Consciousness returned to Marc in waves, a tide of pain and confusion.

  First came the cold—a ring of frozen metal crushing his nape, tight as a vise. His fingers scraped at the grit embedded in his palms. The sand was fine as ash, yet abrasive. Red. Not the earthy red of African deserts he’d crossed with the Legion. A deeper red, almost metallic, clinging to his skin like static electricity.

  Then came the noise.

  A mechanical rhythm, steady. The clatter of chains striking in unison, synced to the shuffling steps of a column of men. Marc blinked, and each eyelid felt leaden. The light hit him like a mace—not white or yellow, but a bloody orange, as if the star itself bled into the sky.

  He tried to move. The iron collar—thick, crude, hammered without finesse—sawed into his skin as he lifted his head. Two half-circles riveted around his neck, linked to a chain that vanished behind the man in front of him.

  A man? No. A human shape, already drained of dignity, reduced to mechanical motion.

  Marc followed the chain with his gaze. Twenty bodies, lined up like beasts of burden, all shackled together by identical collars. Some limped. Others panted, mouths gaping, lips cracked. None spoke.

  His own wrists were cuffed—terrestrial cuffs, cruel irony. The metal seemed soft here. Not literally; it still held. But compared to what surrounded him—the guards’ armor, the blades he glimpsed farther ahead—his cuffs looked like toys.

  He tried to straighten up, and his body refused.

  Not from weakness—no, he felt his muscles coiled, ready. But unbalanced. Every movement too broad, too light. When he lifted his foot to step forward, his boot nearly flew, as if the ground refused to bear him.

  His headache worsened—a hatchet blow behind his eyes. His heart raced for no reason. With every breath, he felt his blood boil in his veins like an overclocked engine.

  He stumbled. The chain jerked violently, yanking at his neck.

  Behind him, a low grunt. He caught himself, fingers digging into the sand, and felt heat rise through his knuckles. Not the warmth of a campfire. A dry, mineral heat, as if the earth itself were a metal plate left too long near the embers.

  Marc exhaled slowly. In Djibouti, during the Képi Blanc march, he’d learned to breathe in the furnace. But this air wasn’t neutral. It had a taste—metallic, acrid, like gunpowder mixed with dried blood. It scratched his throat, left a copper tang on his tongue.

  First observation: gravity was reduced. Half, maybe less.

  Second observation: the atmosphere was thick with metal particles.

  Third observation: he was no longer on Earth.

  Marc let his gaze sweep over the column.

  Six guards in light armor—boiled-leather cuirasses reinforced with reddish metal plates, enough to stop a poorly placed blade but not enough to weigh down their movements. The metal of their armor gleamed differently from terrestrial steel. Darker. Denser. As if it absorbed light rather than reflecting it.

  Their swords—long, curved—were slung over their shoulders, hilts protruding from their right shoulders. They carried them carelessly, with the ease of men who’d wielded them for years.

  Warriors. Not militiamen.

  Marc watched how they moved. Fluid, efficient, adapted to this treacherous gravity. They didn’t stumble. They didn’t overcompensate. They were born here.

  One of them, taller, rode at the front. Not on a horse. On a massive creature—a giant reptile, armored with bony plates, its muzzle bound by an iron bit. The beast moved with a dragging gait, its clawed feet sinking into the sand with wet sucking sounds. Its yellow eyes scanned the column with cold, predatory focus.

  The rider carried a halberd, its blade curved like a hook. His armor was more ornate, with geometric symbols engraved near the shoulders—rank markings, perhaps. Marc noted how the other guards deferred to him.

  A leader.

  Then there were the other two. Not warriors. Merchants, likely. Their clothing—loose tunics dyed in ochres and blacks—contrasted with the guards’ gear. One spoke in a nasal voice, in a guttural, staccato language devoid of melody. A language for ordering, not conversing.

  Marc understood nothing. But he listened.

  Certain syllables recurred. Orders, probably. He isolated them mentally, filed them away. In the Legion, you learned languages out of necessity, not pleasure. A few words were enough to survive. Yes. No. Water. Danger.

