“What the hell?” The words came out in bubbles pouring from his mouth. Panic flushed through his nerves with the sudden sensation of being underwater. His next breath brought a mouthful of cold, salty water deep into his lungs. His body tried to cough, to breathe, but there was only more water.

  Just a moment ago, he had been in his workshop, admiring the Pennsylvania long rifle he’d just finished restoring. Then the same kind of caustic patterns you find at the bottom of swimming pools appeared. In the next moment, he found himself at the bottom of some black, hellish ocean.

  As the terror of death jolted through him, his first thought was for Sarah, his fiance. Her whispered words from that morning still echoed in his mind. “Maybe we should start thinking about names,” she’d teased, a shy smile playing across her lips. The thought warmed him even now against the bitter depths. After years of building his gunsmithing business, everything had finally fallen into place.

  Edric felt a force tug his body upward. He broke the surface and was greeted not with open sky, but a cold, dark stone room lit by a ring of candlelight. The water spilled away from him, vanishing into the faintly luminescent round pool at the center of the grand chamber. Coughing and retching saltwater, his mind reeled, trying to make sense of what had just happened.

  Through blurred vision, he took in the soaring Gothic arches and marble columns that wouldn’t have looked out of place in a European cathedral. An ornate obelisk rose from the shallow pool where he knelt, its surface etched with strange foreign symbols.

  The cold water soaking his clothes began to dry rapidly. The liquid in the fabric seemed to vanish from reality itself. Instead of his usual jeans, he now wore some kind of white garment.

  Two others spluttered nearby, dressed in white ceremonial robes, also soaked but quickly drying. Around the pool stood a dozen figures in religious vestments holding a ring of candles, their faces serious beneath peaked hoods. But it was the woman before them who commanded attention—her bearing regal, her crown glinting, one side reflecting candlelight, the other reflecting the faint ethereal blue glow from the pool.

  “Welcome, heroes,” she said, her voice carrying effortlessly through the chamber. “I am Queen Valerius, and Cardinal of Ayzelsted. You have been chosen by divine providence to aid us in our hour of need. Our world stands at the precipice of darkness. The demonic forces encircling our territories grow stronger by the day, and our defenses weaken. With the passing of the last hero—missing for over a century—we are finally able to summon new champions. Through the blessing of the Harold, we have at last called forth champions from another realm—those with the power to turn the tide of war. Your arrival brings hope after a hundred years of waiting.”

  Edric listened, his mind reeling. Divine providence? Demonic forces? Heroes? A hundred years? The words felt absurd—like something from one of the fantasy novels Sarah enjoyed. Sarah… his chest tightened at the thought of her. While this queen spoke of destiny and holy missions, his fiancée would be waiting at home, wondering why he hadn’t returned her calls, starting to worry…

  The other two summoned individuals remained on their knees—one, a young woman with short dark hair, looking up at the Queen with visible awe; the other, a red-haired man struggling to process the situation, face pale and confused.

  “Harold has chosen each of you for your unique abilities,” the Queen continued. “Each of you possesses skills that—”

  “Chosen?” The word erupted from Edric as he surged to his feet, water splashing around him.

  The young woman flinched, scrambling backward in the shallow pool, while the stocky man startled and caught himself with one hand against the stone floor.

  The Queen’s expression hardened. “Mind your tone, Hero. You stand before—”

  “I don’t care who you are!” Edric advanced, ignoring the guards who tensed around their sovereign. “You had no right! I have a life, a future—” His voice cracked. “Sarah’s waiting for me.”

  He lunged forward, catching the Queen’s hand in both of his. “Please,” he begged, desperation replacing anger. “Send me back. We were going to have a family, we were—”

  Pain exploded at the base of his skull. The last thing Edric saw was the Queen’s startled face as the world tilted sideways and faded to black.

  The sharp sting of repeated slaps dragged Edric back to consciousness. Cold water splashed across his face, making him sputter and jerk upright.

  “Rise and shine, long-ears,” a gruff voice mocked. “Can’t have our precious hero sleeping through his debut.”

  Edric’s vision cleared to reveal a broad-shouldered man in ornate armor looming over him. The guard’s scarred face twisted in a sneer as he roughly hauled Edric to his feet.

  “Here.” The guard thrust a waterskin into Edric’s hands, followed by a small flask. “Drink. The brandy will steady your nerves.”

