"Where the fuck is my Wi-Fi and why does this room smell like ass and opportunity?"
My eyes snapped open, and the immediate, blinding pain in my skull made me wish they hadn't. I tried to sit up, but a sharp ache in my side pinned me back down to what felt like a mattress stuffed with stale hay and actual rocks.
The last thing I remembered was perfectly clear, and incredibly pathetic. I was twenty-eight, sitting in my moderately priced, LED-lit apartment, choking on a slice of double-pepperoni pizza while intensely focused on the climax of Scissor Sisters Vol. 4. It was a tragic, greasy way to go. If the paramedics found my browser history before my landlord did, I hoped they at least respected my taste.
But I wasn't in my apartment anymore.
I blinked against the dim light filtering through a narrow, glassless slit in the stone wall. The air was thick. It smelled like damp earth, stale beer, a questionable lack of plumbing, and the distinct, musky aroma of people who had never heard of a loofah. Holy shit, this place smelled like my gym socks after a month of neglect—and god help me, I was instantly intrigued.
I looked down at my hands. They were rougher, slightly more calloused, though not exactly the hands of a bodybuilder. I patted my chest and felt a thick line of scar tissue running along my ribs. A war wound? Me? The most dangerous thing I'd ever fought was a lag spike during a raid.
Suddenly, a barrage of memories that weren't mine smashed into my brain. Lord Elaric Voss. Thirty years old. Lord of Ravenhold. I had—he had—taken a stray spear to the ribs during a completely pointless skirmish over a patch of dirt near the border. The King of Aldoria, in his infinite, cheapskate wisdom, had tossed me this "Keep" as a reward for not dying fast enough.
A heavy wooden door creaked open, groaning on rusted iron hinges, snapping me out of my existential crisis.
In walked a woman. She was in her early thirties, wearing a rough, homespun dress that did absolutely nothing to hide the fact that she was built like a brick shithouse. Her dark hair was tied back in a messy braid, and a faint sheen of sweat glistened on her collarbones. The room's aroma shifted instantly, introducing the smell of woodsmoke, old stone, and the salty, raw scent of a woman who had already been working for six hours.
Jesus, she's glorious. "You're awake, My Lord," she said. Her voice was flat, totally devoid of the reverence you'd expect a peasant to have for her liege. This was Marta, the head maid. The memories told me she essentially ran this crumbling pile of rocks while 'I' drank myself into stupors.
"I'm alive," I croaked, my throat feeling like I'd swallowed sand. "And apparently, I own a castle."
Marta let out a sharp, derisive snort and set a wooden bowl on the splintering table next to my bed. "I wouldn't call Ravenhold a castle, My Lord. I wouldn't even call it a particularly sturdy barn. Eat your breakfast. Willem is already pacing a trench into the courtyard waiting for you."
I peered into the bowl. It was gray. It was lumpy. It looked like the stuff they use to patch drywall. "What the hell is this?"
"Gruel," Marta said, crossing her arms. The movement pressed her impressive chest against the rough fabric of her dress. I shamelessly let my eyes linger there. "It's what we have when the flour runs out. Which it did. Two weeks ago."
"Right," I muttered. "Gruel."
I swung my legs over the edge of the bed, realizing I was completely naked under the scratchy wool blanket. Marta didn't even blink. No blushing, no turning away. Just a tired, slightly amused stare. I liked her already.
I stood up, ignoring the twinge in my ribs, and walked over to the narrow window slit to survey my grand domain.
I looked out, and my jaw practically unhinged.
"Dogshit," I whispered reverently. "It's absolute dogshit."
Below me lay the courtyard of Ravenhold. It was less a courtyard and more a designated mud pit surrounded by a wooden palisade that looked like it would fall over if a moderately aggressive goat headbutted it. Beyond the walls was a single, miserable village. A smattering of thatched-roof hovels huddled together like they were cold. I could see a few peasants pushing wooden plows through dirt that looked drier than my grandmother's Thanksgiving turkey.
According to Elaric's memories, there were about eighty people out there. And the economy? It was a fucking joke. The King took seventy percent of whatever these poor bastards managed to pull out of the dirt. As their Lord, I was supposed to take another twenty percent. That left them with roughly ten percent of a turnip to split among a family of six.
These fuckers are poorer than my Netflix subscription after I pirated everything, I thought, leaning against the cold stone. At least in 2024, I had two-ply toilet paper. Here, I'll be lucky if I get a smooth leaf.
"Beautiful view, isn't it?" Marta asked dryly from behind me.
"It's inspiring," I shot back, turning around. I flashed her a grin that was probably a little too unhinged for a man who just woke up from a coma. "Tell me, Marta, do all the women here sweat as much as you do, or are you just trying to impress me?"
Marta blinked, clearly taken aback by the sheer, blunt crudeness of the question. The old Elaric was a drunk, but he apparently wasn't a vocal pervert. She recovered quickly, a slight smirk playing on her lips.
"If you plan on fixing that leaky roof today, My Lord, you'll see exactly how much sweat this keep produces."
"Excellent," I said, grabbing a pair of roughly spun trousers from a nearby chair. No underwear. Nice. "Let's go meet Willem. And Marta?"
"Yes, My Lord?"
"Leave the bowl. But next time you bring me breakfast, try not to wash up beforehand. I like the natural ambiance."
She rolled her eyes, but I didn't miss the slight hitch in her breath as she walked out.
Oh yeah. There was no internet, no pizza, and the plumbing was a hole in the ground. But as I strapped on a leather belt and prepared to go look at my miserable, starving kingdom, I couldn't help but smile.
Ravenhold was a shithole. But it was my shithole. And I was going to sniff every single inch of it.