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Mark woke up on cold stone and immediately regretted it.
His head felt like someone had taken a hammer to it. His knee — the bad one, the one that clicked when he took stairs — screamed. And his back. Jesus. His back felt like he'd slept on a parking lot.
He opened his eyes. Gold ceiling. Vaulted. Way too fancy. Candlelight flickering off walls that looked like they belonged in a cathedral.
This was not his apartment.
This was not the lawyer's office where he'd been about to sign the divorce papers.
He tried to sit up. His body protested. Everything hurt. He got halfway vertical and had to stop, breathing hard, one hand braced on the floor. The stone was smooth. Polished. Cold enough to sting his palm.
Voices.
Two of them. Maybe three. Speaking fast. Not English. But he understood them anyway and that was wrong. That was completely wrong.
"—confirmed?" A woman's voice. Clipped. Annoyed.
"Yes, High Priestess." A man. Nervous. "The circle activated. The mana expenditure matches historical summoning records. But—"
"But he's not what we asked for."
Mark's brain caught up slowly. Summoning. Mana. High Priestess.
Oh no.
Oh no no no.
He knew this setup. He'd read this setup. Isekai. Transported-to-another-world. Summoned-hero garbage. Except he was forty-one years old and his last athletic achievement had been walking to the fridge without his knee giving out.
"The prophecy specified—" the man started.
"I know what the prophecy specified." The woman's voice went cold. "A youth of pure heart. Eighteen summers. Untouched by cynicism. This is a man in his fourth decade. Look at him."
Mark froze.
They were talking about him.
"Perhaps the prophecy's translation—"
"The prophecy is not mistranslated. The summoning is flawed. We used resources we cannot replace. The mana reservoir is depleted. The crown funded this on the explicit promise of a hero. And we produced... that."
That. She'd called him that.
Mark's hands curled into fists. He stayed still. Kept his breathing even. They didn't know he was awake. They definitely didn't know he could understand them. That was good. That was the only good thing happening right now.
"What do you propose?" the man asked.
Silence. Long enough that Mark's heart started hammering. Long enough that his palms started sweating.
"Disposal," the woman said. "We correct the error. We attempt the summoning again in six months when the reservoir recharges."
Disposal.
The word hung in the air like a knife.
"You mean—"
"I mean we do not present this to the king. We do not explain that we summoned the wrong soul. We quietly correct the mistake and resummon when conditions are favorable."
"High Priestess, that's—"
"That's practical. He has no ties here. No family. No history. No one will miss him. And if we present him as the prophesied hero, the court mage will test him within the hour. His age alone will prove the summoning failed. The king will have our heads."
Mark's throat went dry.
They were talking about killing him.
They were talking about killing him like he was a failed experiment. A returned product. Something you threw away when it didn't work.
"The apprentice saw him arrive," the man said quietly.
"Ella is loyal. She'll hold her tongue."
"And if she doesn't?"
Another pause.
"Then we'll ensure her silence as well."
Footsteps. Heading away. An door opened. Closed. The voices faded.
Mark lay there on the cold stone and stared at the gold ceiling and tried to remember how to breathe.
Okay.
Okay.
He was in another world. He'd been summoned. They wanted a teenage hero and got a divorced coder with a dad bod and a bum knee instead. And now they wanted him dead so they could try again.
He had to move. He had to think. He had to—
Footsteps again. Softer this time. Closer.
Mark shut his eyes. Tried to look unconscious. Tried to keep his breathing slow.
The footsteps stopped near his head.
"I know you're awake," a voice said. Young. Female. Cautious.
Mark didn't move.
"Your breathing changed when they left. And your hands are shaking."
Damn it.
He opened his eyes.
A girl crouched next to him. Maybe twenty. Blonde hair pulled back in a braid. Dressed in white robes with a silver clasp at the shoulder. She held a wooden bowl in both hands. Steam rose from it. Something dark inside. Tea maybe. Or broth.
She watched him with sharp green eyes. Wary. Like she was looking at something dangerous.
"You understood them," she said. It wasn't a question.
Mark's mouth was too dry to answer. He managed a nod.
Her expression didn't change. "That's not possible. Summoned souls don't arrive with the language. It takes weeks of study. Sometimes months."
"Yeah, well." His voice came out rough. Scratchy. "Guess I'm full of surprises."
She blinked. Like she hadn't expected him to talk. Or maybe hadn't expected him to sound so normal.
"They're going to kill you," she said.
Mark laughed. It came out bitter. "Yeah. I got that part."
"The High Priestess doesn't make empty threats. If she said disposal, she's already decided. Probably already picked the method. Probably already assigned someone."
"Great. Fantastic. Love that for me." Mark pushed himself up to sitting. His head swam. His knee screamed. He ignored both. "So what, you're here to do it? Or just to watch?"
"Neither." She held out the bowl. "I brought you this. You've been unconscious for six hours. Summoning sickness hits hard. You need to drink."
Mark looked at the bowl. At the dark liquid inside. At her face. She looked sincere. She also looked like someone who'd just heard her boss casually plan a murder.
"Why?" he asked.
"Why what?"
"Why bring me anything? If they're going to kill me anyway."
She hesitated. Her fingers tightened on the bowl. "Because the prophecy might be wrong."
"You just said it wasn't mistranslated."
"I said she said it wasn't mistranslated. That's different."
Mark stared at her. She stared back. She had the kind of face that looked like it didn't lie often. Open. Earnest. The kind of face that probably got her in trouble.
"You think I'm the hero," he said slowly.
"I think you're something. I think the summoning pulled you for a reason. And I think killing you before we know what that reason is would be a mistake."
"Your boss doesn't agree."
"My boss is scared. Scared people make bad decisions." She pushed the bowl toward him again. "Drink. You'll feel better. Then we can figure out what to do."
Mark reached for the bowl. His hand hovered over it. Something in her expression shifted. Just a flicker. Just a fraction.
She leaned in. Close enough that he could smell incense on her robes. Close enough that when she spoke, it was barely a whisper.
"Don't drink that."