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The original was posted on /r/hfy by /u/DrDoritosMD on 2025-07-02 00:57:49+00:00.
Blurb/Synopsis
Captain Henry Donnager expected a quiet career babysitting a dusty relic in Area 51. But when a test unlocks a portal to a world of knights and magic, he's thrust into command of Alpha Team, an elite unit tasked with exploring this new realm.
They join the local Adventurers Guild, seeking to unravel the secrets of this fantastical realm and the ancient gateway's creators. As their quests reveal the potent forces of magic, they inadvertently entangle in the volatile politics between local rivalling factions.
With American technology and ancient secrets in the balance, Henry's team navigates alliances and hostilities, enlisting local legends and air support in their quest. In a land where dragons loom, they discover that modern warfare's might—Hellfire missiles included—holds its own brand of magic.
Chapter 50: First Time for Everything (2)
Henry led the way up the narrow stairs, hyperaware of Sera’s footsteps behind him. The inn’s second floor was quieter than the first, just the muffled sounds of refugees settling into their rooms and the creak of old wood under their feet. Room assignments had been straightforward enough – doubles for the refugee families, singles for the diplomatic staff, and one left over that Perry had so generously offered to him.
The brass number 15 hung slightly crooked on the door – or whatever squiggle passed for ‘fifteen’ in the local language. Henry worked the key. The lock was decent for a medieval setup – probably wouldn’t stop anyone determined, but better than nothing. The door swung open to reveal exactly what a couple hundred lumens got him in Arnsburg: four walls, one window, and a bed that dominated about sixty percent of the floor space.
No purple LED strips here to set the mood. No AC on full blast to make getting under the covers a necessity. All it had was an oil lamp and a hand-stitched quilt that probably had more personality than most issue bedding. Funny how he’d never brought anyone back to base housing anyway – too many eyes, too much protocol. Always ended up at their place or some off-base apartment that smelled like vanilla candles and had those inspirational quotes on the walls.
“Well then,” Sera said, lowering her pack with care, “it is a marked improvement over the Minotaur’s cave, at least.”
“Lower chance of getting gored, too,” Henry blurted out. He closed his eyes for a moment, then moved to the window, the Ovinne Mountain Range dominating the scenery. The town was basically non-existent in comparison, but he had a quaint view of the main square, with partial coverage from the roof overhang.
“The bed appears adequate,” she observed, tone perfectly neutral in a way that made it anything but.
Henry turned away from the window, facing the real scenery. Oh, he could never get tired of it! The way lamplight caught the edge of her ear, rendering it with a beautifully translucent light velvet. How her eyes – that impossible shade between purple and pink – narrowed slightly when she was thinking. The rosy flush of her cheeks, especially under tension like this. That subtle scent she carried, like vanilla, honey, and something floral he couldn’t place, probably some elven thing that didn’t exist back home.
Jesus, he had it bad.
The whole situation was probably violating about six different sections of the UCMJ. Fraternization, conduct unbecoming, whatever they’d call banging an allied intelligence asset in a fantasy world. Except Sera wasn’t technically under US military authority, was she? And even if she was, half of JSOC was married to analysts or support staff they’d met downrange. Open secret that deployments made their own rules. Hell, one of his old buddies had married a CIA liaison after knowing her for three weeks in Syria.
Besides, if he had to spend another night listening to Ron’s snoring while trying not to think about how Sera’s hair looked in firelight, he’d lose his mind.
They stood there for a moment, the room suddenly feeling very small and very quiet. The bed might as well have had a neon sign. Or those stupid LED strips. Christ, when did he start missing tacky mood lighting?
“We should probably head back down,” Henry said, finally turning his gaze away. “See about that dinner situation.”
“Mm.” She adjusted one of her bracers, a gesture he’d noticed she did when buying time. She fell into step beside him, and when her hand brushed his as he navigated the narrow doorway, the brief contact sent a jolt up his arm. Was this gonna be the new normal?
They headed back downstairs. Behind them, the room and its implications could wait. Right now, it was time to watch his guys suffer through another round of MREs while the locals got real food. Even with swaps, the underlying meal remained… oh so extravagant. Such was the glamorous life of America’s finest.
