The air in the Grand Summoning Chamber hits me first—thick and old, like incense left too long in a closed room. My bare feet press against cool stone, the texture of it rough and veined with silver threads that catch the torchlight. I'm still adjusting to the weight of this body, the way my shoulders brush against nothing because the chamber is vast enough to hold a hundred of me.
A woman in grey robes grabs my arm before I can take in more than the circle of runes still fading beneath us. "Move. Processing doesn't wait." Her voice is flat, practiced—she's done this before, many times. I follow because there's nothing else to do. The others are already shuffling ahead, a line of bewildered bodies in unfamiliar skins.
I count them as we walk. Twelve. Ten women, two men. The other man is ahead of me—blond, pale, walking with the kind of confidence that comes from being beautiful in any world. Elven, apparently, from the pointed ears that peek through his golden hair. He catches me looking and his lip curls before he turns away.
The processing room is smaller, warmer. Candles float near the ceiling, their flames steady despite the draft. A woman stands at the center of it all—silver hair that catches the light like liquid mercury, violet eyes that sweep over each of us with clinical precision. She's beautiful in the way a blade is beautiful. Sharp. Dangerous. Utterly composed.
"I am High Arcanist Arelle Vi," she says, and her voice carries without effort. "You have been summoned to the kingdom of Aertos. You will be assessed for magical affinity and unique abilities. Your results will determine your place here."
She doesn't smile. Doesn't need to.
A table beside her holds an array of tools—crystals, rods, a bowl of water that seems to glow from within. She picks up a crystal first, moves to the woman at the front of the line. The woman flinches as Arelle presses it to her forehead, but Arelle's expression doesn't change.
"Water affinity. Moderate potential. You'll be assigned to the irrigation corps."
The woman looks relieved. The next steps forward.
I watch the process as it moves down the line. Stone affinity. Fire. Wind. The occasional pause when someone shows something unusual—a woman with divination talent, another with a spark of something the crystal can't quite name. Each one is noted, directed, sent through a door to the left where I can hear voices talking in quick, efficient tones.
The elven man is three ahead of me. When Arelle presses the crystal to his forehead, her eyes widen. Just a fraction. Just for a moment.
"Dual affinity," she says. "Water and divination. And…" She pauses, studying him. "A unique skill. Forsight."
The room goes quiet. I don't know what that means, but the way the acolytes whisper tells me it's rare.
The elven man—Viktor, I learn from the paper an acolyte hands him—smiles with practiced humility. "I'm honored," he says, and his voice is warm, melodic. "I'll serve the kingdom however I can."
He glances at me as he steps aside. There's something in his eyes—amusement, maybe. And dismissal.
Then it's my turn.
I step forward. The stone is cold under my feet. Arelle's violet eyes meet mine, and I see curiosity flicker there. Just for a second. Then her professional mask slides back into place.
She raises the crystal.
It touches my forehead. I feel nothing—no warmth, no pulse, no hum. Just the cool press of stone against my skin.
Arelle holds it there for a long moment. Then she pulls it back, examines it, and I see her jaw tighten almost imperceptibly.
"Null," she says.
The word lands like a stone in still water. The acolytes exchange glances. Viktor's eyebrows rise.
I don't know what that means either, but I'm learning fast.
She tries another crystal. Then a rod. Then she gestures toward the bowl of glowing water and I dip my hand in as instructed. The water ripples, settles, does nothing.
"Null affinity," she repeats. Louder this time. A pronouncement.
The whispers start. I catch fragments—"half-orc," "waste of a summon," "should have been another woman." Viktor's smile widens, and he doesn't bother hiding it.
But Arelle isn't done. She circles the table, picks up a smaller instrument, and holds it near my chest. Then my throat. Then—
She stops.
"Your scent," she says. Quietly. Almost to herself.
"What about it?" My voice is rough. I haven't spoken since I arrived. It feels strange in my throat.
Arelle's nostrils flare. She inhales, slow and deliberate, and something shifts in her expression. The clinical distance wavers. Her pupils dilate.
"Nothing," she says, and her voice is clipped now. "Proceed to assignment."
