Elara stared at the dagger.
The black, glassy stone. The dark red gem. She knew it. She had written fifteen pages on this exact style of blade for her PhD dissertation. It was a Black Sun ceremonial weapon.
And it was at Kaelen's throat last night.
History had told her the Black Sun Empire was a major threat. But the books were dry, just dates and names. Seeing this dagger, here, in her new-ancient reality... it made it real. They weren't just a "threat." They were the ones who would eventually burn his city and pull down his statues.
"Answer me," Kaelen commanded. He was close again. Too close. "Are they just 'annoyances'?"
Elara felt the trauma from the flood—the thousands of ghosts she had just created—rise up in her throat. She had been his weapon once. She had annihilated his enemies. And now, not even an hour later, he was asking her to aim again.
She snapped.
"I can't."
Kaelen's eyes narrowed to slits. "You will not defy—"
"No! I mean I can't!" she yelled, pushing away from him. Her voice was high with exhaustion and shock. "I can't think! I'm covered in dust! My head is pounding! I just... I just caused a massacre, and you're already planning the next one? I need... I need..."
She was grasping, desperate for any comfort, any piece of her old life. What was the one thing she started every single day with?
"I need coffee!"
There was a long, deep silence.
Kaelen just stared at her. He looked, for the first time, completely and utterly baffled.
"...What?"
"Coffee!" Elara said, her voice cracking. "Kaff-ee. It's a... a drink. It's hot. And brown. And made from... beans! It helps me think. It wakes me up. I can't 'see' anything about your stupid Black Sun until I've had coffee!"
Kaelen's expression was frozen. He was a king, a tyrant, a general. He had processed floods, sorcery, and assassins. This request... this... was too much. He clearly thought she was speaking in some kind of code, or naming a ritual ingredient.
"A... 'kaff-ee'?" he repeated, sounding the word out. "A magic bean?"
"It's not magic! It's... necessary!" she cried. "It's just... roasted beans and hot water!"
Kaelen stared at her for a few more seconds, his mind clearly labeling her as 'insane.' He was frustrated. His all-powerful, all-knowing oracle was, apparently, useless without a special brown liquid.
He turned and strode out of the room, slamming the door between their chambers. He didn't lock it. He didn't have to. Where would she go?
He barked an order to the guards outside his other door. "Send for the Head Chef. I need... roasted beans. And water. Hot."
Elara heard him, and only then did she realize what she had done. There was no coffee in the ancient Ashurian empire. Coffee was from a different continent, thousands of years from being discovered here.
"Oh, no," she whispered. She had just sent the royal kitchen on an impossible quest.
She collapsed onto the bed, which was softer than any bed had a right to be. She was still in her jeans, her 21st-century clothes smelling of dust, ozone, and fear. She fell into a dead, dreamless sleep.
She woke to the sound of the door creaking open.
Sunlight streamed into the room. A young servant girl, her eyes wide with terror, scurried in. She clearly knew this was the king's private chamber, and she definitely knew Elara was the "secret" guest. The girl placed a heavy wooden tray on the table, bowed so low her head almost hit the floor, and ran out.
Elara sat up, her body aching.
On the tray was a hunk of bread, some cheese, and a clay cup.
The cup was steaming. It was a hot, brown liquid.
Hope. Elara grabbed it, her hands trembling.
She smelled it.
Her face immediately crumpled in disgust. It was not coffee. It smelled like... burnt dirt. And boiled socks. And... was that goat?
The chef, bless his terrified heart, had clearly heard "hot brown bean water" and done his best. He had probably roasted some barley grains, a handful of chickpeas, and a piece of charcoal, then boiled it all in mutton broth.
It was the single most disgusting thing she had ever smelled.
She put the cup down, her stomach turning.
Next to the tray was a pile of folded clothes. A 'gift' from the king. It was not jeans. It was a formal Ashurian dress.
Elara picked it up. It was heavy. There were layers of scratchy, dyed wool. There were bronze clasps. There were at least six different leather straps that seemed to have no logical purpose. It looked less like a dress and more like a very complicated, very itchy tent.
Elara, a modern woman of zippers, buttons, and elastic, stared at it in defeat.
The door between the chambers opened again.
Kaelen strode in. He was already in his armor, his black hair tied back. He was clearly ready for a day of ruling and conquering. He looked at her. He looked at the untouched tray.
"You have your... 'drink'," he said, impatient. "You have your clothes. The Black Sun Empire. Talk."
Elara had not slept well. She was in a strange, hostile timeline. She was being held captive by a tyrant. And she had been promised coffee, only to be given hot, meaty dirt-water.
This was the final straw.
She picked up the clay cup, holding it like it was a dead rat.
"This," she said, her voice shaking with pure, caffeine-deprived rage, "is a war crime. I would not serve this to a dying man."
Kaelen looked at the cup. "It is from... beans."
"It's from hell!" Elara snapped. She slammed the cup down.
Then, she grabbed the tangled mess of wool and leather straps.
"And this!" she held it up, shaking it. "What is this? Are there instructions? Does this come with a construction manual? How do you people get anything done? You'd be invaded before you even figured out which strap goes where!"
She threw the dress onto the bed. "I can't tell you about the Black Sun because I'm too busy trying to solve the puzzle of your pants!"
Kaelen—the Tyrant King, the Conqueror, the Chosen of the Gods—just stood there. He was staring at the most powerful weapon in his arsenal, a woman from the future... who was having a complete, total meltdown over a bad drink and a complicated dress.
He looked, for the first time in his life, completely and totally lost.