THE JOURNEY BEGINS

Dawn came too early and with too much finality. Marcus woke to the sound

of wagons creaking and livestock protesting, the entire village of

Millhaven transforming into something that looked like a medieval refugee

caravan.

"Time to go, lad," his grandfather said softly, touching Marcus's shoulder.

Despite his age and persistent cough, Aldric's eyes held steady

determination. "The sisters want us moving before full light."

Marcus rolled off his straw mattress for what he knew would be the last

time. Around him, his family moved with the efficiency of people who'd

spent two days making impossible decisions about what pieces of their life

they could carry and what they'd have to leave forever.

The house felt empty already, stripped of anything portable and valuable.

Forty years of accumulated memories reduced to what five cows could carry

and what thirteen people could bear on their backs. They couldn't afford

a wagon, so they loaded up their remaining cattle and prepared to walk.

"Marcus!" Big Tom's voice boomed from outside, somehow managing to sound

cheerful despite the circumstances. "Come see what Commander Cain wants!"

Marcus pulled on his traveling clothes—his sturdiest tunic and the boots

his mother had crafted for him last winter—and stepped outside into

organized chaos. The entire village was in motion: families loading final

belongings, children crying or running underfoot, livestock being herded

into traveling formation.

Sister Korra stood beside her horse, checking items off a list with

military precision. Commander Cain was near the column's rear, talking with

several of the older village men. When he spotted Marcus approaching with

Big Tom, he gestured them over.

"Marcus of Millhaven, and Thomas, correct?" Commander Cain's tone was

businesslike but not unfriendly. "I have a proposition for you both."

"Sir?" Marcus replied, trying to sound appropriately respectful.

"The rear guard detail is short-handed. Two of my soldiers came down with

fever during the night, and I need reliable men to help escort the slower

families and wagons." Commander Cain studied them both. "The work pays two

silver pieces each for the journey, plus additional rations."

Marcus felt his pulse quicken. Two silver pieces was more money than his

family had seen in months. "What would we need to do?"

"Walk with the trailing wagons, help families who fall behind, watch for

stragglers or anyone who might need assistance. Basic escort duty." The

commander's gaze fixed on Big Tom. "I'm told you're strong enough to lift

a wagon wheel out of a rut single-handed."

Tom grinned. "Stronger than that, sir. Can carry two grown men if needed."

"And you," Commander Cain turned to Marcus, "have shown yourself to be...

resourceful. Good judgment in difficult situations."

Marcus thought about his family's desperate need for money, about the

uncertainty waiting for them in Drakmoor. But he also felt a pang of

disappointment—he'd been hoping to travel with Sister Korra, to ask her

his million questions about the world and, most importantly, about magic.

Still, two silver pieces... "We accept."

"Excellent. Report to Sergeant Harwick at the column's rear. He'll explain

your duties." Commander Cain paused. "One warning: the rear guard sees the

most trouble if trouble comes. Bandits target the back of columns, assuming

that's where the weak and valuable travel. Stay alert."

An hour later, Marcus found himself walking beside a creaking wagon driven

by an elderly couple he didn't recognize, their possessions covered by a

patched canvas tarp. Big Tom strode easily beside him, carrying a travel

pack that would have crushed Marcus and whistling softly to himself.

Sergeant Harwick walked point for their small group—a weathered man in his

forties with the kind of face that had seen too many battles. His graying

beard was cut short in military fashion, and his eyes never stopped moving,

constantly scanning the countryside for threats. He carried himself with

the economical movements of a professional soldier, never wasting energy

but always ready to act. His mail shirt was well-maintained but showed the

scratches and dents of actual combat, and he wore a sword that looked like

it had seen plenty of use.

"Don't look so worried," Tom said, noticing Marcus's expression. "Adventure,

that's what this is. First time either of us has been more than a day's

walk from home."

Marcus looked back at the dwindling sight of Millhaven, already disappearing

behind the rolling hills. "Doesn't feel like adventure. Feels like running

away."

"Sometimes running away and moving toward are the same thing," Tom replied

with the simple wisdom that occasionally emerged from his straightforward

nature. "Besides, that Sister Korra said there'd be opportunities in the

capital. Opportunities for clever fellows like you."

The first few days of the journey passed peacefully enough. Marcus learned

the rhythm of walking beside wagons, helping when wheels stuck in soft

ground, keeping an eye on children who wandered too far from their families.