I don't believe her. But I'm not given a choice.
An acolyte guides me through the right-hand door—the one marked for nulls, I realize, when I see the sparse room with a single desk and a tired-looking woman holding a quill. She takes one look at me and sighs.
"Name?"
"Zach."
She writes it down without looking up. "Occupation on your world?"
"Engineer."
She pauses. Glances at me. Her lips press together. "That's… not nothing."
"No. It's not."
She stares. A beat too long. Her nostrils flare, just slightly. She's sniffing me. "Right," she says, and the word is flat. Disbelieving. She sets the quill down. "An engineer." She doesn't finish the thought. She doesn't have to.
"The dual-affinity summon," she says. "The elven one. Where is he?"
The acolyte at the desk points vaguely. "He's still in processing, Lady Suckling. The nobles are reviewing candidates."
Lady Suckling. Samantha, I remember from the whispers. The Suckling family. Rich. Powerful. Apparently, very interested in Viktor.
She turns to leave, then stops. Her nose wrinkles.
"What is that smell?"
The acolyte flushes. "The half-orc, my lady. They said he's a null."
Samantha's gaze slides over me. It's brief. Dismissive. "Of course he is."
And she's gone.
I'm left in the quiet room, this body pressing in on me like something I'm still learning to wear. My balls shift when I move—dense, full, a feeling of power I can't name yet. My smell hangs thick and raw in the air around me, making the acolyte's cheeks flush even as she pretends not to notice.
I'm dismissed. Rejected. A null in a world of magic.
But I saw Arelle's face when she smelled me. I saw the crack in her composure.
And I know—I know—there's more to this body than they're willing to see.
The acolyte doesn't look at me when she points toward the door. "Through there. Follow the wall until you reach the street. Don't touch anything."
No papers. No coin. No explanation of where I'm supposed to go. Just a door, and beyond it, a world I've never seen.
I push through. The stone corridor is narrow, torchlight flickering against rough-hewn walls. My boots—heavy leather, scuffed, laced tight—echo with each step. My balls shift as I walk, a heavy slosh that I'm still not used to, a weight that hangs between my thighs like something alive.
The door at the end opens onto daylight.
I blink. The sun is high, pale gold against a sky streaked with thin clouds. The air hits me—warm, dusty, thick with smells I can't name. Cooking meat. Horse sweat. Incense. Something floral, something sour. The street stretches ahead, cobblestones worn smooth by centuries of feet, lined with buildings of grey stone and dark timber. Awnings flap in the breeze. Signs swing on iron hooks, painted with symbols I don't recognize.
People move in waves. Women, mostly. Dressed in wool and linen, in flowing silks and practical leathers. They carry baskets, lead carts, argue with merchants, laugh in clusters. A few glance my way, then look again. Their eyes linger. Their nostrils flare.
I start walking.
The weight of their gaze follows me. I'm not used to being watched—not like this. Back on Earth, I was invisible. Average height. Average build. Average everything. Here, I'm a head taller than most women, my shoulders blocking the sun, my green skin catching the light in ways that make people stop mid-sentence. My tusks catch the light, yellowed and thick, jutting from my lower lip. My black hair hangs long and unkempt, tangled from the summoning.
I pass a fruit stall. The vendor—a stout woman with flour-dusted hands—stares as I walk by. Her mouth opens. Closes. She blinks, shakes her head, and goes back to arranging apples, but her hands tremble.
My scent. I can't smell it myself, not anymore—it's just me now—but I see it in their faces. The way their pupils dilate. The way their breath catches. The way their eyes drop, just for a second, to the heavy swing of my balls beneath my worn leather jerkin.
I keep walking.
The streets twist and branch, leading me deeper into the city. I have no map, no destination. Just the press of bodies and the weight of my own footsteps. My stomach rumbles. I haven't eaten since before the summoning—whenever that was. Hours? Days? Time doesn't move the same when you're being ripped between worlds.
The market opens ahead of me, a wide square packed with stalls and carts and crowds. The noise hits first—a wall of sound, voices layered over each other, haggling and laughing and shouting. The smell follows: spices, roasting meat, sweat, leather, the sweet rot of overripe fruit.
