A year, maybe two, had bled together into a relentless cycle of mud, blood, and the chilling howl of northern winds whipping around the rough-hewn timber walls of Fort Drakan. Elias Crane, no longer the disoriented victim of an impossible explosion but Captain Crane of the Third Frontier Garrison, moved with a grim purpose that had earned him grudging respect, rapid promotion, and more than a few enemies. The Northern Frontier wasn't a place for nuance; it demanded results, and Elias delivered, his tactical mind adapting modern combat principles to the brutal realities of swords, shields, and things that should only exist in nightmares. Fort Drakan, and the string of fortifications like it, marked the jagged edge of Caelum's claimed territory – a buffer against the untamed wilderness beyond, the aggressive territorialism of the hardy Iron Concord mountain kingdoms to the west, and the increasingly frequent incursions of monstrous beasts and savage tribes pushed south by pressures Elias couldn't yet fathom. It was a land defined by constant vigilance and attritional warfare.
His reattached hand was fully functional, a constant, uncanny reminder of the magic that permeated this world – a magic he couldn't wield but had learned to factor into his threat assessments. The missing left eye was a harder adaptation. His field of vision was permanently compromised, forcing a constant, conscious compensation in his movements, a vulnerability he drilled relentlessly to mitigate.
Today's "drill" was a one-on-one spar in the fort's main training yard – a churned field of mud under a perpetually overcast sky. His opponent: Commander Valerius, the massive, armored figure who had saved his life and casually dismissed him in the same breath on that first, chaotic night. Valerius wielded his greatsword not just with brute strength, but with surprising speed honed by years of frontier warfare.
"Again, Captain!" Valerius roared, his voice muffled slightly by his helm.
Elias circled, shield raised high to cover his blind left side, his own simpler longsword held ready. Rain plastered his short-cropped hair to his skull. He moved lightly despite the mud, using footwork learned in entirely different contexts – feint right, quick pivot left, testing the Commander's reach. Valerius didn't fall for it, planting his feet and bringing the greatsword around in a whistling arc that forced Elias into a desperate, skidding parry. The impact jarred him to the bone, the sheer force almost buckling his shield arm.
Over-reliance on power, predictable arc, Elias analyzed instantly, even as he recovered his balance. Opening on his recovery swing. He lunged forward, not with a power strike, but a quick thrust aimed at a gap in the Commander's armor near the shoulder joint.
Valerius grunted, shifting his weight with deceptive speed, the thrust scraping harmlessly off his thick pauldron. "Better," the Commander acknowledged, pressing his attack again. "You see the opening. But too slow. And you still leave your left exposed when you commit." Another heavy blow forced Elias back.
Elias fought defensively, using his shield, parrying, looking for angles. He couldn't match Valerius's strength or reach, but he could analyze, predict, exploit momentary weaknesses. He managed a shallow cut on the Commander's unarmored thigh, darting back before the inevitable counter-attack. The spar continued – Elias using technique and agility, Valerius using power and relentless pressure. Finally, a feint Elias didn't read correctly due to his blind spot left him open for a fraction of a second. Valerius didn't miss it. The flat of the greatsword slammed into Elias's shield, the force throwing him off his feet into the cold mud. The point of the massive blade came to rest lightly against his throat.
"Yield," Valerius stated, his breathing steady despite the exertion.
Elias stared up past the blade at the impassive helmet, frustration mixing with grudging respect. "Yield," he conceded, breathing hard.
Valerius withdrew the sword, offering a gauntleted hand to pull Elias up. "You learn faster than any raw recruit I've ever seen, Crane," the Commander said, his tone holding less dismissal than before. "You have the instincts. But instinct isn't enough here. Watch your left. Always." He turned and strode off the training field without another word.
Elias stood there for a moment, catching his breath, wiping mud from his face. He flexed his reattached hand. It ached after the spar, a phantom reminder. He needed to talk to the mage.
He found Master Elms in the cramped, herb-scented infirmary tent, stitching up a nasty gash on another trooper's arm. The mage looked as weary as Elias remembered, his dark robes stained with mud and likely worse. Elias waited patiently until Elms finished, nodding his thanks to the departing trooper.
"Captain Crane," Elms acknowledged, cleaning his instruments. "Your hand giving you trouble?"
"No more than usual," Elias replied gruffly. "It functions." He paused. "I came to ask... about limitations. Long-term effects." He held up the hand, turning it over. The faint scarring where it had been reattached was barely visible now.
