ROYAL WELCOME

The morning sun cast long shadows across Drakmoor's central square as thousands of refugees gathered in response to the royal summons. Marcus stood with his family near the back of the crowd, Big Tom's massive frame providing a useful windbreak against the mountain air that swept down from the peaks surrounding the city.

"Never seen so many people in one place," Tom whispered, his voice filled with wonder rather than anxiety. "Look at all the different clothes, Marcus. Some of these folks must have come from kingdoms I've never even heard of."

Marcus nodded, but his attention focused on the elaborate platform erected at the square's center. Royal banners snapped in the wind, and he could see ranks of guards in gleaming armor forming a protective perimeter. This wasn't just a welcome ceremony. It was a show of power.

"Refugees from seventeen settlements," Sister Korra said quietly, appearing beside them. She'd been moving through the crowd since dawn, helping coordinate the various groups. "Nearly fifty thousand souls, all told. The largest evacuation in Valdris history. Twenty thousand arrived the week before, I'm told. More on the way."

"That many?" Marcus's grandfather leaned heavily on his walking stick, his persistent cough worse after the long journey. "Where will they put us all?"

Sister Korra's expression was carefully neutral. "His Majesty will address that concern shortly."

A trumpet fanfare echoed across the square, and the crowd gradually quieted. Marcus felt his stomach tighten as a procession emerged from the palace gates. Nobles in elaborate robes, advisors carrying scrolls and ceremonial staffs, and finally, the King himself.

King Aldwin the Third was younger than Marcus had expected, perhaps twenty, with the soft features of someone who'd never missed a meal or spent a day doing physical labor. His crown was an ornate thing of gold and gems that caught the morning light, and his purple robes were trimmed with ermine. Even from a distance, Marcus could see the king's expression. A mixture of boredom and petulant irritation, as if this gathering was an inconvenience he'd rather avoid.

"People of Valdris!" the King called out, his voice carrying across the square with the practiced projection of someone accustomed to being heard. "Loyal subjects who have answered our call to seek sanctuary within these walls!"

The crowd stirred, and Marcus noticed how the King's advisors clustered around him like anxious courtiers, whispering in his ear between sentences. One was a thin man with a pointed beard who kept gesturing toward the refugees with obvious distaste. Another, a woman in rich blue robes, held a scroll that she frequently consulted. At each corner of the platform stood massive guards, each easily seven feet tall with unnaturally broad shoulders and arms like tree trunks. Their eyes constantly scanned the crowd with predatory alertness.

"We stand at a crossroads of history," King Aldwin continued, warming to his theme. "The dark wizard Malachar has swept across our continent like a plague, consuming kingdoms that once stood proud and free. Thornwick has fallen. The coastal cities of Merrowhaven lie in ruins. Even the great fortress of Ironhold could not withstand his magical might."

Murmurs rippled through the crowd. Marcus heard someone behind him whisper, "Ironhold fell? But they said it was impregnable."

The King raised his hand for silence. "But we are not without hope! Valdris remains free, protected by our mountain walls and the courage of our people. We have what others lack. Unity, determination, and..." He paused dramatically, gesturing toward the towering peaks behind the city. "The greatest mineral wealth on the continent."

Marcus felt a chill that had nothing to do with the mountain air. He'd noticed the mining operations on their approach to the city. Massive excavations carved into the mountainsides, with streams of workers moving like ants between the tunnels and processing facilities.

"Our miners have broken through to new veins of iron, copper, and precious metals," the King announced, his voice rising with excitement. "Enough to forge weapons for ten armies, enough to fund the greatest military campaign in our history. With these resources, we will not merely survive Malachar's advance. We will drive him back and reclaim every stolen kingdom!"

The crowd erupted in cheers, but Marcus noticed they came mostly from the city dwellers who'd gathered to watch the spectacle. The refugees themselves seemed more subdued, perhaps wondering what this grand speech meant for their immediate needs.

"But," the King continued, and Marcus caught the subtle shift in his tone, "such an undertaking requires sacrifice from all of us. Every able-bodied person must contribute to our kingdom's defense."

Here it comes, Marcus thought, his hands clenching into fists.

"Therefore," King Aldwin proclaimed, "all adult male refugees will be assigned to mining duties, working the new excavations that will provide the materials for our victory. The work is hard but honest, and in return, you will receive housing, food, and the protection of our walls."