I stop at the edge, my stomach clenching. I have nothing. No coin. No possessions. Just the clothes on my back and a body that doesn't feel like mine yet.
I scan the crowd. Women, mostly. A few men, heads down, moving quickly between stalls. They don't meet my eyes. They don't meet anyone's eyes.
Then I feel it. A shift in the air around me. A sudden stillness.
I turn.
Three women are watching me from the mouth of an alley. They're young—early twenties, maybe—dressed in rough-spun tunics and leather vests. One of them smiles. It's not a kind smile.
"Lost, big man?"
I don't answer.
She steps closer. Her companions follow, fanning out slightly, blocking the alley mouth behind them. "You look hungry. We know a place. Warm food. Soft bed." Her eyes drop to my crotch. "Good company."
"I'm fine." My voice is rough, gravelly. I haven't used it much.
"Are you?" She's closer now. I can smell her—sweat and cheap perfume. Her hand reaches out, fingers brushing my arm. "Come on. Just for a bit. We'll take care of you."
Her fingers tighten. Her companions move closer.
I step back. "No."
Her smile hardens. "Don't be difficult. A man like you, wandering alone—you need protection. We can offer it. For a price."
"I said no."
She holds my gaze. For a moment, I think she'll push. Then something flickers in her eyes—wariness, maybe. She steps back. Her hands rise, palms out.
"Suit yourself."
She turns, and her companions follow, disappearing back into the alley. I watch them go, my heart pounding slow and steady in my chest. My hand is already forming a fist. I didn't even notice.
I move on.
The market swallows me. I weave between stalls, past bolts of fabric and trays of jewelry, past cages of squawking birds and barrels of pickled vegetables. My stomach growls again. I ignore it.
Then I hear it. Hooves on cobblestones. Fast. Coming up behind me.
I turn.
A cart barrels down the street, drawn by two panicked horses. The driver—a woman with a scarred face—is hauling on the reins, but the horses aren't stopping. The crowd scatters. I step aside, pressing against a stall.
The cart passes. But as it does, a hand shoots out from the covered back—grabs my arm. Tugs.
I'm yanked forward, off balance. My shoulder slams against the cart's wooden side. The hand tightens, pulling me toward the canvas flap.
I react.
My free hand snaps up, grabs the wrist, twists. There's a yelp, and the grip loosens. I pull free, stumbling back, landing hard on the cobblestones. The cart doesn't stop. It rattles on, disappearing around a corner, the driver never looking back.
I sit there, breathing hard, my palms scraped raw. A woman in a merchant's apron hurries over, crouching beside me.
"Are you alright? Those slavers—they've been bold lately. You should be more careful."
Slaver. The word lands like a punch. I nod, pushing myself up. My hands sting. My shoulder aches. But I'm standing.
"Thank you," I manage.
She nods, then hurries back to her stall. I stand there, catching my breath, the crowd flowing around me like I'm a stone in a river.
I need help. I need someone who isn't trying to rob me, sell me, or drug me. I need—
"You look lost."
The voice is soft. Female. I turn.
She's short. Fiery red hair falls in intricate braids, adorned with feathers and beads that catch the light. Her eyes are bright green, wide and curious, set in a freckled face that smiles easily. She wears a thin white and green toga that stretches against her subtle form, and a wooden symbol hangs around her neck—a circle with a leaf inside.
She's half-elf. I can see it in the slight points of her ears, the delicate features that blend human and elven.
"I'm Kitty," she says, and her voice is warm, bubbly, like she's genuinely happy to see me. "Kitty Clarke. You're one of the new summons, aren't you? I saw the processing. I was—well, I was with my party in the summoning room, and I saw you come out."
I stare at her. "You saw me?"
"Hard to miss." She grins, and there's no malice in it. "You're very tall. And green. And you smell like—" She stops, her cheeks flushing. "Never mind. The point is, you looked like you needed help. And I'm good at helping."
I don't trust her. I don't trust anyone in this world yet. But she's the first person who's looked at me like I'm a person, not a problem or a prize.
"I don't have any money," I say. "Or anywhere to go."