Elms sighed, wiping his brow. "The reconnection was sound. Mana fused the bone, knitted the major tissues. You have full function, yes? Strength? Dexterity?" Elias nodded. "Then consider yourself fortunate. Battlefield restorations are... imprecise. There might be minor nerve damage, sensitivity to cold perhaps, but nothing that should impede a soldier."
"And the eye?" Elias asked, his voice flat, touching the rough leather patch he now wore.
Elms met his gaze, his own eyes tired. "As I told you then, Captain. Restoring sight, regenerating an entire organ... the mana cost is immense. Far beyond what is practical or permissible during active conflict when lives are actively on the line. My purpose here is to keep soldiers in the fight, not cosmetic perfection." He gestured around the tent, at the limited supplies, the waiting wounded. "Mana is a resource, Captain, like arrows or bandages. It must be allocated strategically. An eye, versus saving three men from bleeding out? The choice is simple, if harsh."
Elias processed this. Magic wasn't a miracle cure-all. It was another limited resource, governed by cost and practicality. Makes sense. "Understood, Master Elms. Thank you for the clarification." And for the hand. He didn't say the last part.
"Just try not to lose any more pieces, Captain," Elms said dryly, turning back to organize his supplies. "Replacements are not guaranteed."
Elias nodded curtly and left the tent, stepping back out into the grey, wet reality of the fort. Magic was real, powerful, life-saving. But it wasn't the ultimate advantage. Tactics, discipline, resource management, anticipating the enemy – those were constants. Those were things he could control. And on this Northern Frontier, control was the only thing keeping anyone alive.
Some weeks later, after a particularly brutal skirmish where Elias's quick thinking and leadership saved his platoon from an ambush, he was summoned to Commander Valerius's private quarters – a spartan room furnished with little more than a cot, a sturdy table covered in maps, and weapon racks. Valerius stood by the table, helmet off, revealing a stern, scarred face. He gestured towards the table.
Lying there were two items. One was a sword – similar in style to Elias's current longsword but clearly of superior craftsmanship, the steel dark and unadorned, perfectly balanced. The other was stranger: a smooth, obsidian-like orb, about the size of a human eye, nestled on a velvet cloth.
"Captain Crane," Valerius began without preamble, his voice gruff. "Your performance has been... noted. This blade is fitting for your demonstrated skill and new responsibilities." He indicated the sword. Elias recognized it implicitly as confirmation of a promotion.
"It's Storm-Forged," Valerius added, tapping the dark steel. "Holds a lightning charge. Might give you a shock when you need it most, but the capacity is limited. Needs time to gather power again. Don't waste it."
He nodded his thanks, his gaze shifting to the orb. "And this, Commander?"
Valerius picked up the orb carefully. "Your primary weakness remains your left side. Your blind spot." He held out the orb. "This... is a potential solution. A relic. Found in some ruin far north years ago."
Elias took the orb. It felt cool, smooth, strangely heavy.
"A magical eye?" Elias asked, suspicion mixing with curiosity.
"Of a sort," Valerius confirmed. "It doesn't restore normal sight. According to Elms, who barely understands it himself, it attunes to the user and grants... glimpses. Flashes of potentiality. What might happen in the next two or three seconds." He fixed Elias with a hard stare. "It might give you an edge in combat, allow you to anticipate a blow you cannot see coming."
Elias turned the orb over. Predictive sight? A tactical advantage beyond measure. "What's the catch?"
"The catch," Valerius said flatly, "is that it apparently overlays these potential futures onto your existing vision. Elms believes it would make normal sight difficult, confusing. Constant flickering possibilities. It might be more hindrance than help outside of direct combat. And there's no guarantee it will even work properly for you. These things are... temperamental." He shrugged his massive shoulders. "But you're more useful with some form of depth perception, even a flawed one. Consider it an investment. Or a dangerous gamble. Your choice to try and use it."
Elias looked from the orb to the new sword, then met the Commander's gaze. A magical eye that predicted the immediate future. Another layer of impossibility in this world, offered by the man who'd dismissed him as useless. But the tactical advantage...
Three years, he thought. Three years until the book says Aelric appears. Three years to get stronger, to understand this world, to be ready. This eye, this sword... they were tools. Means to an end. His goal remained unchanged: survive, lead, and surpass the flawed hero of the story and defeat Pane Lord in the end.
"I'll take the gamble, Commander," Elias said, his voice steady. He accepted the sword, its weight feeling solid and purposeful in his reattached hand. The obsidian orb felt cold against his palm.