  Edric took a grateful swig of both, his head still pounding. The guard’s earlier words finally registered. “Long-ears?”

  His hand instinctively reached up, fingers tracing the unfamiliar pointed tip of his ear. His stomach lurched. Not only had they stolen him from his world—they’d changed his very body.

  “Sir Halric,” the guard introduced himself with mock courtesy, “your humble keeper for the day. And you’re our new ranger hero, supposedly blessed with legendary archery skills.” He gestured to a bow and quiver propped against the stone wall.

  Edric glanced around the holding chamber. Through narrow windows, he could hear the distant roar of a crowd. “Ranger? Archery? I’ve never even held a bow in my life.”

  “Not my problem,” Halric shrugged. “The hero’s tournament starts soon. Tradition demands that new champions demonstrate their abilities. The coffers need filling if we’re to properly equip you lot.”

  “I’m not participating in any tournament,” Edric growled. “You had no right to take me from my world! Send me back home!”

  Halric’s gauntleted hand clamped down on Edric’s shoulder. “Listen carefully, long-ears. Put on a good show today, and you’re free to go wherever you please.” His grip tightened. “Refuse, and things become… unpleasant.”

  The crowd’s roar grew louder. Halric snatched up the bow and quiver, shoving them into Edric’s hands. “Time to shine, hero.”

  Before Edric could protest further, Halric pushed him through the archway and into blinding sunlight. The thunderous cheers of thousands hammered against him while he squinted and struggled to adjust.

  As his vision cleared, Edric took in the massive amphitheater surrounding him. Towering Gothic spires crowned the upper walls, their shadows stretching across tiered stone seats packed with thousands of spectators. Stained glass caught glints of sunlight. Unlike the clean lines of Roman architecture, this stadium was adorned with pointed arches, flying buttresses, and solemn statues that seemed to leer down at the proceedings below.

  *Some kind of strange Gothic version of a Colosseum.*

  In the arena’s center, the other summoned hero—the red-haired man from the ritual pool—stood atop a wooden stool. He gave Edric a friendly, if nervous, wave while a servant balanced what looked like a blue pear-shaped fruit on his head. Behind him, massive tapestries depicting previous heroes fluttered from the stadium walls, their faded glory a reminder of what was expected of those who stood in this circle.

  Edric’s stomach dropped. The setup was painfully obvious, straight out of some medieval fairy tale. They expected him to shoot the fruit off the poor bastard’s head.

  He turned back toward Halric, his expression pleading: *You can’t seriously expect this?*

  The guard’s stony face offered no sympathy.

  When Edric looked back, the other hero’s smile had faltered, fear replacing friendliness. A thin sheen of sweat glistened on the man’s forehead beneath the precariously balanced fruit.

  Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.

  Edric nocked an arrow, drew back—and deliberately released wide and low, sending the shot plummeting harmlessly past his fellow hero into the sand. The crowd erupted in jeers and boos.

  He shot Halric a pointed look: *There. I participated. Can I go now?*

  The guard’s scowl deepened. Understanding that wasn’t good enough, Edric sighed and nocked another arrow, but watching his ally’s face twist in fear made his decision clear. He returned the arrow to the quiver.

  “Look, I’m not going to shoot at him!” Edric shouted, his words swallowed by the crowd’s growing displeasure.

  Edric turned and strode back toward the arena exit, where Halric stood, planted like a stone wall. They locked eyes for a tense moment. Neither disappointment nor surprise showed on Halric’s face. His smug indifference said *I knew you were scum.* He spat whatever he’d been chewing at Edric.

  Edric wiped it off with his sleeve and tried to shoulder past him, forcing his way through the narrow gap between guard and doorway.

  Halric’s hand clamped down on Edric’s shoulder, thrusting him backward and throwing him onto the sandy arena floor. Edric landed hard on the boards beneath the thin layer of soil. Dust billowed around him.

  “Going somewhere?” Halric stepped lazily into the arena, unhooking iron shackles from his belt and letting them drop to the dirt. “You’re still under arrest for assaulting the Queen Cardinal.”

  “You promised—” Edric snapped, eyes wide with anger.

  “I would’ve considered it if you’d performed well,” Halric cut him off. “Instead, you not only attacked our sovereign but made a mockery of our traditions and even of the Harold himself. Some chosen hero you are. We can’t let that slide.”