Marcus felt Big Tom stiffen beside him. "Mining?" Tom whispered. "But I don't know anything about mining."

"Women and children will be assigned to support roles," the King continued. "Agricultural work to feed our expanded population, textile production for military supplies, and various crafts essential to our war effort. Again, housing and sustenance will be provided."

Sister Korra's jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. Marcus wondered if she'd known about this announcement beforehand, or if she was learning about it along with everyone else.

"Some may ask," the King said, his voice taking on a defensive edge, "why such measures are necessary. The answer is simple: we are at war, whether we chose it or not. Malachar's forces grow stronger with each conquered kingdom, each enslaved population. We must match his strength with our own, or all will be lost."

The thin advisor with the pointed beard leaned in to whisper something, and the King nodded. "Lord Varek reminds me to address practical concerns. Work assignments will begin tomorrow. Housing has been prepared in the lower districts. Simple but adequate accommodations for families. Meals will be provided at communal dining halls. All necessary tools and equipment will be supplied."

Marcus's mind was racing. This wasn't a rescue operation. It was conscription. The refugees had been gathered not just for their protection, but to provide a ready workforce for the King's war effort. They couldn't leave the city, couldn't return to their destroyed homes, and now couldn't choose their own occupations.

"What about those with special skills?" called out a voice from the crowd. Marcus couldn't see who had spoken, but the question carried clearly across the square.

King Aldwin's expression brightened. "An excellent question! Those with valuable trades. Smiths, engineers, scholars. Will be evaluated for specialized roles. We are not wasteful of talent. Lord Varek will oversee these assessments personally."

The thin advisor stepped forward slightly, his cold eyes scanning the crowd as if already cataloguing useful individuals.

"But let no one mistake this for charity," the King continued, his voice hardening. "These are not gifts, but exchanges. You receive protection and sustenance. In return, you provide service to the kingdom that shelters you. This is the way of war, and war is what we face."

Marcus felt his grandfather's hand on his shoulder. "Easy, lad," the old man whispered. "Your face is showing too much of what you're thinking."

Marcus forced his expression to neutrality, but inside he was seething. The King spoke of protection and sustenance as if they were generous gifts, but what he was really describing was indentured servitude. The refugees had no choice but to accept whatever terms were offered.

"Some of you may wonder about the duration of these arrangements," King Aldwin said, as if reading Marcus's thoughts. "The answer is simple: until Malachar is defeated and your homes can be reclaimed. Whether that takes months or years depends on how quickly we can build the strength necessary for victory."

Years. Marcus felt his stomach drop. The King was talking about years of forced labor, with no guarantee of when or if it would end.

"Now," the King continued, his tone becoming more businesslike, "practical matters must be addressed. Representatives from each refugee group will report to the registration tables being set up around the square. You will be assigned housing numbers, work details, and meal schedules. Children under eleven will help their mothers at their assigned tasks. Boys over eleven must follow their fathers to the mines."

This is like a concentration camp, Marcus thought, his stomach churning. Families split apart, children forced into labor, no choice in their own destinies. The King spoke of protection and purpose, but what he was really describing was systematic exploitation dressed up in patriotic rhetoric.

"Before we conclude," King Aldwin said, raising his voice again, "let me address any who might harbor doubts about these measures. Some may think them harsh, but I ask you to consider the alternative. Malachar shows no mercy to those he conquers. His armies leave only death and desolation. Here, you have life, purpose, and hope for the future."

The King gestured broadly toward the city around them. "Look upon Drakmoor's walls, its towers, its strength. This is what organized effort can achieve. This is what your labor will help preserve and expand. When we march against Malachar, it will be with weapons forged by your hands, supplies crafted by your skills, and the knowledge that you helped build the force that will free our continent."

Marcus had to admit the King was an effective speaker. Tall and commanding despite his youth, with golden hair that caught the sunlight and a voice that carried authority beyond his twenty years. Even knowing the reality behind the words, he could feel the crowd's mood shifting slightly.

"Citizens of Drakmoor," King Aldwin concluded, "I ask you to welcome these new additions to our community. They come to us in desperate circumstances, but they bring willing hands and brave hearts. Together, we will forge a victory that will be remembered for generations."