Kitty's smile softens. "Yeah, I figured. The royal mages doesn't give severance packages to nulls." She says the word carefully, like she's testing it. "But I have an idea."
"What?"
"The Adventurer's Guild. They're always looking for new members. And they don't care about magic—they care about what you can do." She tilts her head, studying me. "What can you do?"
I think about it. Back on Earth, I was an engineer. I built things. Fixed things. Understood how systems worked. That's not nothing.
"I'm strong," I say. "And I'm smart. I can learn."
Kitty's grin returns. "Good enough. Come on."
She turns, gesturing for me to follow. I hesitate. But I don't have any better options.
I follow.
The Adventurer's Guild isn't what I expected. It's a squat stone building wedged between a bakery and a textile shop, its wooden sign creaking in the afternoon breeze. The paint is faded, the edges chipped, and the whole thing looks like it's been standing for centuries, enduring storms and time with equal stubbornness.
Inside, it's warm. A hearth crackles at the far end, and the air smells of old paper, spilled ale, and something roasting. A few tables are scattered across the floor, occupied by women in leather and chainmail who glance up as I duck through the doorway. Their eyes track me — not with hostility, but with that same strange intensity I've been seeing all day. Pupils dilating. Breath catching. One of them, a dwarf with braided brown hair and a scar across her nose, actually drops her mug.
I ignore it. Or try to.
Kitty leads me to a counter where a woman with graying hair and bored eyes sits, scribbling in a ledger. She looks up, sees me, and her quill stops.
"New summon," Kitty says cheerfully. "He wants to register."
The woman blinks. Once. Twice. Then she shakes herself, as if emerging from a trance, and reaches for a fresh form. "Name?"
"Zach."
"Full name."
I hesitate. "Zachary. Zachary Vance."
She scribbles. "Race?"
"Half-orc."
"Affinity?"
"Null."
Her quill pauses again. She looks up, and there's something like pity in her eyes. "You know what that means, don't you? No magic. No elemental channeling. Most guild assignments require at least a basic affinity."
"I'm aware."
She sighs, but finishes writing. "Sign here." She pushes the form toward me, and I take the quill, signing my name in awkward, blocky letters.
"There's a testing fee," she says. "Five silver."
I freeze. I don't have five silver. I don't have one copper.
Kitty reaches into her pouch, places five silver coins on the counter. "I've got it."
I look at her. "You don't have to—"
"I want to." She smiles, and it's genuine. "Think of it as an investment. You're going to be a great adventurer. I can tell."
The woman behind the counter takes the coins, stamps the form, and hands me a small bronze badge. "You're provisional. Complete three jobs, and you'll be promoted to copper rank. The job board is by the hearth. Good luck."
She says it like she means it, but I can hear the unspoken: you'll need it.
Kitty tugs my arm, pulling me away from the counter toward an empty table in the corner. She sits, cross-legged, and I lower myself onto the bench across from her. The wood groans under my weight.
"So," she says, leaning forward, her chin resting on her palms. "Tell me about your world."
I blink. "What?"
"Your world. Where you're from. What was it like?" Her eyes are bright, eager, like a child asking about a faraway land. "I've never met a summon before. Well, I've seen them, but I've never talked to one. You're from somewhere else entirely. Somewhere with different stars, different magic—"
"There was no magic," I say.
She stops. "What?"
"In my world. No magic. We built things instead. Machines. Systems. We figured out how to make metal think."
Her brow furrows. "Metal... think?"
I try to find words she'll understand. "Imagine a machine that can do calculations. Millions of them per second. Imagine a box that holds all the knowledge in the world, and you can ask it anything, and it answers."
She stares at me, utterly lost, but fascinated. "How?"
I open my mouth, then close it. How do you explain a computer to someone who lives in a world with magic and togas? "It's... complicated. Tiny switches. Billions of them, etched onto pieces of silicon. Electricity flows through them, and the pattern of that flow creates meaning. It's like—" I stop, realizing I'm already losing her. "It's hard to explain."
Kitty giggles. "Silicon? Electricity? You're speaking another language."
"I was a Computer Engineer," I say. "I built and designed the machines that do the thinking."