  Across the arena, servants hurried the other hero through the far exit. He looked on with sympathy but kept silent. Both gates clanged shut.

  Halric reached down, producing a fist-sized rock from a cloth sack. He tossed it idly between his hands, metal gauntlets clicking against stone.

  “Let’s play a game—your bow against my arm. Arrows versus rocks. Let’s give these good people a real show.”

  The crowd’s jeers turned to excited murmurs.

  Edric rose slowly, noting the gaps in Halric’s plate armor—joints, neck, underarms, and his head, as he wasn’t wearing his helmet. Halric circled until they faced each other across the arena.

  “I’ll even give you ten seconds for the first shot!” Halric called, grinning, pleased with his taunt.

  Edric nocked an arrow but held his position, watching, waiting out the ten seconds.

  The rock came like lightning—untelegraphed, no windup, just explosive force. Edric barely twisted aside as it whistled past his ear. Without hesitation, he planted his feet in his familiar rifle stance. The bow felt awkward, but he locked the position in his mind, drew, noted how the arrow sat in his field of view, and released.

  The arrow sailed wide, missing Halric by an arm’s length. Halric didn’t flinch, his mocking smile unchanged while the crowd howled with laughter. Edric mentally cataloged the arrow’s path, planning adjustments for the next shot.

  “My turn,” Halric called, lobbing another rock in a lazy arc. Edric dodged easily, then realized too late the throw was intentionally telegraphed. A second rock—thrown full force—crashed into his stomach. The air rushed from his lungs as he doubled over.

  Through watering eyes, he saw Halric already winding up again. Edric scrambled upright, ignoring the pain. The next rock clipped his shoulder. He kept moving, darting sideways, mind racing. At this rate, with no archery skill and no time to line up a shot, Halric would pick him apart.

  When the next rock came, Edric gripped the bow like a baseball bat and bunted the stone aside. The impact cracked against the bow stave with a hardy *thwack.* Then he charged forward, yanking an arrow from his quiver and gripping it just behind the fletchings.

  Halric’s sword rasped free.

  Edric hurled the arrow overhand, using the shaft as an extension of his arm, the iron head lending weight and momentum.

  Halric knocked the speeding arrow aside with his blade. Edric closed the gap, bow dropped, two more arrows clutched point-first like daggers. His eyes locked on the armor gaps he’d noted before.

  A boot slammed into his gut. Edric hit the ground hard. Before he could recover, Halric’s sword pressed against his throat.

  “Foolish to think you could best me in melee, long-ears.”

  The crowd roared their approval as their champion stood over the defeated hero.

  Halric nudged the shackles with his blade. “Put them on.” When Edric hesitated, the sword’s point pricked his skin. Understanding his position, Edric reached for the restraints with trembling hands.

  Halric dragged Edric into the dim holding chamber, shoving him against the rough stone wall. The chains rattled as he secured them, leaving just enough slack for Edric to sit.

  Edric slid down the wall, his body screaming in protest. He already felt bruises forming where the rocks had struck. Wincing, he pulled aside the torn shirt to inspect his ribs—and froze. There on his chest, an intricate design was tattooed into his skin: a bow and arrow wrapped in twisting vines, the lines shimmering with a faint silvery glow. He hadn’t noticed it during the chaos of his arrival. Presumably, the mark of the ranger hero, branded into his flesh by whatever magic had summoned him here.

  Disregarding the unwanted tattoo, he sighed, letting his fingers trace through his hair, pausing at the unfamiliar texture—finer, silkier. A pale blonde strand fell across his vision.

  The pointed ears made him flinch every time his fingers brushed them. Yet he kept checking, as if hoping he’d find they weren’t real, that it was all some bad dream. His exploring hands found sharp cheekbones where softer ones had been, and the crusted blood where Halric’s sword had pricked his neck.

  His thoughts drifted to Sarah. She’d be at their regular spot, checking her phone, calling again. Would she find him slumped over his workbench, an empty shell left behind? Or had he simply vanished—leaving her to wonder if he’d walked away from their life together?

  The thought hit harder than Halric’s rocks and hurt more than what he suspected was a cracked rib. Sarah, believing he’d abandoned her—it was unbearable. After everything they’d built, all their plans, their dreams of family. The thought of her sitting alone hurt deeply. Edric pressed his forehead to his knees, fighting back tears that burned hot against his new skin.

