The smell hit him first—sweat, manure, and smoke. Alex groaned and shifted, something rough pressing into his side. He opened his eyes slowly.
Hay.
He was lying in a pile of hay, in a moving wagon. The wooden boards rattled beneath him. Outside, the road was dirt. On either side, high stone walls loomed—weathered, cracked, and lit by torches. Armed men walked alongside. Their uniforms were deep green, cloaks whipping slightly in the wind, swords at their hips… and old rifles strapped to their backs.
He blinked, confused. The scene was medieval—but not quite. The weapons didn't match the clothes. A strange blend of eras.
More groaning around him. Dozens of people sat slumped in the wagon. Hollow-cheeked, dirty, silent. Refugees?
A pair of soldiers passed close enough to hear.
One muttered, "They're sending the Scouts out again. Poor bastards."
"Queen's orders," the other replied. "We can't keep dragging our feet or the devils across the sea will catch wind."
Alex froze.
Scouts. Queen. Devils across the sea.
Something in his brain twitched. He tried to sit up. The wagon jolted, and he grabbed the edge for balance. His hands were dirty. His clothes weren't his—rough linen and thick stitching. His jeans, his hoodie—gone. No phone. No wallet.
More conversation floated over.
"They say she's coming to inspect the camps herself. Like that'll fix anything."
Historia. Wall Rose. Scouts. Green cloaks.
It hit him like a punch to the chest.
This wasn't just medieval fantasy. This was familiar.
He slowly turned toward the wall, studying the stone—massive blocks, towering high above the street. Not smooth like castles. These were meant to keep things out. Or in.
The green cloaks. The swords on hip-mounted gear. The battered rifles.
No.
No fucking way.
His mouth went dry.
"...This is Paradis," he whispered, breath shallow. "This is Attack on Titan."
He almost laughed—short, breathless, shaky. But it didn't feel funny.
It felt terrifying.
He closed his eyes, tried to breathe. The last thing he remembered—he was in his apartment. Rain. Reddit. Then headlights. A truck.
And now he was here.
No explanation. No voice from the void. Just... this.
A soldier barked an order, and the wagon jerked forward again.
If this was real—and god, it felt real—then Titans were real too.
And he was completely, utterly screwed.
"Oi, you. Refugee."
The voice cut through his haze—sharp, authoritative.
Alex's head snapped up. A mounted soldier was staring down at him, one hand resting casually on the hilt of his sword. Dirt clung to the man's green cloak. His horse snorted and shifted beneath him.
"Name and origin. Now."
Alex's throat tightened. His mind scrambled, flashes of memory flickering—walls, cities, the old regime gone. He'd watched this unfold from a screen. Now he was in it.
"…Alex," he said quickly, forcing his voice steady. "From Trost. Lost my papers during the evacuation."
The lie came surprisingly easy.
The soldier squinted at him, sizing him up. For a moment, Alex thought he'd pressed too hard—maybe said the wrong town. But the man just grunted and waved him off.
"Keep moving. Camp's ahead."
Alex exhaled slowly, his heart hammering against his ribs. He ducked his head and blended back into the cluster of refugees—sallow-faced men, women with dull eyes holding children too quiet to be normal. The wagon creaked forward again, every jolt rattling his spine.
The road opened into a camp—dozens of canvas tents pitched in uneven rows, with muddy walkways and scattered cookfires. Soldiers barked orders, herding the new arrivals into lines. Alex followed, head down.
They gave him a cot in a drafty barracks that reeked of mold and old sweat. No privacy. Just bodies packed tight and silence, broken only by coughing fits or quiet sobs in the dark.
The days blurred.
He kept to himself. Watched. Listened.
Eventually, someone shoved a broom into his hands and told him he'd been assigned to stable duty. Shoveling manure, hauling water, brushing down horses. Hard, filthy work—but steady. And it kept him fed.
More importantly, it gave him space. Time. A way to observe without being noticed.
One evening, bent under the weight of two sloshing buckets, he passed a pair of soldiers resting against a fence, half-shadowed in the torchlight. They didn't see him.
"Queen's been making rounds again," one muttered. "Stopped by the river camp yesterday. Bread and speeches, like usual."
"Damn fool's gonna get herself killed," the other spat. "MPs are fuming. Council too. Think she's making them look soft."
"Better than the old king," the other soldier muttered, scratching his neck. "At least she's feeding people."
The next morning, the stable yard was quiet. Pale light spilled across the ground, catching on dust and hay. Alex moved methodically, broom scraping the dirt, when the gate creaked open behind him.
A woman stepped through—small frame, hooded cloak, basket in hand. She didn't speak, just moved with quiet intent, offering bread to a knot of children crouched by a trough. Alex straightened, eyes narrowing. A few strands of blonde hair escaped her hood. Then she turned.
Blue eyes. Calm. Familiar.
He froze.
Her.
It was one thing to hear her name. Another to see her.
Historia Reiss.
She met his stare for a long moment—calm, unreadable, almost assessing. No smile. No surprise. Just quiet awareness.
"You're new," she said, voice low.
He swallowed. "Yeah. Just… helping out."
He glanced over her shoulder. A pair of MPs lingered by the gate, watching. Not moving yet—but close.
Without thinking, he shifted slightly to block their line of sight. "The kids," he said, nodding. "They'll want the bread."
She studied him a moment longer—eyes sharp, measuring. Then she gave a brief nod.
"Thanks," she said quietly.
She handed off the rest of the basket, knelt to speak softly with a little girl, then stood again, brushing crumbs from her hands. Her presence was distant but grounded—like someone used to carrying more than her share of worry.
They exchanged a few words—camp routines, cold nights, the way the kids hoarded food like squirrels. Nothing warm. Nothing friendly. Just matter-of-fact. She listened when he spoke. That was enough.
When she left, vanishing into the camp's bustle, Alex let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding.
He didn't sleep well that night.
Lying on the hard cot, he pulled a scrap of paper from beneath his mattress—saved from a shipping crate—and began writing with a dull stub of charcoal.
The next day, he was back in the stables before sunrise, pitchfork scraping through straw. The morning was quiet. Cold air bit at his fingers. Routine helped. Repetition helped.
Then footsteps. He looked up.
No cloak this time. No hood. Just a simple wool dress and sunlit hair.
She stood in the doorway—alone.
No guards.
Just Historia.
And that same small, steady expression.
"You didn't tell anyone I was here yesterday," she said.
Her voice was calm, almost neutral—not accusing, not warm. Curious, maybe.
Alex's grip tightened on the pitchfork. "Didn't see the point," he said flatly. His pulse was climbing, but he forced his face still.
She took a few slow steps closer, eyes on him. "Most people would've said something. Bragged about it. Maybe tried to get a reward from the MPs."
He kept his focus on the floor, shifting the pitchfork through straw that didn't need moving. "I'm not most people."