She tilts her head, processing that. Then she grins. "So you're a builder. A maker."
"Sort of."
"That's amazing!" She slaps the table, and a few heads turn. "You should go to the Builder's Guild. They're always looking for new ideas. Have you ever built a siege engine?"
I blink. "A siege engine?"
"Yeah! Catapults, ballistae, trebuchets. The big things that throw rocks at walls."
I nearly laugh. "No. I built things that fit on a desk. Not things that throw rocks."
"Oh." She deflates slightly, but rallies quickly. "Still. The Builder's Guild would love you. They're always talking about new mechanisms and designs. If you can figure out how to make metal think, you can probably figure out a better way to throw a rock."
I open my mouth to respond, but she's already moving on, chattering about the city, the guilds, the different districts. She tells me about the Sunken Quarter, where the poor live in flooded basements, and the Spire, where the nobility dwell in towers that pierce the clouds. She tells me about the festivals, the food, the politics. Names and places blur together, but I latch onto every word, building a map of this world in my head.
And as she talks, I notice something.
She's leaning closer.
Not dramatically. Not obviously. But inch by inch, as if drawn by an invisible thread. Her hand, resting on the table, has crept closer to mine. Her eyes linger on my face, tracing the line of my jaw, the curve of my tusks. Her breath comes a little faster, her cheeks flushed a shade pinker than the walk here should have caused.
She catches herself, pulls back, clears her throat. "Sorry. I'm rambling."
"No," I say. "Keep going. I'm listening."
She smiles, and there's warmth in it. Real warmth. "You're easy to talk to. You know that?"
"I mostly just nod."
She laughs, and it's a bright, bubbling sound that fills the room. "That's exactly it. You listen. Most men—well, the ones I've met—they're always trying to impress. Show off their magic, their strength, their connections. But you just... sit. And listen. It's nice."
I don't know what to say to that, so I don't say anything.
She fidgets with a bead in her hair, twirling it between her fingers. "So, your world. Did you have... I don't know, partners? Someone special?"
The question catches me off guard. "Yeah."
"Oh." She looks down, a small frown playing at her lips. "I mean—Sorry. I mean—" She groans, covering her face. "I'm making this weird, aren't I?"
"A little."
She peeks through her fingers. "Sorry. I don't usually... I'm not usually like this. I don't know what's wrong with me."
I know. The thought surfaces unbidden. It's the scent. It's what I am. But I don't say it. I don't know how.
A door at the back of the guild hall opens, and a woman in green leather steps out, scanning the room. Her eyes land on Kitty, and she calls out, "Kitty! We need you. The map's ready."
Kitty's head snaps up. "Right. Yes. Coming." She stands, brushing off her toga, and I see the reluctance in her movements. She doesn't want to leave.
She reaches into her pouch, pulls out a small iron key, and presses it into my palm. Her fingers linger against mine.
"My room," she says. "Second floor, third door on the left. There's a bed, a washbasin, and some bread in the cupboard. It's not much, but it's safe."
I stare at the key. "You're giving me your room?"
"Just for tonight. I'll join you after I finish with my party. We have to... discuss something. About our next contract." She sounds uncertain, and I catch the tightness in her jaw. Her party doesn't seem happy with her.
"Kitty—"
"It's fine." She forces a smile. "Really. I'll be back before midnight. Wait for me?"
I nod.
She holds my gaze for a moment longer, then turns and hurries toward the back door. She pauses at the threshold, looks over her shoulder, and gives me a small wave.
Then she's gone.
I sit there, the key warm in my palm, the bronze badge heavy against my chest. The hearth crackles. The women at the other tables have gone back to their drinks.
I pocket the key, rise, and head for the stairs.
The room is small. Smaller than I expected. A single bed with a thin mattress, a wooden chair, a washbasin with a cracked mirror. A window looks out over the street, and the last light of dusk paints the walls in shades of amber and gray. There's a loaf of bread on the cupboard, hard but edible, and a jug of water.
I lock the door behind me. Sit on the edge of the bed. The springs creak.
I'm alone.
