Chapter 3: The Outlaw’s Reckoning

Alaric barely had time to brace himself before his opponent charged, the ground shaking under the knight’s heavy boots. The mountain of a man swung his sword with a strength that could cleave a tree in two, and Alaric's instincts screamed at him to move. He stumbled backward, the ill-fitting armor weighing him down, and narrowly avoided the blade's deadly arc.

The crowd roared with laughter at Alaric’s awkward maneuver, but he didn’t have the luxury of embarrassment. His mind raced, desperately searching for a way to turn the duel in his favor. Think, Alaric. Use your wits, he told himself, trying to ignore the suffocating heat and the metallic clank of the armor with each breath.

His opponent advanced again, raising his sword high. Alaric’s eyes darted around the sparring ring, noting the uneven patches of ground and the barrels of water placed near the edges. An idea sparked. Use the environment.

As the knight’s sword came crashing down, Alaric sidestepped—not gracefully, but enough to avoid being skewered—and lunged toward one of the barrels. The heavy armor made his movements sluggish, but he managed to grab hold of the barrel and push it with all his might. The wooden container toppled over, spilling water onto the ground and creating a slick, muddy mess.

The knight turned, ready to deliver another blow, but as he stepped forward, his feet slid in the mud. His massive frame wobbled, and for a brief moment, he was off-balance. Alaric seized the opportunity, stumbling forward and using his armored shoulder to shove the knight. The crowd gasped as the giant man crashed to the ground, his armor clanging loudly.

Alaric didn’t waste time reveling in his small victory. He knew the knight would recover quickly. Sure enough, the man let out a furious growl, scrambling to get back on his feet. Alaric needed to think fast. The Zeton, still tucked inside his armor, seemed to pulse as if urging him to act.

What else can I use? Alaric’s eyes landed on a rack of wooden practice weapons nearby. Desperate, he lunged for a wooden staff, yanking it free just as the knight regained his footing. The man’s eyes blazed with anger, and he raised his sword once more, but Alaric raised the staff defensively.

The knight’s sword struck the wooden staff, splintering the wood but not breaking it entirely. Alaric gritted his teeth, his arms straining against the force of the blow. "This is getting ridiculous," he muttered, sweat dripping down his face.

The knight pulled back for another strike, but Alaric had an idea. Instead of waiting for the next blow, he swung the staff low, aiming for the knight’s legs. The staff connected, sweeping the knight’s feet out from under him. The crowd erupted in a mix of laughter and cheers as the mountain of a man went down once more, landing flat on his back with a thunderous crash.

Alaric couldn’t believe it. I’m actually holding my own. But the knight wasn’t done. With a roar of frustration, the man began to rise again, and Alaric knew his luck was running out. He glanced at Sir Cavan, who watched with a bemused expression. Clearly, Cavan hadn’t expected Alaric to last this long.

"Enough!" Sir Cavan's voice cut through the noise, and the crowd fell silent. The knight on the ground hesitated, then lowered his sword, breathing heavily. Cavan stepped forward, his eyes narrowing as he studied Alaric. "You’ve shown more spirit than I expected, traveler. But this proves nothing of your intentions."

Alaric swallowed hard, trying to steady his breath. "Then what will prove it?" he asked, hoping his voice didn’t betray his exhaustion.

Cavan’s lips curled into a smirk. "An honest conversation, for a start." He gestured for Alaric to follow him, and the guard from earlier stepped forward to remove Alaric’s armor. Relieved, Alaric shed the heavy metal plating, his limbs aching from the effort of the duel.

As he followed Cavan into a smaller, more private tent, Alaric couldn’t shake the feeling that he was walking into a trap. But he had no choice. If he wanted to survive in this world, he needed allies—or at least, he needed to convince these people he wasn’t a threat.

The tent was dimly lit, with a simple wooden table in the center. Cavan sat down, motioning for Alaric to do the same. "Now, traveler," the knight said, his tone still cautious but no longer openly hostile. "Tell me the truth. Where are you really from?"

Alaric hesitated, knowing he had to tread carefully. "I told you, I’m from distant lands," he said, leaning into the lie. "A place where... well, let’s say our clothing is different, and our customs are strange to you."

Cavan’s eyes narrowed. "And this artifact you carry?" He gestured to the Zeton, which Alaric had tried to keep hidden but was now very much in the open. "What is it?"

Alaric’s mouth went dry. The Zeton was the reason he was in this mess, and he barely understood it himself. "It’s... a family heirloom," he said, hoping the explanation would suffice. "Passed down through generations. Nothing more."

Cavan’s gaze remained fixed on the Zeton, his expression unreadable. "That family heirloom caused quite the commotion when you arrived," he said slowly. "Light, energy—things I’ve never seen before. I don’t believe in coincidences, traveler."

Alaric’s fingers tightened around the Zeton. "And I don’t believe in interrogations without good reason," he countered, his voice firm despite the tension knotting his stomach. "I’ve caused you no harm."

For a moment, silence hung between them, heavy and unyielding. Then Cavan leaned back, studying Alaric as if weighing his every word. "Very well," he said finally. "You may stay, but under guard. If you truly mean no harm, time will tell."

Alaric let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. It wasn’t freedom, but it was better than execution. "Thank you," he said, inclining his head. "I’ll prove myself in time."

That evening, Alaric found himself sitting by a campfire, the guards keeping a watchful eye on him from a distance. The Zeton felt heavy in his pocket, and he couldn’t stop turning it over in his hands. He had barely scratched the surface of its mysteries, yet it had already thrown him into a world he didn’t belong in.

How do I control you? he wondered, running his thumb along the grooves of the Zeton. There had to be a way to make it work on command, to get back to his own time. But for now, he was stuck here, surrounded by knights and nobles who viewed him as a potential threat.

As he pondered his predicament, a shadow fell across him. Alaric looked up to see a young woman standing there, her arms crossed. She had sharp, intelligent eyes and a cloak that billowed slightly in the evening breeze. "You fight well for someone who claims to be a merchant," she said, her voice cool but curious.

Alaric raised an eyebrow. "And you have a knack for sneaking up on people," he replied.

She smirked. "I’m Lady Seraphine. Sir Cavan sent me to keep an eye on you." She tilted her head, studying him. "But I’m not convinced you’re as dangerous as he thinks. Just... strange."

Alaric chuckled, the tension easing just a fraction. "I’ve been called worse," he said. "Strange is almost a compliment."

Lady Seraphine’s smile widened, but her eyes remained calculating. "Perhaps," she said. "Tell me, traveler—what are you really after?"

Alaric considered her question, the flickering firelight casting shadows across his face. He wasn’t sure of the answer himself. All he knew was that his journey had only just begun, and the secrets of the Zeton were far more dangerous than he’d ever imagined.