  “Weapons ceremony starts soon,” Halric’s gruff voice cut through his thoughts. Edric barely heard him, lost in memories—Sarah’s laugh, the scent of burnt powder after range days, summer evenings on their porch.

  The chains jingled as Halric unfastened them, hauling him roughly to his feet. “Time to face your future, hero.”

  Halric marched Edric back into the arena. The booing crowd forced him back to reality. Grief turned again to anger—rage at these people who had torn him from his life, then trampled his pride.

  The transformed amphitheater stopped him mid-step, momentarily distracting him. Massive platforms hung suspended in the air at varying heights, though Edric couldn’t fathom how. He squinted, trying to make sense of the physics. Thick ropes and pulleys anchored each platform to the ground—looking as if without those ropes the platforms would float away. Blue, semi-transparent crystalline structures coated the underside of each platform—was that ice? But ice didn’t behave like that. He watched, transfixed by the impossibility.

  Nobles and mages dotted the floating stages, their fine robes catching the afternoon light. Edric kept searching for some mechanism, some hidden support, but found none.

  Queen Valerius stood on the central platform, resplendent in ceremonial regalia—the same woman who had torn him from his world. Her expression was half disdain, half divine self-assurance. The other heroes flanked her, both now dressed in fine clothes that made Edric’s look like dirt.

  “Liora,” the Queen’s voice carried across the arena. “Step forward.”

  The young woman with short dark hair approached, head held high. The Queen presented her with an ornate staff, its crystal head catching the light.

  “My deepest thanks, Your Majesty,” Liora said, then glanced at Edric. The pity in her eyes made his stomach turn.

  “Your magical aptitude shows remarkable promise. The Harold chose well. We expect great things.” The Queen presented Liora with a heavy purse. “Your share of today’s proceedings.”

  Next came Garrick, the stocky man Edric had refused to shoot at. He opened his mouth as if to speak—perhaps about Edric—but the Queen’s sharp glance silenced him.

  “Your combat trials were exemplary,” she praised. “Though we regret we cannot present you with the full warrior’s regalia, the legendary armor remains lost with your predecessor, as does the sword. However, our finest artificers have crafted this blade for you.”

  The sword was beautiful, even Edric had to admit—though apparently still inferior to the "legendary" weapons they spoke of.

  “And your share of the tournament funds.” She handed him a heavy purse. “Use this coin to prepare yourself for the trials ahead.”

  An uncomfortable silence fell. All eyes turned to Edric—the failed hero, still in chains.

  “As for the ranger’s bow,” the Queen’s voice turned cold, “it shall be entrusted to Garrick’s care until such time as our… disappointing champion proves worthy.” Her tone left little doubt about the likelihood of that. “The remainder of today’s tournament proceeds will be split between our two successful heroes.”

  She fixed her gaze on Edric. “Let this serve as a lesson. The Harold’s gifts are not to be squandered by those who mock our traditions and assault their betters.”

  Liora and Garrick shifted uncomfortably but said nothing. Their silence spoke volumes. Whatever sympathy they might feel, they wouldn’t risk their necks defending him. Edric couldn’t blame them—though his opinion of them cooled to contempt nonetheless.

  He kept his face neutral, but inside, his anger crystallized. They’d stolen him from his life, changed his body, refused to send him home, bound him in chains, and now expected him to play the penitent servant? His jaw clenched, he glared at the Queen with cold, controlled wrath. Not the impotent rage of a prisoner, nor the wild fury of a cornered animal.

  He swept his eyes across the arena, cataloging their weapons and tools. Simple bows, crude relics of history. He hadn’t seen so much as a crossbow among them. Even the so-called legendary bow in Garrick’s hands, for all its ornate craftsmanship, was fundamentally primitive.

  They thought they’d summoned some predestined archer to fit neatly into their fairy tale. They couldn’t have been more wrong.

  A thin smile touched his lips. What burned in him now was the fury—and the knowledge—of a gunsmith in a world untouched by gunpowder.

  Edric locked eyes with the foolish Queen of this realm, defiance burning in his gaze. They had summoned a monster capable of rendering all the wars they had ever known hopelessly obsolete.

  Edric held her gaze, silent and certain that he could be far more dangerous than any of them yet understood. Their Harold, their god, whomever he was, betrayed them.

  Which is the better title for the series?