  Here, the rules would be the same.

  He turned his attention back to the prisoners.

  Twenty, maybe more. Mostly men, but women too. Some walked with heads bowed, feet bloodied. Others kept their backs straight, chains looser—valuable captives, perhaps. The sorting had already begun.

  Marc searched for familiar faces.

  Julie. Three ranks ahead. Short hair plastered to her skull by sweat. Bare feet, scraped raw. She moved mechanically, eyes fixed, face drained of expression. Shock, probably. Her mind hadn’t caught up with her body.

  She’d survive. Or not. Not his problem.

  And then there was Elena.

  Not chained like the others. Not dragged through the dust. She perched atop one of the reptilian creatures, secured to a kind of saddle by braided silk ropes—strong enough to restrain her, flexible enough not to mark her skin.

  Marc noted the detail. No iron. No chains. They didn’t want to damage her.

  Her black hair cascaded over her shoulders, tangled, matted with sweat. But she still wore that expression—chin lifted, lips pressed, eyes saying I am not like them.

  Their gazes met.

  She clenched her jaw, just for a second.

  A guard noticed. The one with arms covered in circular scars, riding near Elena’s mount. He followed her gaze, found Marc in the column, and smiled.

  Not a threatening smile. A smile of understanding. The smile of a man who’d seen hundreds of prisoners lock eyes, cling to a familiar face like a lifeline, and knew exactly how that story ended.

  Marc looked down.

  Not in submission. By calculation. Every exchanged glance was information given to the enemy. And here, he couldn’t afford to give anything away.

  Another guard barked something—two short syllables, Dra-kos—and the lead beast halted instantly. No heel kick. No rein tug. Just the voice.

  Marc studied the creatures with new attention. Their yellow eyes didn’t watch the slaves with indifference. They assessed. The way a predator evaluates potential prey, calculating effort versus gain.

  These weren’t horses. They weren’t ridden by habit. They were controlled. And control, here, came through voice.

  Drakos. Remember the word. Remember the intonation.

  Stolen content alert: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.

  They moved on.

  The sand wasn’t golden.

  It was red, like pulverized rust, and heavy beneath the thick soles of his boots. Each step kicked up dust that settled too fast—too fast for the reduced gravity, as if the particles themselves were denser than on Earth. It clung to his calves, his arms, embedded itself in the folds of his clothes.

  The other slaves—those born here—barely left a print. Their bare feet glided over the loose surface, erasing all traces behind them. Marc, though, sank. With each step, the ground resisted, compact, as if he walked on powdered metal.

  One hundred fifteen kilos under 0.5g. I weigh double my footprints.

  His muscles ached. Not the sharp pain of exertion—more a dull tension, as if his fibers, accustomed to bearing his terrestrial mass, rebelled against this treacherous gravity. Every movement was either too broad or too brutal. He felt like he was swimming through molasses.

  The natives moved with unsettling fluidity. Elongated bodies, economical gestures, feet skimming the ground rather than striking it. They were adapted. Forged by this world.

  Marc had to learn. Fast.

  The sky wasn’t blue. It was streaked with copper-orange, like poorly healed scars, and the sun—that reddish, enormous disk—didn’t burn. It slow-cooked. A dull heat that didn’t dry sweat but left it stagnant on the skin, thick, almost oily.

  A drop trickled down his temple. Slow. Heavy. On Earth, it would’ve raced to his jaw. Here, it lingered, clinging to his skin as if even liquids obeyed different rules.

  Marc breathed through his nose, filtering the air between clenched teeth. The dust clung to his lashes, irritating his eyes. He blinked, felt the fine grit scrape his corneas.

  Protect the mucous membranes. Conserve water. Observe.

  Survival instincts took over. The kind you never unlearn.

  The slave in front of him stumbled.

  A gray-haired man, shoulders hunched from years of labor or chains. His shackles—short chains biting into his ankles—caught in the loose sand. He pitched forward, arms outstretched, like a felled tree.

  Marc didn’t hesitate.