The other rear guard soldiers—Sergeant Harwick and two men-at-arms named

Dorian and Mills—proved competent but tired, grateful for the additional help.

The routine became familiar: wake before dawn, break camp, walk for hours

with brief rest stops, make camp at dusk, eat, sleep, repeat. Marcus found

himself adapting to the physical demands, his legs growing stronger, his

shoulders broader from helping with heavy loads.

During the quiet moments, he often found himself staring at the stars,

thinking about his conversation with Sister Korra. The same constellations

looked down on both his worlds, but here they felt more immediate, more

meaningful. No light pollution, no city noise—just the vast sweep of the

night sky and the gentle sounds of sleeping families.

On the fourth day, as the sun reached its peak and the column paused for

their midday rest, Marcus felt the familiar drowsiness that preceded his

world transitions. He found a spot beside one of the wagons and closed his

eyes, letting the gentle sounds of the caravan fade away.

Marcus jolted awake to his alarm buzzing insistently. Wednesday morning.

Bio lab at 9 AM, followed by chemistry lecture, then three hours of what

Professor Martinez had cheerfully called "intensive problem-solving sessions"

but what everyone else knew was really hard math.

"Morning, sunshine," Jake called from the door, already dressed and organizing

his color-coded notes. "You were talking in your sleep again. Something

about wagons and rear guards?"

"Stress dreams," Marcus mumbled, rolling out of bed. "About being late

for things."

"Speaking of being late..." Jake tapped his watch meaningfully.

The next eight hours passed in a blur of academic tedium that made Marcus

appreciate the simple clarity of walking beside wagons. Biology lab involved

dissecting a fetal pig while trying not to think about the livestock in

his Valdris caravan. Chemistry lecture was three hours of Professor Chen

droning about molecular structures that Marcus already understood better

than she did.

But it was the calculus problem-solving session that nearly broke him.

"Mr. Chen," Professor Martinez said, stopping beside Marcus's desk, "you

seem... distracted today. This integral should be straightforward for someone

of your mathematical background."

Marcus stared at the equation on his paper, his mind still half-focused

on wagon wheels and road conditions. In Valdris, math meant calculating

feed ratios and travel times. Here, it meant abstract problems that had

no connection to anything real.

"Sorry, Professor. I'm just tired."

"Perhaps you should consider getting more sleep instead of whatever

extracurricular activities are occupying your nights."

After Marcus finally stumbled through the problem, he found himself in

the library, supposedly studying for tomorrow's chemistry quiz but actually

staring blankly at molecular diagrams while his mind wandered to medieval

supply lines and bandit tactics.

"Dude, you look like death," Tyler observed, appearing at Marcus's table

with his laptop and an energy drink. "Want to take a break? I'm streaming

a chill strategy game tonight. Nothing intense, just base building and

resource management."

"Can't. Quiz tomorrow."

"When's the last time you actually had fun? Like, genuine fun, not just

obligation-fulfilling academic achievement?"

Marcus thought about Big Tom's cheerful whistling as they walked, about

Sister Korra's interesting conversations by firelight, about the simple

satisfaction of helping families with their wagons. "It's been a while."

"That's depressing, man. Life's too short to spend it all studying." Tyler

opened his laptop. "Look, just hang out for an hour. Sometimes your brain

needs a break to actually process information."

But Marcus couldn't focus on Tyler's game either. Every strategic decision

reminded him of real choices he'd have to make in Valdris. Every resource

management challenge echoed problems his family faced on their journey to

Drakmoor.

By 10 PM, Marcus was back in his dorm room, surrounded by textbooks and

feeling like he'd accomplished absolutely nothing meaningful all day. His

chemistry knowledge was already beyond what they were teaching. His biology

work felt redundant compared to practical animal care. Even his literature

assignments seemed shallow compared to the real human stories he witnessed

in Valdris.

Marcus walked down the hall and knocked on Jake's door. His friend answered

in his pajamas, toothbrush in hand.

"Jake," Marcus said, "do you ever feel like you're wasting your time?"

"With what? School?"

"With... everything. Like you're going through the motions of a life that

doesn't really matter."

Jake paused, toothbrush halfway to his mouth. "That's a pretty heavy

question for a Wednesday night. You sure you're okay?"

"Yeah. Just thinking too much."

"Well, stop thinking and start sleeping. Tomorrow's a new day."

