I opened my eyes, my body heavy, as though I'd woken from a slumber that had lasted years. The first thing I noticed was the stillness around me. No lab, no buzzing machines. Just silence.
I blinked and sat up, wincing as a sharp ache shot through my back. My surroundings came into focus—trees and plants stretching endlessly around me, their green hues so vibrant it almost hurt to look at them. My hand brushed against the soft grass beneath me, damp with morning dew. I paused, letting the sensation ground me.
The air was crisp and clean, the kind of air you only read about in pre-industrial accounts. My chest rose and fell as I took a deep breath. It was so peaceful. I could close my eyes and drift off again—
Wait. No.
I snapped upright, my fingers clenching the torn fabric of my lab coat. What am I doing here again?
Flashes of memory hit me: the TTM. The lab. The Exchaor. The crack in the sky. My hand hovering over the control panel. Dr. Arlo shouting at me to hurry. The way the world around me dissolved into light and sound as the machine activated.
I looked down at myself. My clothes were a mess. My once-white lab coat was filthy, stained with dirt and grime. The fabric was ripped in several places, exposing my scratched skin beneath. My black shirt and pants weren't faring any better.
Right, I thought bitterly. Saving the world. That's what I'm supposed to do.
Groaning, I pushed myself to my feet. Every muscle in my body protested the movement, as though I'd run a marathon with no warm-up. Perhaps this was the price of time travel—a body that felt like it had been shattered and put back together wrong. I leaned against a nearby tree for support, the rough bark digging into my palm as I tried to catch my breath.
"Okay, Ophelia," I muttered to myself. "Plan. You need a plan."
I pressed a hand to my forehead, trying to steady my spinning thoughts. My mission was clear: prevent the Exchaor from ever entering our world.
The cause of it all was straightforward—Kricedia's prince and the witch from another world.
Kricedia was just one kingdom within the sprawling Kharatia Empire, a relatively small piece of a much larger political puzzle. But it was the epicenter of this catastrophe, the place where history went horribly wrong.
The history books had painted their story vividly, even romantically. The prince, a stubborn but kind-hearted ruler, found the witch asleep in a field of grass during a hunting trip. She was otherworldly, with abilities no one could explain. Perhaps that was what drew him to her.
And, of course, that was what led to their downfall.
The people of Kharatia couldn't accept the witch. To them, her powers were unnatural, a sign of evil. They accused her of possessing the prince. Their hatred culminated in his execution—burned alive to "purge" him of her influence.
That was when everything unraveled.
The witch's grief and fury tore open the sky itself, creating cracks that let the Exchaor spill into our world. The cracks never closed. The Exchaor never stopped coming.
I pressed my lips into a thin line. The only way to save the future was to stop their love story from ever beginning.
But how?
I mentally sorted through my options:
Option one: Prevent them from meeting in the first place. The easiest solution, but also the most impractical. According to the history books, they encountered each other countless times after their initial meeting. The prince seemed almost obsessed with her. Stopping one meeting wouldn't be enough.
Option two: Find the witch another love interest. Or, failing that, become the prince's love interest myself to divert his attention. The thought made me cringe. I wasn't exactly skilled in the art of romance. And what were the chances either of them would find me remotely appealing?
Option three: Remove the witch from the equation before she ever met the prince. Drag her sleeping body out of that fateful field. But where was the field?
I dont even know where I am.
I groaned, slumping back down against the tree. None of these options seemed feasible.
"Why me?" I muttered. "Why did it have to be me?"
I tilted my head back, staring up at the canopy of leaves overhead. Sunlight filtered through the gaps, casting dappled patterns on the ground. It was beautiful, serene even. A far cry from the chaos of the future.
But the beauty only made the task ahead feel more daunting.
I looked down at myself again, taking in my tattered clothes. There was no way I could blend in like this. My lab coat was an instant giveaway that I didn't belong here. And my pants—definitely not period-appropriate for a woman in the 1850s.
I frowned, picking at the frayed edge of my sleeve. Women in this era wore dresses, corsets, bonnets. Pants were reserved for private settings or horse-riding outfits. Even then, most riding habits involved skirts.
My choices were clear: disguise myself as a man or risk standing out as a foreigner.