  His body acted before his mind could protest. He thrust his left hand under the man’s armpit, grabbed the belt of his tattered tunic, and yanked him upright in one sharp motion. No gentleness. No words. Just the cold mechanics of a gesture learned years ago, somewhere between Djibouti and Kolwezi, when a Legion brother faltered under the weight of his pack.

  The slave gasped, eyes wide. He muttered something in that guttural tongue—a thanks, maybe, or a curse. Marc didn’t know. He didn’t reply.

  Behind them, a thick laugh cut through the air.

  The scarred warrior—a tall, gaunt man with a slash across his cheek that gleamed with sweat—had stopped. He watched the scene, arms crossed over his sword’s hilt. His lips curled back, revealing white teeth.

  He called out a phrase to his men. They snickered, but no one moved.

  Marc kept his gaze forward. No provocation. No submission. Just the neutral void of a man who’d learned to show nothing.

  The warrior stepped forward. Then another step. He stopped a meter away, close enough for Marc to smell the boiled leather and sour sweat emanating from him. The man raised a hand, brushed Marc’s collar—that iron ring sawing into his neck—then tapped the metal plate riveted to his own cuirass.

  The warrior grunted three syllables. The first, guttural, like a throat-clearing. The second, sharper, clicking. The third, almost spat—ak.

  Marc repeated them mentally. Kar-sa-ak. Or maybe Kar-sak. The word had come up often since the march began. The guards used it while looking at the slaves. Never while speaking among themselves.

  A name for us. Not a title. A category.

  Then the warrior abruptly stepped back, as if the contact had burned him. He spat near Marc’s feet and walked away without a backward glance. The other guards followed, their armor clinking like metallic insects.

  Marc didn’t move.

  He watched the spittle sink into the red sand, absorbed in seconds. Then he resumed walking, chains clinking with each step.

  The sun didn’t move.

  Not really. It hung there, huge and reddish, like a bloodshot eye refusing to blink. Marc had lost track of time. An hour? Three?

  The warrior’s words still echoed in Marc’s mind as he walked. Kar-sa-ak. The word clung to him like a splinter under the skin. He wasn’t stupid; he understood social dynamics, especially in a military context. But here, every glance, every gesture, every word was another piece to decipher in this alien world.

  As they advanced, the guards’ murmurs reached him in fragments, carried by the thick, hot air. They spoke of the heat, the slaves, the next stop on their route. And sometimes, they spoke of him—his size, his strength—with words he didn’t yet know but whose weight he felt.

  Marc had always had sharp hearing, an asset in the dark alleys of the Casbah or the scorching dunes of the Sahara. Here, that ability took on a new dimension. Conversations, even whispered, traveled for kilometers, captured by Akheros’ dense, metallic atmosphere.

  He listened, stored, analyzed. The intonations, the rhythms, the laughs—all of it gave him clues about the hierarchy among the armored men. They didn’t seem to fear being overheard, confident in their numerical and armed superiority.

  But Marc knew confidence could be a double-edged weapon. And every word caught was precious information, a potential advantage.

  First element: the terrain.

  Low dunes to the left, rising gently toward ridges of black rock. To the right, a plain of compacted sand, striated with mineral veins that glinted faintly under the coppery light. The wind sculpted the surface into frozen waves, occasionally lifting spirals of dust that danced like lost spirits.

  Open terrain. No cover. No visible water source. Bad for an escape.

  Second element: the guards.

  Six warriors in light armor. The leader on his mount, at the front. Two riders flanking the column. Three on foot at the rear, their short spears slung over their shoulders.

  Marc observed their weapons. The curved sabers seemed forged from a metal different from terrestrial steel. Darker, with bluish glints running along the edges. And above all, heavier. The way the guards carried them, the angle of their shoulders, the tension in their forearms—everything indicated a superior weapon.

  Their steel is different from ours. Harder, probably.

  He also noted their spears. Short, with iron tips and hardwood shafts. Effective range: fifty meters, maybe more depending on their skill.

