Chapter 3 – To the North
The carriage jolted over uneven earth, each bump rattling the stack of leather-bound books beside him. Allen—no, Leonard Greyborne, the Fourth Prince—rested a hand on them, as if holding onto sanity itself.
Books. Knowledge. That's my weapon now. If I'm to survive here, I need to learn everything about this world—its kings, its wars… even why I ended up in this body.
He leaned back, exhaling. The capital was far behind him, but the last few days replayed in his mind.
The royal capital was nothing like the cities Allen knew.
Knights drilled in the courtyards, their chainmail clanking, swords dented from endless sparring. Farmers and herders crowded the gates, driving goats, sheep, and barrels of milk to trade. The air was thick with hearth smoke and the sharp stench of horse dung.
Children carried water in clay jars, barefoot and laughing, while women scrubbed clothes by the river. Chamber pots were dumped carelessly into ditches, the smell wafting through even the noble quarters.
Allen had wrinkled his nose every time.
So this is their "capital"? Dirt roads, cesspits, and smoke. The 10th century is harsher than I thought.
But harsher still was the memory of that nobleman.
The man had stopped him on the day of departure—tall, broad-shouldered, his cloak bearing the crest of Greyhart, his mother's province.
"Prince Leonard," he said gravely. "Your mother was a woman of dignity. Few still remember her kindness… but I do."
Allen forced a polite nod.
"…Thank you, my lord."
The noble's tone was cold, his eyes sharp.
"You have no allies here. None. Your brothers and sisters circle the throne like wolves. Out of duty to your mother, I spoke with His Majesty. I urged him to grant you Orshek, a holding far in the north."
Allen frowned. "Orshek? That's—"
"A border town," the man cut in. "Remote. Cold. Safe. You will not interfere with succession struggles there."
His stare burned into Allen, as though testing him.
"Do nothing foolish, boy. Do not dream of crowns. If you value your life, keep to your northern exile."
Then he pressed a coffer into Allen's hands. Heavy. The clink of coins inside was unmistakable.
"This gold will keep your household standing. Spend it wisely. This is the last gift you'll receive from your mother's memory."
Allen bowed his head, but inside, Leonard's memories stirred—this noble had once been his mother's ally. A friend. A protector. One of the few who comforted Leonard after her death.
So this is pity. Exile dressed as mercy.
The carriage lurched, dragging him back to the present. He clutched the books tightly, heart racing.
The road stretched endlessly. For eighteen days, sometimes nineteen depending on the sun's strange rhythm, Allen crossed villages, towns, rivers, and castles. Every stop was a glimpse into this harsh 10th-century world.
In the villages, mud-brick homes clustered around wells. Chickens pecked at the dirt, goats bleated in pens, and barefoot children gawked at the royal carriage before scattering with laughter. Old women sold cheese, dried meat, and clay pots along the roadside, bowing clumsily as guards rode past.
In market towns, stone walls loomed high. Blacksmiths hammered at glowing iron, sparks flying with every strike. Leather workers scraped hides in courtyards, arms splattered with dye and blood. The smell of bread, smoke, and manure clung to the air.
Allen stayed in inns and castles, each different—sometimes a smoky tavern where merchants shared ale and stories, sometimes the cold hall of a minor noble who greeted him with stiff courtesy. Other nights, the caravan camped by riversides, tents glowing with firelight while guards swapped tales of hunts and brigands.
Allen took every chance to talk.
Merchants grumbled about tolls and broken wheels.
"Another prince? Hah. At least you ride in comfort, Highness. We break axles every month on these trails."
Farmers whispered blessings.
"Your mother is the Queen, wasn't she? May her soul watch over you, my prince."
Even nobles spoke cautiously.
"You head north, to Orshek? Hm. Harsh lands, cold winds. But a man can build something there… if he's strong."
Allen listened to them all, storing every word.
Yet one thing unsettled him.
Through villages, towns, noble halls, and markets—he saw no sign of advanced technology. No glowing runes, no enchanted tools, no machines beyond simple carts and mills.
So why was I brought here? If this world has no magic, then what force pulled me into Leonard's body?
The question gnawed at him with every mile.
But the journey itself was not as brutal as he expected. By Earth's standards, this distance should have taken longer. Yet the roads were surprisingly solid, paved with stone in places, and the carriage rolled smoothly.
Even stranger—the days themselves were longer. Allen counted carefully, comparing against his own sense of time.
This isn't a 24-hour cycle. A day here must be twenty-seven, maybe twenty-eight hours long.
And the people? They marched farther without tiring, lifted heavier loads, worked longer under the sun. Even the animals were larger—horses with thicker necks, oxen with muscles like coiled rope.
It reminded Allen of summers spent on his grandparents' small farm, when he was still a boy. Waking to the crow of roosters, hauling buckets of water, feeling the soil under his nails. The rhythm here was the same—but everything was built for endurance, built to last.
On the nineteenth day, as the sun dipped slowly over the hills, Allen leaned against the carriage window. His breath caught.
A weathered wooden sign stood by the roadside, its letters carved deep and dark.
ORSHEK
His destination. His exile. His chance.
Allen straightened, the weight of the coffer and the books beside him heavy with meaning.
Fine. If they want me forgotten in Orshek, then I'll use it. They want me gone from the throne? Good. I'll build something new. Something that's mine.
The carriage rolled forward, carrying him into the unknown.
A new beginning.