The world returned not with silence, but with sound.
The heavy roll of drums thudded somewhere in the distance, low and resonant, like a heartbeat. Female voices hummed in a strange, rhythmic chant. The smell of incense—thicker, sharper—clawed at her throat. And heat. A suffocating wave of it, hotter than any summer day in Seoul.
Yoonha's eyelids fluttered open.
Above her stretched a ceiling painted with lotus flowers and endless patterns, the colors faded but still rich, shimmering faintly in the torchlight. Not fluorescent light. Not the sun. But flaming torches. Her ears rang with the crackle of fire.
She froze. Her palms pressed against something unfamiliar: a polished stone floor, smooth and warm. Her backpack was gone. Her jeans, damp with sweat and dust a second ago, were replaced with a layered skirt of coarse silk, soft under her trembling fingers.
"What the…" Her voice cracked, too loud in this vast chamber.
A bell chimed from somewhere beyond gilded doors, and the echo bathed her in dread.
She sat up sharply. The room was cavernous, fragrant with sandalwood, shadows flowing down carved pillars shaped like coiling nagas. Gold leaf shimmered from the edges of wall murals. Everything breathed wealth, ritual, *history*—but not the kind preserved in glass museums. It was too alive, too unspoiled by time.
Her body trembled.
"No, no. This… this is a dream. Has to be."
She pinched her arm. The sting dragged a sharp, unwelcome truth into her chest.
*Oh my god. No… this isn't—*
The doors broke open with a guttural shout.
Four men stormed in, dark-skinned, clad in armor of lacquered wood and bronze. They carried halberds, blades catching the firelight. Their eyes widened the second they saw her sprawled like an intruder under sacred murals.
Yoonha scrambled to her feet.
"Wait! I—"
The words died in her throat as their shouts filled the chamber. Harsh, guttural syllables flew at her, sharp and fast. Khmer? Old Khmer? She couldn't catch a single thread.
"I… I don't understand. Do you speak English? Korean maybe?—"
One guard barked a phrase, pointing at her head with his halberd. The gesture didn't need translation.
*Okay. They think I'm trespassing. Or worse.*
Her body locked rigid, heart hammering against her ribs like it wanted to flee before she could.
"I'm not a threat!" she cried, raising her hands. The silk sleeves fluttered. Even her clothes weren't her own. They fit too perfectly, like someone had dressed her while she was unconscious.
That only deepened the flames of panic.
The guards circled her. Words flew between them, sharp as sword clashes. She caught one term repeated twice—"preah" perhaps?—but it meant nothing to her fear.
Then one man snapped his fingers. Another ran out the door.
Yoonha's breath quickened.
*Think, Yoonha. Anthropology major, you've read about rituals, cultures, stranger-in-a-new-land scenarios. Except those were case studies, not… life-and-death auditions!*
Her tongue stuck dry to the roof of her mouth.
The remaining guards crossed spears before her chest, pushing her toward the center of the chamber. The carved murals loomed taller with every step. She tried to protest, mimic a bow, anything to appear submissive, harmless.
But their eyes darted across her pale skin, her strange accent, her trembling stutter—as if each detail screamed *outsider*.
The hurried guard returned dragging two others. One bore a staff decorated with golden serpents, clearly of higher rank. His robes shimmered in emerald and red, his hair twisted neatly with gold pins. His glare was suffocating.
He fired questions—long, torturous streams of sound. Each syllable cracked like a whip.
"I-I don't… I don't understand!" Yoonha stammered, voice shrill now, tears threatening to sting.
Her desperate Korean slipped out. "진짜 아니라고요! I didn't do anything!"
The chamber stilled for half a heartbeat. The priestly man frowned, muttering to the guards. Then his eyes hardened with a decision.
He raised his hand. The guards lunged forward, blades flashing.
Yoonha shrieked and staggered back, her heel catching the hem of her long skirt. She landed hard on the cold stone, breath punched out of her chest.
The circle of steel closed around her.
One soldier pressed his sword forward until the cold kiss of metal touched the base of her throat. Another guard added his blade, then another, until the tips of three weapons shimmered against her skin.
Her pulse thundered so loud she barely heard the word hurled like a verdict from one guard's lips:
"Spy!"