For the first time since I arrived, I have a locked door between me and the world. I take a breath. Then another. The adrenaline of the day seeps out of me, leaving behind a bone-deep exhaustion.
I should sleep. I should rest. Tomorrow, I'll find the Builder's Guild. I'll figure out how to survive in this world. I'll—
A sound. Footsteps in the hallway. They pause at my door.
I freeze. My hand grips the edge of the mattress.
But the footsteps continue, fading down the hall.
I let out a breath I didn't realize I was holding. I stand, walk to the corner of the room opposite the bed, and lower myself to the floor. My back presses against the wall. The bed is Kitty's. I'm not taking it from her.
The floor is hard. Cold. But it's a roof over my head. A locked door. A moment of peace.
The lock clicks. The door swings open. Kitty slips inside, backlit by the dying torch in the hallway. Her fiery hair is mussed, her green eyes wide and searching. She locks the door behind her, leans against it, and her gaze finds me on the floor.
"You waited." Her voice is soft. Wondering.
I rise. The room shrinks.
She crosses to me. Stops inches away. Her hand lifts, hovers over my chest, then presses flat against my heart. Her nostrils flare. The freckles across her cheeks darken as a flush rises from her neck.
"I couldn't stop thinking about you," she whispers. Her thumb traces the worn leather of my jerkin. "The way you smelled. The way you looked at me."
"Kitty—"
"Don't." Her fingers curl into my shirt. "Don't tell me this is crazy. I know it is. I don't care."
She rises on her toes. Her mouth meets mine.
Soft. Sweet. Desperate.
I hold still for a beat, feeling the warmth of her lips, the tremor in her body. Then something breaks. My hand finds the back of her head, tangles in the beads and feathers of her braids. I kiss her back. Harder. Hungrier.
She gasps against my mouth. Her fingers fumble at the laces of my jerkin.
"I want—" She pulls back, panting. "I want all of you."
I lift her. Her legs lock around my waist. She's light, trembling, hot through the thin fabric of her toga. I cross the room in three strides and lower her onto the bed. The springs groan.
Her toga is already bunched around her hips. I see the pale skin of her thighs, the dark hair between them, slick and ready. She's watching me with wide, hungry eyes.
"Zach. Please."
I don't ask again. I drop my pants, my cock springing free, hard and aching. I position myself at her entrance. She's wet. So wet. I push inside.
She arches. Her mouth opens in a silent cry.
She's tight. Hot. Gripping me like she never wants me to leave.
I fuck her. Slow at first, then harder, driven by the sound of her moans, the way her nails dig into my shoulders. She comes quickly, her cunt clenching around me, a sharp gasp escaping her lips.
For a moment, neither of us moves.
Then she speaks, her voice hoarse, disappointed. "That was... I wanted..." She swallows. "I wanted to taste you first. To start with my mouth."
She pushes against my chest. I roll off, my cock sliding out of her, slick with both of us. She turns, her hand finding my thigh. "Let me."
Her mouth descends.
Warm. Wet. Her tongue traces the shaft, her lips seal around the head. She moans, and I feel the vibration through my entire body. She's eager. Desperate. Her hand pumps the base while her mouth works the tip.
But her rhythm slows. Her grip loosens. Her head gets heavy.
"Kitty?"
No response.
I look down. Her eyes are closed. Her breathing has evened into a deep, steady rhythm. She's asleep. Her cheek rests against my thigh, her hand still wrapped around my cock, limp.
I reach down, touch her shoulder. "Kitty."
Nothing.
I find her pulse. Steady. Slow. Strong. Just out cold.
I let out a breath. The tension in my chest eases. Carefully, I slide out from under her, lifting her head onto the pillow. She doesn't stir. I pull the blanket over her, tucking the edges around her shoulders.
I sit against the wall. The floor is cold. My cock is still half-hard, slick with her spit and my own precum. The room is silent except for the soft rhythm of her sleeping breath.
There's a low, dull ache in my balls. A weight that didn't get lifted. A pressure that wanted to break and now just sits there, heavy and unfinished. Not a sharp pain. Just a throb that reminds me I stopped.
But not tonight. She needs rest. I'll be more careful next time.