And to make matters worse, the common room smelled like actual food. The MRE situation couldn’t get more depressing, but at least they’d already accepted this reality. His team had already claimed a corner table and were deep into the ritual of making Menu Day whatever-the-fuck edible.
“Menu Fourteen.” Ron held up the package, sounding like he was announcing a death in the family. “Remember when we bitched about the DFAC running out of prime rib on Thursdays?”
Henry chuckled as the thought crossed his mind. “One of the best parts about being stuck in the desert. Damn, we were spoiled.”
Henry grabbed his own pack – Menu 12, Elbow Macaroni in Tomato Sauce. Twelve hundred calories of scientifically optimized nutrition. Around them, refugees finished their bowls of actual stew – chunks of meat, potatoes, carrots, and local herbs that made the whole room smell like his grandmother's kitchen. The inn clearly knew its business.
It made the MREs look like punishment.
“At least we ain’t eatin’ hardtack,” Ryan offered, watching a refugee kid go back for seconds. “Our stuff’s got spices; can’t complain too much.”
“Smell is psychological,” Dr. Anderson said, methodically working through his crackers. “We’re essentially eating future food by their standards. I would, however, trade half the nutritional density for some of that stew right now.”
“Yeah, tastes like the future sucks,” Ron muttered, but without any real heat. They all knew they were eating better than local soldiers who probably gnawed on leather strips and whatever hardtack was called here.
Sera had taken a seat between him and Dr. Anderson, looking at the spread of packets with interest. “Perhaps we should have harvested more of the Bralnor meat…”
“Woulda, coulda, shoulda,” Henry sighed.
“Waffle Wednesday,” Ron blurted wistfully. “Fuck, I miss Waffle Wednesday.”
“The food at Eldralore Academy’s refectories…” Ryan groaned, smiling as he reminisced.
Isaac grunted. “Yeah, we gotta stop. Shit’s just making it worse.”
Henry had to agree. “We just gotta suck it up for today. Look on the bright side – when we get to Enstadt, we’ll probably get another one of those diplomatic feasts.”
He was about to start the whole water activation process when he spotted Livia emerging from the kitchen area, carrying two bowls of the inn’s stew. The smell hit before she even reached their table – actual food, hot and savory.
“Sera, dearest.” Livia set one bowl in front of her. “Surely you were not preparing to partake in the torments of these unfortunate gentlemen?”
“I suppose not,” Sera replied, accepting the bowl. “Thank you, Livia.”
Livia settled into an empty chair with her own bowl, studying the MREs with genuine curiosity. “What curious provisions. May I?” She picked up one of the unopened packets, examining it. “It holds no damp, offers no weight, and opens as it ought.”
“Field rations,” Isaac explained. “Designed for long-term storage.”
“There is no preservation magic whatsoever?” She turned the packet over, almost like a caveman trying to decipher an iPhone. “Such provisions would have spared us a deal of misery upon our latest quest. We were obliged to subsist upon stale rations and such mushrooms as we might discover for a full month…” Livia’s shoulders dropped – she’d had some tough runs, especially for a noble. “Your people prove vastly self-sufficient: provisions wanting no magic, weapons that demand no mana, carriages to excite the envy of any dwarf. I should think little of your Tier, given your lack of magic. However… that Sera has allied herself with your company suggests I am mistaken in this construction. What is your Tier?”
“Seven,” Henry replied. “Got promoted a few weeks back.”
“Seven?” Livia paused and glanced toward the door, presumably thinking of the vehicles outside. “Your carriages proved formidable against the Bralnors, I grant you, but Tier rankings measure individual prowess. Forgive my candor, but you possess no mana. How do you channel power for your abilities?”
Before anyone could answer, Mal’dan approached their table, wringing his hands slightly. “Beggin’ yer pardon, sirs. I’ve some ingredients left from dinner service – enough for a pot or two more, but…” He grimaced. “Not enough to make it proper tasty, if ye take my meaning. Thought ye might want to know, seein' as yer eating…” He gestured vaguely at the MREs.
Ron's head snapped up like a hunting dog catching a scent. “You got ingredients but need flavor? Brother, you just made my night.” He was already standing. “I got spices an...
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