As Marcus finally drifted off to sleep, he felt relief at the prospect

of returning to Valdris, where his choices had real consequences and his

knowledge could actually help people.

Marcus opened his eyes to afternoon sunlight filtering through the canvas

of a wagon cover. The caravan had resumed its journey while he slept, and

he could hear Big Tom's voice nearby, chatting amiably with Sergeant Harwick

about the best techniques for loading supply packs.

"There he is," Tom said, noticing Marcus stirring. "Thought you might sleep

through the whole day. Must have needed it."

Marcus stretched, working out the kinks from sleeping on hard ground. After

eight hours of academic tedium, the simple physicality of walking and

helping with wagons felt like a blessing.

"How far did we travel while I was sleeping?"

"Few miles," Sergeant Harwick replied, his weathered face showing concern.

"Nothing eventful. Though we should stay alert—this stretch of road is

known for bandit activity."

As if summoned by his words, movement flickered in the treeline ahead.

It was past midday when the trouble started.

"Movement in the trees ahead," Sergeant Harwick said quietly, his hand

moving to his sword hilt. "Could be nothing, but..."

Marcus squinted toward the treeline that bordered the road. At first he

saw nothing, then caught a glimpse of metal reflecting sunlight between

the branches.

"Bandits?" he asked, his mouth suddenly dry.

"Most likely." Harwick's voice was calm but tense. "They've been watching

us for the past mile, waiting for the right spot." He turned to the wagon

drivers. "Keep moving. Don't stop for anything unless I give the word."

The attack came suddenly. Six men burst from the forest, armed with makeshift

weapons, their faces masked with dirty cloth. They moved with the confidence

of predators who'd done this before.

"Stand and deliver!" their leader shouted, pointing a rusty sword at the

wagons. "Your coin and goods, and nobody gets hurt!"

Marcus felt his body freeze, his mind going completely blank. This was

nothing like the strategic thinking exercises he'd done with Tyler, nothing

like the theoretical problems he solved in his college courses. These were

real men with real weapons who wanted to rob them.

But Big Tom reacted like he'd been born for this moment.

"No!" Tom bellowed, stepping forward with his massive frame blocking the

bandits' path to the wagons. "You can't have our things!"

"We don't have anything here, Tom, and we are not soldiers—just let them—"

"Get out of the way, boy," the bandit leader snarled. "We don't want to

hurt anyone, but we will if we must."

"Then you'll have to hurt me first," Tom replied, his voice carrying the

absolute certainty of someone who'd made up his mind completely.

What happened next unfolded with brutal simplicity. The bandits rushed

forward, expecting to overwhelm the rear guard through numbers. Sergeant

Harwick and his men engaged the main group with professional efficiency,

steel ringing against steel as they formed a protective line.

But Big Tom was something else entirely.

The first bandit to reach Tom—a wiry man with a club—swung hard at Tom's

head. Tom simply ducked, grabbed the man by his shirt, and lifted him

clean off the ground with one massive hand.

"Hey now," Tom said mildly, "that's not very nice."

He tossed the bandit into a tree with a solid thud. The man slumped to

the ground, groaning and clutching his ribs.

Meanwhile, Marcus found himself face-to-face with another bandit—a scarred

woman with a rusty sword. She shoved him hard, sending him stumbling

backward into a wagon wheel.

"Stay down, boy!" she snarled, raising her blade.

Marcus scrambled to his feet, his heart hammering. This was nothing like

the strategic exercises with Tyler. This was real, immediate, and terrifying.

He could hear the clash of weapons, could smell the sweat and fear, could

see the genuine intent to harm in the woman's eyes.

Sergeant Harwick was engaged with two bandits at once, his professional

training evident in his clean, efficient movements. His sword work was

economical and deadly, each strike calculated to disable rather than kill

if possible. But one of his men, Mills, took a sword cut to his arm and

cried out in pain.

That's when Tom really got angry.

"You hurt Mills!" Tom bellowed, abandoning his gentle approach entirely.

He grabbed the nearest bandit—a large man who probably thought his size

would intimidate people—and simply squeezed. The bandit's sword fell from

nerveless fingers as Tom's grip tightened around his wrist.

"Ow, ow, ow!" the bandit yelped. "Let go!"

"Say you're sorry for hurting Mills," Tom demanded, his voice carrying

the authority of someone who could literally crush bones.

"I'm sorry! I'm sorry!"