Even with all the sweet talk, Marcus could see the truth in people's faces. The locals looked at the refugees with barely concealed resentment, knowing they would have to share their resources and see their economy strained. The refugees themselves didn't seem happy either. Beneath the polite applause, Marcus saw the hollow eyes of people who understood they were trapped here, prisoners disguised as guests.

As the royal procession began to withdraw, Marcus found himself studying the King's advisors more closely. Lord Varek, the thin man with the pointed beard, moved with the calculated precision of someone who enjoyed wielding power over others. The woman in blue robes seemed more scholarly, but there was something cold in her demeanor that Marcus found unsettling.

"Well," Big Tom said as the crowd began to disperse toward the registration tables, "that was... a lot of words."

"Indeed it was," Marcus's grandfather replied dryly. "And most of them meant exactly what we feared they would."

Sister Korra approached them, her expression carefully controlled. "I should escort you to registration. The process will go more smoothly with official guidance."

As they walked toward the nearest table, Marcus's mind was already working on the problem. The King's speech had revealed several important things: the kingdom was genuinely desperate for resources, the war effort was going to require massive industrial production. I better hide my talents before I become a slave to this maniac, Marcus thought grimly.

The question was how to navigate this system without getting trapped in it. Marcus needed to find a way to use his modern knowledge to help his family while avoiding the kind of attention that would make him a permanent asset of the crown.

"Marcus," his grandfather said quietly as they joined the registration line, "what are you thinking?"

Marcus's two uncles were muttering nearby, resigned to their fate. "We'll work hard," Uncle Aldwin was saying to his wife. "Provide for the family. What choice do we have?"

"I'm thinking," Marcus replied, watching the efficient processing of refugees ahead of them, "that we need to be careful about what skills we claim to have. And clever about how we use the ones we don't claim."

Before they reached the registration table, Marcus's father appeared, looking frustrated and angry. "Four cattle," he announced bitterly, holding up a small leather pouch. "Four cattle that survived the entire journey, and they gave me two silver each. Said there are too many refugees bringing livestock, prices are at an all-time low."

As they waited in line, Sister Korra approached their family one final time. "I must inform you that I'll be departing with Commander Cain tomorrow," she said solemnly. "We've received word that survivors from Millbrook need escort to safety, and the commander requires a priest for the mission."

Marcus felt a pang of disappointment. Sister Korra had been their guide and protector throughout the journey, and her departure would leave them more isolated in this vast city.

"There's more," Sister Korra continued, glancing toward where Commander Cain was speaking with other officials. "Lyanna and her parents. They'll be traveling with us to Lord Hammond's province. Apparently, there's desperate need for skilled bakers there, and they've requested to relocate rather than remain in Drakmoor."

"So that's it then," Marcus said quietly. "Everyone's being scattered to the winds."

Tom looked genuinely sad. "But who will you marry now, cousin?"

Marcus felt his cheeks flush. "Tom, I wasn't going to..."

"Plans have a way of changing," Sister Korra interrupted gently. "What are your intentions, Marcus? Where do you see yourself in this new city?"

Marcus hesitated. The truthful answer was too complicated to explain. "I need to learn to read Valdrian first. The formal script. Most of what I know is just basic letters."

Sister Korra nodded thoughtfully. "If you do decide to pursue education at the Academy, look for my younger sister Alice. She's a scribe there. Assistant to the Head Scribe, actually. Give her my name." She reached into her robes and withdrew a small, embroidered stone that caught the light. "And give her this. She made it for me. She'll know it's from me."

Marcus took the stone, feeling its weight in his palm. "Thank you. I'll make sure she gets it."

Sister Korra smiled. "Alice is brilliant, but she sometimes gets lost in her books. She could use a friend who thinks practically about the world."

With that, she rejoined Commander Cain's group, leaving Marcus holding the stone and thinking about the connections that might prove valuable in this new life they were being forced to build.

The registration process was thorough and impersonal. Each family provided names, ages, previous occupations, and any special skills. Marcus watched as the clerks sorted people into categories with practiced efficiency. Able-bodied men to mining, women to various support roles, children to schools and light duties.

As they waited in line, Marcus heard muttered comments from the local citizens helping with registration. "More mouths to feed," one man grumbled. "Should have stayed and fought instead of running here to burden us."

