell, and every time the carriage wheel hit a dip or bump in the road, the rope jerked at his arms and sent a fresh bolt of pain through his shoulders. His ribs still throbbed from the burn, and the sun above gave no mercy. It was high and hot, beating down on his back as though trying to melt him into the road.
None of the guards offered him water. Or a word. He cursed them under his breath at least fifty times. But eventually he saw a city in the distance.
Stone walls, thick and high, wrapped around clusters of towers and peaked roofs. Smoke curled lazily from chimneys. Flags fluttered gently on the ramparts. There were guards posted at the gate—lots of them. And the gates weren’t just wood. They were solid, reinforced metal.
As they approached, the guards at the front shouted something he couldn’t catch.
And what lay beyond them made Ian forget about his aching legs for just a moment.
The city inside was alive, bustling, noisy, packed with people. Market stalls lined the stone-paved roads. Children darted through narrow alleys. Women in long gowns walked with baskets balanced on their heads. Men hauled goods, hammered metal, shouted prices.
But all of it stopped the moment the carriage passed through.
One by one, people turned....and bowed.
Every time the carriage passed a group, they dropped their heads low, hand over their hearts. Some even went to one knee. Ian blinked, stunned. They weren’t reacting to the guards....They were reacting to her.
The woman in the carriage hadn’t even shown her face again since stepping out back on the road. And yet, the people still bowed.
Ian kept walking, forced to match the slow, rolling pace of the carriage. He glanced around, taking in every detail.
The buildings were stone and timber, tightly packed. Shopkeepers wore robes and tunics. There were no streetlights. No electricity lines. No cars. No tech at all. It was like walking into a living museum exhibit. Medieval, yes, but real. Gritty. Worn in.
The smell of roasted meat mixed with horse dung and smoke. It was all too vivid to be a dream. Ian squinted up at the tallest tower, then back at the guards, then at the sky. Content orıginally comes from noⅴelfire.net
There was no doubt in his mind now...this wasn’t Earth, not his Earth.
Somehow...God knows how, that damned Yew tree had taken him somewhere else entirely. Across time? Maybe. Across space? Probably. It didn’t matter what exact label he gave it. All he knew for sure was this world wasn’t his.
And if that tree was the way he came in... maybe it was also the way out. He knew he had to find a way to escape and get back to that tree.
He couldn’t afford to wait around, hoping things got better. The woman in the carriage didn’t look the patient type, she didn’t look like someone who played fair, either. If he didn’t move soon, they’d kill him. Or worse.
He glanced at the rope tied to the carriage axle. Too thick to snap. The guards were still ahead, flanking both sides. And his rifle? Gone. Probably stowed inside the carriage or in the hands of some guard who didn’t even know how to use it.
But as if things weren’t already bad enough...Suddenly, something wet hit his shoulder. Splat!
He looked down and saw brown sludge sliding down his shirt.
Another wet glob splattered near his boot. And then another. Someone threw dung at him.
"Are you kidding me?!" he barked, spinning toward the crowd lining the street.
Laughter. Disgusted looks. One old man even spit in his direction.
Ian’s eyes darted around, furious. "What the hell is wrong with you people?! You throw your trash at strangers now?!"
A kid yelled something he didn’t understand — probably a slur — and mimed a mock whip-crack with his hand. The crowd laughed.
Ian’s face twisted in rage. "Screw you! Every last one of you!"
He didn’t understand it. They were bowing to the damn carriage like it carried a goddess, but him? He was dirt. Lower than dirt. These people didn’t just look at him with pity. It was disgust. Like he wasn’t even worth stepping over.
His fists clenched, the rope digging tighter into his skin. He cursed again, louder this time, not caring who heard.
The city passed in a blur after that.
Ian kept his head down, from the ache in his neck. His shirt was stained with spit, filth, and whatever that sour-smelling sludge had been.
They entered the castle.He looked up, squinting. Tall towers loomed above, Ivy clung to the stone, and dark red banners fluttered down from narrow windows. Guards stood at every post, armor shining, but none of them acknowledged him. It was like he didn’t exist.
The rope tugged again and the horses slowed. They were inside a courtyard now. The carriage stopped near an iron gate leading below the castle, and two guards dismounted.
One of them walked over and without a word, cut the rope off his wrists.
He didn’t even get to stretch before a hand slammed into his back and shoved him forward. He stumbled, gritting his teeth, but kept his footing as they marched him down into the fortress.
They reached the cell quarters and a cell door creaked open.
"In," one of the guards barked. He had to step in, not like he had a choice.
The iron door clanged shut behind him with a thud. The cell was barely wide enough for him to stretch out. A pile of straw sat in one corner, and a dented tin bowl was shoved near the bars. A small window high up in the wall let in a faint beam of dying sunlight, catching the dust in the air.
Ian stood there for a long second. Just breathing. He finally sat down, pressing his back against the wall.
His whole body ached. His wrists were raw. His ribs were sore. He was weak.
He leaned his head back, exhaling slowly. "Okay," he muttered. "Now what?"