Tom released him, and the bandit clutched his probably-bruised wrist,

staring at Tom in disbelief. The sight of their large companion being

handled like a child seemed to drain the fight out of the remaining bandits.

The woman who'd been threatening Marcus hesitated, her sword wavering.

Sergeant Harwick pressed his advantage, disarming one opponent while keeping

the other at bay with the point of his blade.

"This isn't worth it," one of the bandits muttered, backing away from Tom's

imposing figure.

"The big one's not natural," another added, fear creeping into his voice.

The remaining bandits looked at their unconscious companion against the

tree, their leader nursing his injured wrist, and Sergeant Harwick's steady

advance with his blood-stained sword. They decided they had urgent business

elsewhere.

"Run!" the leader shouted, and they scattered into the forest like leaves

before a storm.

"Well," Sergeant Harwick said, breathing heavily but grinning as he bound

Mills's arm, "that was certainly educational." He looked at Big Tom with

new respect. "Son, have you ever considered military service?"

Tom scratched his head, looking genuinely confused by the question. "Never

really thought about it. Marcus is the clever one. I just help when things

need lifting."

Marcus finally found his voice. "Tom, that was incredible. How did you

learn to fight like that?"

"Was I fighting? Seemed simple enough. They seemed so slow." Tom shrugged.

"Bad men trying to hurt good people, so you stop them. Besides, they

threatened our families. Can't allow that."

As they resumed their journey, Marcus found himself processing what had

happened. In his modern world, violence was theoretical—something that

happened in movies or video games. Here, it was immediate and personal.

People could get hurt, could die.

But Tom had handled it with the same straightforward competence he brought

to farm work. No hesitation, no second-guessing, just clear action when

action was needed.

"Tom," Marcus said as they walked, "thank you."

"For what?"

"For protecting everyone. For being brave when I froze up."

Tom looked genuinely confused. "Marcus, you're brave in different ways.

You think of solutions no one else sees. You helped the cattle, improved

the crops, made that writing system that impressed Sister Korra." He

paused. "I'm good at hitting things and lifting heavy objects. You're

good at everything else."

"I didn't feel good at anything during that fight."

"First time's always scary," Sergeant Harwick said, overhearing. "You did

fine, lad. Staying calm and not panicking is half the battle. Your friend

here," he nodded at Tom, "has the makings of a fine soldier. Natural

fighter, good instincts."

"What about the bandits we left behind?" Marcus asked.

"Dorian and Mills will bind their wounds and point them toward the nearest

town. Assuming they're smart enough to find honest work instead of trying

this again." Harwick spat. "Times are hard, drives some men to desperate

choices."

As evening approached, the column made camp in a defensible clearing beside

a stream. Marcus helped gather firewood and set up the rear guard's small

camp, his mind still processing the day's events.

"Marcus," Big Tom said as they shared a simple meal of bread and dried

meat, "you're quiet tonight."

"Just thinking."

"About the bandits?"

"About everything. The attack, leaving home, what we'll find in Drakmoor."

Marcus poked at the fire with a stick. "I keep feeling like I don't know

anything real about this world."

"What do you mean?"

Marcus tried to put his thoughts into words. "I know about crops and

cattle and farming. But I don't know about fighting, or cities, or how

people really survive when everything goes wrong. I've been living in

the village like it was the whole world."

"Well," Tom said pragmatically, "now we get to learn about the rest of

"You're not worried?"

"Course I'm worried. But Marcus, you've never steered us wrong yet. Your

strange ideas work. So if you think going to this capital place is the

right choice, then it's the right choice."

Marcus felt the familiar weight of his cousin's absolute trust. "What if

I'm wrong this time?"

"Then we'll figure something else out. That's what family does."

Later that night, lying in his bedroll beside the dying campfire, Marcus

stared up at the stars—the same constellations he'd discussed with Sister

Korra, the same sky he studied in his astronomy class back in Chicago.

Tomorrow they'd be another day closer to Drakmoor, another day further

from everything familiar. But today had taught him something important:

when real danger came, he could count on Big Tom completely. And maybe,

just maybe, Tom was right to count on him in return.

The bandit attack had been his first real adventure in Valdris, and he'd

learned something crucial: this world was more dangerous than he'd ever

imagined, but he wasn't facing it alone.

As sleep finally claimed him, Marcus could hear Tom's gentle snoring and

the quiet voices of the soldiers maintaining watch. For the first time

since leaving Millhaven, he felt something that might actually be hope.