The Modern EraNew York City. The Penthouse.
The notifications were a physical weight. Ding. Ding. Ding.
Elena Vance stared at the tablet on her marble kitchen island. The screen was a waterfall of hate. A leaked photo from two years ago—her hand resting on Senator Sterling's forearm at a gala—was plastered on every news site.
HEADLINE:CORRUPTION IN THE SHEETS: How Tech CEO Elena Vance Slept Her Way to a Billion-Dollar IPO.
It didn't matter that she had graduated top of her class from MIT. It didn't matter that she worked eighty-hour weeks. The leaked texts—romantic, intimate, and undeniably hers—had stripped her naked in front of the world. Sterling was sixty-two. She was twenty-nine. The narrative wasn't "love." It was "transaction."
"Whore," she whispered, reading a comment with five thousand likes. "Gold digger. Fake."
Her chest tightened. It felt like a giant hand was squeezing her heart. She fumbled for the pill bottle on the counter, her hands shaking so hard the cap flew off, scattering pills across the floor.
Thump. Thump. Thump.
"Elena!" A male voice muffled by the heavy oak front door. "Elena, I know you're in there! Open the damn door!"
It was Julian. Her best friend. The only man who had never looked at her with calculation.
"Go away," she wheezed, though she knew he couldn't hear her. She couldn't face him. She couldn't face the pity in his eyes. She slid down the cabinet, clutching her chest. The room began to spin. The shame was hotter than fire. It was consuming her.
I just wanted to be good enough, she thought, the darkness creeping in from the edges of her vision. I just wanted to build something.
The crushing pain in her chest snapped. The tablet screen went dark. Elena slumped sideways, her eyes wide, staring at nothing.
The Medieval EraThe Kingdom of Aethelgard. The Crimson Dungeon.
The smell here was not of expensive perfume, but of rust and singed meat.
Lady Su-yin hung from the chains, her silk robes tattered, her bare feet hovering inches above the cold stone floor. She did not scream. A courtesan of the First Rank did not scream; she endured.
"The King is three hundred miles away, fighting barbarians," a voice echoed from the shadows. "He cannot hear you, little bird."
Queen Margaret stepped into the torchlight. She was beautiful, regal, and consumed by a hatred so pure it was almost religious. She held a branding iron, the tip glowing an angry orange.
Su-yin lifted her head. Blood trickled from her lip, but she managed a bloody, mocking smile. This was her profession. She knew how to provoke.
"He does not need to hear me," Su-yin rasped, her voice dry but steady. "He carries my memory in his pocket. Does he carry yours, Your Majesty? or just your dowry?"
The Queen's face twisted. She jammed the iron against Su-yin's shoulder.
The pain was blinding. It was a white-hot supernova that erased the world. But Su-yin did not beg. She had clawed her way from a brothel to the King's ear. She knew the price of power.
"You think killing me... ends this?" Su-yin gasped, her vision blurring as her body finally gave out. "I will simply... become a ghost... that haunts your marriage bed."
"Die, you harlot," the Queen hissed.
The darkness rose up to meet Su-yin. It was a welcome friend. She let go. She released her hold on the pain, on the King, on the politics.
The Convergence
Two hearts stopped at the exact same second. One stopped from a broken spirit. One stopped from a broken body.
The universe hiccupped. A soul, heavy with regret, dissolved into the ether. But the other soul—the one forged in iron, the one that refused to fade—was pulled across the void. It sought a vessel. It sought a second chance.
The Penthouse
The body on the kitchen floor twitched.
Gasped.
The eyes snapped open.
Su-yin sat up violently, her hands flying to her throat. She expected the cold dampness of the dungeon. She expected the smell of burning flesh.
Instead, she smelled... lavender? And chemicals.
She looked around wildly. The room was vast, filled with strange, smooth surfaces that reflected the lights of a thousand candles trapped in glass boxes outside the window. The floor was not stone, but wood as smooth as satin.
She looked at her hands. They were pale. Slender. The nails were bitten down to the quick—ugly, anxious nails. There were no burns on her arms. No scars from the whip.
Am I dead? she thought. Is this the Heaven of the Western Gods?
BANG. BANG. BANG.
"Elena! I'm calling the police if you don't open this up!"
The shouting was loud, terrified, and very close. Su-yin froze. She touched her chest. Her heart was beating a frantic rhythm, but it was strong.
She wasn't dead.
Slowly, the Courtesan smiled. A smile that didn't reach her eyes—a smile she used when the game was afoot.
"Alive," she whispered, testing the strange, foreign tongue that felt natural in this mouth.
She tried to stand, but her legs were weak—not from torture, but from something else. She stumbled, knocking over a metal stool with a deafening crash.
"Elena!"
The door burst open.
A man rushed in. He was tall, with messy hair and eyes red from crying. He saw her standing there, swaying, and the relief that washed over his face was so intense it was almost painful to watch.
"Oh my god," Julian sobbed, rushing forward to catch her as she pretended to faint. "I thought... I thought I was too late."
He wrapped his arms around her. He smelled of rain and fear.
Su-yin went limp in his arms, resting her head on his shoulder. Her eyes remained open, sharp and calculating, scanning the strange room over his back.
I do not know who this 'Elena' is, she thought, but she has left me a wealthy house and a loyal guard. I will not waste it.
"I am here," she said softly, her voice carrying a strange, archaic cadence. "I have returned."