Dragon Touched

Aleric flexed his fingers, testing the rope around his wrists.

The fibers scraped his skin, coarse and unforgiving, but beneath the roughness he felt something colder—firmer. Not just cord. There was a bite to it when he moved, a subtle resistance that didn’t belong to hemp alone.

Metal.

Thin strands braided through the rope, flexible enough to hide themselves until pressure was applied. Whoever had tied him knew the craft. The wrap was precise—a figure-eight cinched between the wrists, the kind that tightened when a man struggled instead of loosening. An anchor loop ran up toward his beltline, pinning his hands low and robbing him of leverage. Even dislocating a thumb wouldn’t give him enough room to work.

Smart, he thought grimly.

They hadn’t come unprepared.

He exhaled slowly through his nose and shifted his head just enough to map the space around him. Canvas above. Wooden boards beneath. The creak of a wagon in motion. Too dark to see, but close—too many bodies nearby to risk anything sloppy.

The answer presented itself immediately, as it always did.

A multi-tool. The standard-issue Marine one he’d carried for years. Compact. Reliable. The wire cutters alone would chew through the metal core if he could get the right angle.

But wire-core rope meant time. Leverage. Patience.

And before any of that, he needed to know what he was dealing with.

If the wagon was warded, summoning even something small could feel like trying to drag a safe through a keyhole. Worse—it could light him up like a signal flare.

He slowed his breathing, letting training take over. Dark-room drills. Sensory isolation. Feel first. Act second.

There it was.

A faint tingle brushed the edges of his awareness, like static crawling over skin. The sensation reminded him of walking beneath power lines during a storm, that low, constant hum you felt more than heard.

A ward.

Subtle. Active.

Low-grade, he judged. Directional. Meant to prevent teleportation or magical tracking rather than crush summoning outright. Still, even a mild ward could spike hard if pushed the wrong way.

Alright.

First objective: understand the edges.

He focused on the smallest thing he could imagine calling—not a tool, not a weapon, not even steel.

A washer.

Aluminum. Light. Something barely heavier than a thought. He pictured it clearly: the dull gray ring from his motor pool days, the feel of it resting against his fingertips, the slight warmth it picked up from skin.

The image settled. The conduit stirred.

He let a thread of power slide down it—

—and met resistance.

Not a wall. More like thick mud.

The magic moved, but sluggishly, dragging at him with a gentle pull that raised goosebumps along his forearms. A faint vibration hummed against his skin, the kind he associated with proximity alarms or low-voltage wiring.

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Active ward. Weak, but awake.

He cut the summoning instantly.

No flash. No object. Just the echo of resistance fading away.

The wagon reacted anyway.

A subtle ripple passed through the wood beneath him, like the aftershock of a dropped pebble. The bindings around his wrists warmed—just slightly—and the metal core inside them vibrated once before settling.

A ward-thread woven into the rope itself.

Damn.

Not elite mage-hunters, but professionals. Someone had paid for expertise.

He went still and listened.

The guards up front continued their quiet banter. The woman nearest him rustled what sounded like a map or parchment. Someone yawned.

No raised voices. No sudden movement.

Good.

The ward hadn’t flared visibly.

He flexed his fingers again, carefully this time, testing circulation. The rope responded with a faint tightening, as if reminding him it was there.

He stopped.

The tool would still work. The multi-tool hadn’t stopped being the answer.

But timing mattered now.

Summoning it too early would risk lighting up the ward, and his captors were only a few feet away. He needed noise. Motion. A moment when the world around him was loud enough to swallow a spike.

A rut in the road.

Shouting guards.

Spooked horses.

He needed the right cover.

His bladder throbbed again, sharp and insistent.

Perfect, he thought dryly. Add that to the list.

He forced himself to relax, slowing his breathing until it mimicked near-sleep. Let his head loll. Let his jaw slacken.

A Marine waits. A Marine plans. A Marine strikes when the enemy is blind.

The wagon jolted over uneven ground. He let his body move with it, feigning deeper unconsciousness.

The ward’s presence was clearer now—a faint static buzzing along the back of his skull.

He would break it.

But not yet.

Canvas whispered.

Footsteps shifted closer.

“Hold up,” a woman murmured from the front bench. “Let me check him.”

Aleric let his eyelids flutter half-open, just enough to sell it. Corpsman tricks. Pulse slow. Breathing shallow and uneven.

Cool, callused fingers pressed against the back of his neck.

“Still warm,” she muttered.

“You must’ve hit him too hard,” another voice complained. “Queen’s damn lucky he didn’t die.”

“He’s tougher than that,” the woman said. “Besides—Renna got in his face first. He just fought back harder than we expected.”

She leaned closer. Breath ghosted over his cheek.

Aleric didn’t move. Not a twitch.

“…yeah,” she said finally. “Out cold.”

Canvas fell back into place. Boots retreated.

Aleric counted silently. Five seconds. Ten.

Only when the wagon’s rhythm settled again did he allow himself a deeper breath.

Running while bound was a joke.

The rope pulsed faintly with every shift of his weight, the enchantment threaded through it responding to his presence. Someone had spent real coin to keep him tied.

He didn’t actually need to cut it.

Another option surfaced—quieter, cleaner.

He could send the bindings away.

His magic dismissed things as easily as it summoned them. He’d never tried it on something in contact with his body. The System might not care. The ward might.

Still, it was a better gamble than dragging metal through metal in a warded wagon.

He waited. Listened. Counted breaths.

Nothing changed outside the canvas.

One chance.

He reached inward and touched the tether with the lightest pull.

Send these away.

The command was silent.

The air shifted. The ward hummed. The rope vibrated once.

Aleric didn’t breathe.

Then the bindings vanished in a soft pulse of displaced air, like something plucked straight through the world.

His arms dropped free.

He stayed still, listening for shouts or alarms.

Nothing.

Only the creak of wheels and the hiss of wind through canvas.

Good.

He rubbed his wrists as blood returned, biting back a groan.

Now he needed distance.

A clean escape would bring pursuit. Noise would buy him seconds.

He reached into the reservoir of American magic and called up something he knew by weight and shape alone.

A compact block settled against his stomach.

Dense. Stable.

A second object followed—a trigger device, preconfigured and simple.

Good. That I can work with.

Branches brushed the canvas. The forest thickened. The wagon dipped again.

Perfect.

Aleric slid toward the rear, moving with the sway so the boards never creaked, then dropped.

He hit hard. Rolled. Gravel tore his palms. Cold night air slapped his face.

He pressed the trigger.

Light. Sound. Horses screaming. Wood splintering.

Beautiful confusion.

Aleric was already gone, vanishing into the dark with one truth burning through him:

They had no idea what they’d just unleashed.