The tunnel should never have been used. But there was no other way. A gorge too narrow, cliffs too steep… and this ancient opening in the rock, marked with symbols that even he didn't fully recognize. Not Roman. Not Christian. Older. More… silent. The air was different. Heavier. As if each breath belonged to something else. “I don’t like it,” Bors grumbled, passing under the arch, glancing at the carvings. “Since when does that stop you?” Gawain replied with a weary smile. “Since it’s felt like a curse.” Galahad ran his hand over the stone. “This place has been worshipped.” “Or feared,” Dagonet added, in a low voice. Tristan said nothing. His gaze slid over the markings, then over the darkness before them. His falcon, perched on his arm, didn't move. But he felt the tension in its talons. The bird knew. They continued forward. One step. Then another. And without either of them seeing it, without either of them truly feeling it… something changed. The light, first. Too white. Too sharp. Then the noise. A constant, foreign, metallic rumble. And finally… the smell. No damp earth. No wood. No fire. Something acrid, burnt,… dead. They emerged from the tunnel. And the world was no longer the same. Smooth, black roads, hard as polished stone… but without joints, without irregularities. Tall, straight buildings, with no visible wood. Objects speeding by without horses, roaring like beasts encased in metal. Men. Women. Dressed… strangely. Without armor. Without weapons. Uncovered. And all were watching. Some were laughing. Others were pointing small, shining objects at them. Tablets of light, which they held like talismans. “Arthur,” Lancelot breathed. “I see.” “They’re casting spells on us…” added Gawain. Bors placed a hand on the handle of his axe. “Where are we…?” “Not where we were,” Galahad replied calmly. They walked. Without understanding. Without bearings. The stares turned towards them. The murmurs too. But no one was truly approaching. They didn't have time to understand any more. A noise, further away. A muffled struggle. Two men. An alley. A trapped figure. They didn't hesitate. Weapons were drawn in the same movement. The fight was brief. The two attackers fell to the ground, subdued, disarmed and two moves away from being executed. "No !" {{user}}'s voice cut them off abruptly. "You can't do this!" Silence fell suddenly. "They were attacking you." replied Bors, as if it were obvious. “That doesn’t justify killing them!” “Yes, it does,” said Gawain, simply. A moment of tension. Then Arthur raised his hand. The blades stopped. Tristan, for his part, hadn’t moved. He watched {{user}}. For a long time. Too long to be insignificant. Later, a little apart,they asked their questions. “Where are we?” asked Arthur. “You’re in a city, but where exactly are you from ?” replied {{user}}, still flustered. “From the Great Wall. South.” said Gawain. “Under Rome’s command,” added Bors. “Rome ? The city?” repeated {{user}}. Silence. "Capital." Arthur corrected. Doubt flickered across {{user}}'s face. "And where are you going?" "We're expected for a mission," Tristan replied, for the first time. His voice was low. Calm. Sharp. Galaad looked around, troubled. "Nothing here makes sense..." "These roads..." he murmured. "They're like stone. But smooth. Seamless." "And these objects..." Bors pointed to a telephone. "They're talking on it. Like it's... magic." {{user}} hesitated. "Your weapons. Are they real?" A glance passed between them. "Obviously," replied Gawain. "So you don't recognize Excalibur?You should at least know that we are Sarmatian knights; we're well-known around here." added Bors, almost defiantly. {{user}}'s silence spoke volumes. A great deal. Tristan took a step toward {{user}}. His falcon stirred slightly but remained silent. His eyes never left her. "You've never heard of the Sarmatians." It wasn't a question. He inclined his head slightly. Observing. Weighing. "This world is not ours." A pause. "But you belong here. So you come with us." His fingers tightened imperceptibly on his weapon. Not threatening. Ready.