Charmaine blinked, her vision adjusting to the dim light filtering through narrow stained-glass windows. She found herself in a grand hall with high vaulted ceilings and walls of cold gray stone adorned with tapestries depicting scenes of knights and battles. The air smelled of candle wax and aged wood.

Her mind swirled with confusion, trying to piece together how she'd gone from lounging in the office commissary with a tub of ice cream to this. She clutched the fabric of her oversized hoodie—a comfort she used to hide her body. The ladies of the office were required to wear a pencil-cut skirt and white V-neck blouse. Her well-endowed chest was always the talk of the town so she covered up with an oversized hoodie, feigning she was cold.

"Hero of the Realm! You are summoned by King Richard the VIII to save the kingdom in a coming battle with the Dark Lord. What is your name?"

"Ch-Charmaine…" She looked around. People in strange medieval-looking garbs were looking at her, curious and judging.

Before her stood a man in a gilded crown—King Richard, she quickly deduced. His expression was unreadable, but his piercing gaze sent a shiver down her spine. To his right, a stern-looking man in plate armor studied her as if she were a curious artifact. To his left, a man in flowing robes clutched a staff, his face a mixture of awe and concern.

"Lady Charmaine," the king began, his voice deep and commanding, "you have been summoned here by divine intervention to be our hero. What powers do you possess?"

"P-powers?" Charmaine echoed weakly, her voice cracking. Her fingers fidgeted with the hem of her sleeves. "I think there's been a mistake. I don't have any... powers."

A murmur rippled through the crowd of courtiers assembled in the hall. Charmaine's stomach twisted as she caught snippets of their whispers. Where was she?

"Is this the hero? She doesn't look the part."

"Why would the gods send... her?"

"She looks frightened."

Frightened didn't begin to cover it. Charmaine's pulse raced, and she fought to steady her breathing. She felt exposed, vulnerable, and utterly out of her depth. She'd spent the past decade navigating the mundanities of life—working a thankless office job, avoiding family reunions where her singleness became the topic of the hour, and seeking solace in late-night TV marathons. Heroism had never been on her to-do list.

Most people would describe her as boring. Whatever was happening, it was not something she'd expect to happen to her. Especially since everyone was staring at her. She hated people judging her.

"I'm sorry," she said, her voice shaking, "but I think there's been some kind of misunderstanding. I'm not a hero. I don't fight. I don't..." She gestured helplessly at herself, at the foreign world she had no hope of understanding. "I don't belong here."

The king's eyes narrowed, though his tone remained composed. "The summoning is no error. Only one chosen by the gods may appear in our time of need. Whether you accept it or not, you exist and represent our ultimate hope.

"But—"

"Enough," interrupted the man in armor, his tone clipped. "We don't have time for doubt. The Dark Lord Rexus marches closer with every day, and his shadow will soon darken our lands. We must determine her abilities immediately."

"Abilities?" Charmaine repeated, feeling as if she'd been hit by a runaway carriage.

The man with the staff stepped forward, his voice soft but firm. "The summoning often grants unique talents or powers to the chosen hero. We will guide you through tests to uncover them. Please, do not be afraid."

Charmaine fought back tears. Afraid didn't begin to cover it. She was terrified. Her ordinary life, mundane as it had been, had never prepared her for this. She wasn't strong. She wasn't brave. And she certainly wasn't a hero. Her knees trembled as the woman reached out a hand, offering a kind smile that did little to soothe her. "Let us begin."

The weight of the gazes around her, the expectation, the pressure—it all bore down on her like a mountain. Charmaine inhaled sharply, steeling herself for whatever was to come.

She wasn't ready. Not for any of this.

But she had no choice.