When their turn came, Marcus's family members stepped forward one by one. His aunts and female cousins were assigned to textile work, his uncles to mining, his younger cousins to various duties. Finally, only his grandfather and Marcus remained.

All this time, Marcus had been assessing the situation, watching how the clerks operated, listening to their attitudes.

"State your name, boy," the clerk said in a hostile tone. He was a thin man with greasy hair and a permanent scowl, wearing a metal pin on his vest that Marcus had noticed on all the local officials.

"Why do you have a metal pin, and your friend there has one too?" Marcus asked, genuinely curious.

The clerk's scowl deepened. "State your name. I don't have all day."

"Is it because of our arrival? Pins given by the state to indicate you're locals?"

"Old man, tell me his name or I'm calling the guards. Thousands of people are waiting," the clerk snapped, turning to Marcus's grandfather.

"Marcus of Millhaven," Marcus stated clearly. "But I'm not going to work in the mines."

The clerk laughed, a harsh sound that made his friend at the next table look over. "You a baker? Tailor? You don't look like a blacksmith." He turned to his friend, sharing the joke.

"No, I just plan to find a better job."

The clerk's laughter died, his expression shifting from amusement to hostility. "Look, kid, let me give you some advice. No one will give you any job here. Be glad we're offering you anything that will feed you. Don't think your family will get enough to feed slackers."

Marcus felt his anger rising but tried to keep his voice level. "I guessed that already. There's no way the farms outside the walls can feed this many people, especially considering most provincial food supplies have vanished. If we all agree to this slave system, we'll eventually die from some form of deficiency or suffer illness anyway."

The clerk's face flushed red. "Slave system? You ungrateful little..." He made a note on his paper with angry strokes. "I'm marking you as a freeloader. You'll pay one silver each week for your tenancy."

After that, his grandfather quickly stepped forward. "Joren of Millhaven, miner," he said simply, accepting his work assignment without protest.

Marcus was shaking from the confrontation. As someone from the modern world, he wasn't used to this kind of hostile, civil authority. He'd argued with someone who held real power over his family's survival, and he couldn't even intervene to protect his grandfather from having to work in dangerous mines at his age.

"Housing assignment: Lower District, Building 47, Apartments 12 through 15," the clerk announced without looking up. "Report to the mining foreman at dawn tomorrow for work assignment. Meals are served at the Third District Communal Hall at sunrise, midday, and sunset. Questions?"

"When do we get to see our housing?" Marcus asked.

"Guides will direct you after registration is complete. Next family."

As they were shepherded toward the Lower District with a group of other refugees, Marcus got his first real look at how Drakmoor was organized. The city was clearly divided into distinct levels, both literally and socially. The Upper District, built into the mountainside itself, housed the palace and noble residences. The Middle District contained shops, guildhalls, and the homes of merchants and craftsmen. The Lower District, where they were headed, was obviously where the working class lived.

And now, where the refugees would be housed.

Building 47 turned out to be a long, low structure of gray stone that looked like it had been built quickly and without much concern for comfort. The apartments were small. Two rooms each, with basic furniture and little else. But they were clean, and after weeks of sleeping on the ground, even a simple bed felt luxurious.

"Could be worse," Big Tom observed, testing the sturdiness of his cot. "At least we're all close together."

Marcus nodded, but his mind was elsewhere. Through the small window of their apartment, he could see the mining operations in the distance. Great scars carved into the mountainside, with streams of workers moving between the tunnels and processing facilities.

Tomorrow, he would have to figure out how to survive in this system without a guaranteed income, while his grandfather descended into dangerous mine shafts.

And if there was one thing Marcus had learned from his dual life, it was that knowledge was power. Especially knowledge that others didn't expect you to have.

As night fell over Drakmoor, Marcus lay in his narrow bed and stared at the ceiling. The King's speech had made one thing clear: this was going to be a long war, and the refugees were going to bear much of its burden.

But Marcus had advantages the King couldn't imagine. He had knowledge from a world centuries ahead of this one, and he had friends who were starting to trust his judgment. Most importantly, he had Big Tom. Loyal, strong, and completely willing to follow Marcus's lead.

The King wanted to use the refugees as a resource. Marcus was going to make sure his family became much more than that.