Cross-dressing wasn't exactly ideal. I didn't have the build to pass as a man convincingly, and I had no idea how people in this era would react to someone like me. But pretending to be an outsider came with its own risks. Suspicion. Questions. Accusations of witchcraft, if they were feeling particularly paranoid.
I sighed. "Why couldn't the TTM send me here with a period-appropriate wardrobe?"
I pushed myself back to my feet, wincing as my legs protested. I'd figure out the clothing issue later. First, I needed to figure out where I was.
Scanning my surroundings, I noticed a faint dirt path winding through the trees. It wasn't much, but it was a start.
I started walking, each step sending a jolt of pain through my sore muscles. As I moved, I tried to piece together a plan.
The witch was the key to everything. If I could find her before she met the prince, I might have a chance. But how would I recognize her? The history books didn't provide much detail about her appearance. All they ever mentioned was her "otherworldly aura."
Whatever that meant.
The path eventually opened up into a clearing. I paused, taking in the sight. A stream cut through the middle of the clearing, its water sparkling in the sunlight. On the other side, a small cluster of wildflowers swayed in the breeze.
I stepped closer to the stream, kneeling to examine my reflection.
I barely recognized myself. My black hair was a wild mess, sticking out in every direction. I frowned at my face—dirty, disheveled, and far from the clean, polished version I was used to seeing in mirrors. My eyes, a plain brown that I'd never given much thought to before, now seemed strangely out of place in this time.
I reached up to smooth my hair, but it was hopeless—it was too tangled, too far from any kind of neatness.
The sound of rustling leaves snapped me out of my thoughts.
I froze, my hand hovering over the water.
The rustling grew louder, accompanied by the crunch of footsteps.
Someone—or something—was coming.
My heart raced as I glanced around, searching for a place to hide. But the clearing offered no cover.
I grabbed a nearby branch, holding it like a makeshift weapon. My grip was shaky, but I steeled myself.
The footsteps grew closer, and a figure emerged from the trees.
A man.
He was tall, broad-shouldered, and carried himself with an air of confidence—or perhaps suspicion. His hair was a rich brown, slightly tousled, and curled at the ends. His piercing blue eyes locked on me as if trying to figure out what I was doing here.
He said something in a firm voice, his words sharp and guttural.
I stared at him, my brain scrambling to make sense of the sounds. It was Kharatian—the formal imperial language I'd studied back in the lab—but the accent was so thick, so different from what I had learned, that the words blurred together into something unintelligible. It was like hearing a language I knew, but from a completely foreign place. I couldn't understand a word of it.
He repeated himself, his tone impatient now.
I opened my mouth, then closed it again.
What was I supposed to say? Even if I could mimic his accent, my speech would sound bizarre to him. I could already feel the words forming in my throat—modern, clipped, and utterly foreign.
The man tilted his head, his eyes narrowing further as he took in my appearance. His gaze lingered on my lab coat, the torn fabric and strange materials clearly unlike anything he'd ever seen.
He muttered something under his breath, taking a cautious step closer.
I raised my hands, palms outward, in what I hoped was a universal gesture of harmlessness. "I… I don't understand," I said slowly, enunciating each word.
His brows furrowed. He pointed at me, then gestured around wildly, as if demanding to know what I was doing here.
I stayed silent, knowing anything I said would only make things worse.
The man studied me for a long moment before his hand drifted toward the hilt of his sword.
Oh no.
I stepped back instinctively, my heart racing. "Wait, wait! I'm not dangerous!"
He frowned, clearly perplexed by my words—or maybe just my tone. His grip on the sword tightened.
This is bad. This is really bad.
Before I could think of a way to diffuse the situation, he barked something that sounded like a command. His voice was sharp, authoritative, and left no room for argument.
When I didn't respond, his expression shifted to one of frustration. He gestured for me to follow him, his movements curt and insistent.
I hesitated, my mind racing. Did I have a choice here? Running wasn't an option—my body still ached from the effects of the TTM, and he was armed.
With a resigned sigh, I nodded and took a tentative step forward.
He watched me carefully, his hand never leaving the hilt of his sword.
Great, I thought bitterly. Not even a full day in the past, and I've already been detained by a sword-wielding stranger.
As I followed him through the forest, I couldn't shake the feeling that this was only the beginning of my troubles.