Leon felt someone calling him.
"Your Highness, wake up..."
He turned his head away, but the voice persisted, growing louder. He felt a hand reach out and tug gently at his sleeve.
"Your Highness... Prince!"
Leon jolted awake. The familiar glow of his computer screen was gone. His desk, the sticky notes plastered to the walls—all vanished. Instead, he faced a surreal sight: squat stone houses, a crowded circular plaza, and at its center, a gallows shaped like a grim doorway. He sat not on his office chair but on a cold iron throne atop a raised platform. Surrounding him were nobles in stiff silence, a few women dressed in medieval finery hiding smirks behind lace fans.
Where the hell am I? I should be finishing those blueprints... His mind reeled. Three sleepless nights of overtime had left him hollow; his last memory was collapsing onto his desk, heart pounding erratically...
"Your Highness, please pronounce the verdict."
The speaker was the old man who'd tugged his sleeve—white-bearded and robed, like a discount wizard from a fairy tale. Bartholomew, his mind supplied. Assistant to the Lord Treasurer, assigned to manage affairs for the crown prince.
A dream? Leon licked his parched lips. Verdict? What verdict?
The answer came swiftly. The crowd's jeers and flung stones left no doubt. He'd only seen such gallows in films—two weathered posts supporting a crossbeam, a rusted iron ring anchoring the noose. The condemned wore a burlap hood, hands bound behind her back. Her threadbare gray shift was filthy, her frail ankles barely thicker than twigs. Though trembling in the wind, she stood unnervingly straight.
What crime did she commit to deserve this?
As if answering, memories flooded his mind:
She is a witch.
Corrupted by demons, a vessel of impurity.
"Your Highness?" Bartholomew pressed cautiously.
Leon glanced at him. The man's true name wasn't "Gandalf," of course—he was Bartholomew Greyson, aide to the Lord Treasurer of Eldermarch Kingdom, sent to assist the prince in governing this backwater territory.
And he—Leon—was now Prince Cedric, fourth son of King Aldric III, sent to rule over Borderwatch, a dismal fiefdom on the kingdom's edge. The locals had captured the witch and dragged her to the tribunal. Executing witches typically required a warrant from the local lord or bishop. As Borderwatch's ruler, signing the death order fell to him.
The memories unfolded seamlessly, as though he'd lived them. Leon's confusion deepened. No dream could replicate such detail. Was this... real? Had he somehow traveled to a medieval world, becoming Cedric? A sleep-deprived architect reborn as a prince?
Yet this "kingdom" was a far cry from history books. Eldermarch—a name he'd never heard—seemed mired in backwardness.
What now?
Survival first. Questions about time-travel could wait. This barbaric spectacle had to stop. Blaming misfortunes on scapegoats was primitive, but slaughtering a trembling girl to appease a bloodthirsty crowd? Unthinkable.
He snatched the death warrant from Bartholomew's hands and tossed it aside, stretching lazily. "I'm tired. We'll resume this farce another day. Dismissed!"
Leon wasn't acting recklessly. He channeled Prince Cedric's capriciousness—a spoiled brat who followed whims, not reason. At twenty-two, the prince had no patience for decorum.
The nobles on the platform exchanged knowing glances, unsurprised. But a broad-shouldered knight in armor stepped forward. "Your Highness, this is no jest! Once a witch is identified, she must die immediately. Delay risks her coven rescuing her. The Church will not ignore this."
Sir Kael Thornwood—his stern-faced captain of the guard. Leon scoffed. "Afraid, are you?" The mockery wasn't entirely feigned. A man built like a bear, scared of a shackled girl? Did they truly believe witches were demonic harbingers? "Let them come. We'll crush them all at once."
When Kael fell silent, Leon waved for his guards to escort him out. The knight hesitated but followed, flanking the prince. The nobles bowed, but their eyes betrayed contempt.
Back at his "palace"—a crumbling keep south of Borderwatch—Leon ordered the guards to bar Bartholomew from the hall. Alone, he slumped against a wall, heart racing. For someone who spent 90% of his life glued to screens, this performance was Oscar-worthy.
Following Cedric's memories, he found his bedchamber and collapsed onto the bed. Why is a prince stuck in this wasteland instead of the royal capital?
The answer stunned him.
Cedric Aldricson was here to vie for the throne.
King Aldric III's decree was clear: the crown would pass not to the firstborn but to the child who proved most capable. He'd exiled his five adult heirs to various territories, decreeing that after five years, their governance would determine the successor.
"Meritocracy" and gender equality? Noble ideals, but fatally flawed. How could five heirs compete fairly? This wasn't a strategy game. His second brother ruled a fertile duchy, while Cedric got Borderwatch—the kingdom's armpit. A rigged game from the start.
Worse, the king had set no metrics—population, military, economy?—and allowed unrestricted rivalry. Assassination? Sabotage? Queen Elara might have reined in her sons, but she'd died five years prior.
Leon sighed. This was a dark age, where witch hunts and filth-filled streets were normal. Yet as a prince, he held privilege. Even without the crown, he'd remain a noble—if he survived.
But what awaited as king? No internet, no modern medicine. Just executing witches and dodging plagues?
Leon steadied himself before a floor-length mirror. The reflection showed ash-blond curls—the Aldric bloodline's hallmark. His features were sharp but lacked gravitas, his pallor betraying a sedentary life. Cedric had a few lovers in the capital, all consensual—small mercies.
As for his death? Leon guessed it was a classic case of corporate exploitation—an architect worked to death by endless deadlines. At least this was a second chance.
"Survive first," he murmured to the mirror. "From now on, I am Cedric."