  Marc had learned to quickly assess opponents, calculate distances, estimate weights. On Earth, these calculations had become instinctive, but here, on Akheros, he had to recalibrate his impressions, account for this world’s unknown properties.

  No cover. No water source. Unknown weapons.

  He resumed walking, chains clinking with each step, behind the warrior who’d dared touch him, as if that action had given him temporary ownership. Marc couldn’t forget the contempt in the gesture. Contempt, and something else—a hint of curiosity, perhaps, or challenge.

  Third element: the weapons.

  He turned his gaze to the daggers at the guards’ belts. Short blades, utilitarian, but with the same dark sheen as the sabers. Last-resort weapons, he thought, but even a spare blade could be deadly in the right hands.

  They’ll be heavier than what I’m used to, but the length...

  He’d always favored brute force over speed, a habit that had saved his life more than once.

  The column of slaves advanced slowly, like a serpent of flesh and metal.

  Fourth element: the sun.

  The dying star dominating the sky wasn’t just a celestial body—it was a constant reminder of this world’s power over him. Its effects on the vegetation, the fauna, the men themselves were evident.

  But how did it affect the metal? The heat, the light, the stellar particles falling like invisible rain—all of it must influence how weapons were forged, how they were used.

  Fifth element: the biology.

  Marc realized he hadn’t yet seen a single native of Akheros sweat. Not a drop on the warriors’ brows, despite the oppressive heat.

  Another detail to add to his analysis, another clue about the nature of those who held him chained.

  The chains clinked, the guards murmured, and the red sun continued to watch the scene with an impassive eye. The taste of copper filled Marc’s mouth, persistent, like a promise of blood to come.

  He was no longer on Earth.

  And this world would give him no gifts.

  The smell changed before Marc saw anything. The wind carried something other than sand and ozone—an acrid smoke, heavy, laden with particles that stung his nostrils. Heated metal. Charcoal. And something else, more subtle, more organic.

  Blood. Old. Dried into the dust.

  The slaves around him reacted before the city even came into view. Some tensed, shoulders hunched, as if expecting a blow. Others slumped further, heads bowed in resignation.

  They know. They’ve been here before. Or they’ve heard stories.

  Marc studied their faces. The fear wasn’t uniform. The men seemed more tense than the women. The young more than the old. As if the fate awaiting them varied by category.

  A market. Not a prison. They’re not locking us up. They’re selling us.

  The caravan stopped without warning.

  The leader raised a hand, and the guards froze. The Drakos growled, nostrils flaring, their clawed feet scraping the ground impatiently. The slaves, too, halted by reflex, chains clinking one last time before going taut.

  Marc looked up.

  Before them, the desert opened onto a wide valley, flanked by cliffs of red rock veined with black. In the distance, at a range hard to judge without landmarks, structures stood out against the copper sky. Towers. Walls. A city.

  Not a terrestrial city. The proportions were wrong. The towers soared too high, too slender, defying gravity that wasn’t theirs. The walls seemed carved from the rock itself, striated with metallic veins that gleamed under the dying star’s light.

  One of the merchants said something, pointing at the city. Marc isolated two syllables, repeated several times by the guards.

  Ka-Rosh.

  He didn’t know what it meant. But he knew it was their destination.

  The leader barked an order, and the caravan moved on. Chains clinked. Bare feet scraped the sand. The Drakos resumed their dragging advance, their gigantic shadows stretching across the red ground.

  Marc looked down at his own chains.

  The collar was well riveted. The cuffs, solid. His terrestrial muscles changed nothing—not against six armed warriors, not against two-ton beasts, not in the middle of a desert he knew nothing about.

  He couldn’t escape. Not now.

  But he could observe. Count. Learn.

  The rules of this world. The weaknesses of his jailers. The opportunities that would eventually arise.

  First principle: assess the threat.

  Second principle: adapt.

  Third principle: survive.

  Marc resumed walking, eyes fixed on the distant towers of Ka-Rosh. The taste of copper filled his mouth, persistent, like a promise of blood to come.

  He was no longer on Earth.

  And this world would give him no gifts.