The rain against the grand, arched windows of the Sorcière family mansion did not patter; it drummed, rhythmic and relentless, like the march of an executioner. It was the year 1888, though inside the decaying opulence of the heiress's bedchamber, time seemed to have stopped entirely. The hiss of the gaslight sconces on the velvet-papered walls provided the only counter-melody to the storm outside.
Rosaleah Sorcière sat in the center of the vast room on a simple, unadorned stool. She did not sleep. She rarely did.
At eighteen, she was the final, fragile thread keeping the Sorcière legacy from unspooling into the greedy hands of her vultures—her extended family. Her appearance was a stark contradiction to the wealth surrounding her. She wore only a plain, oversized white t-shirt, a garment brought by a hurried maid, hanging loosely over a petite frame that hid a surprisingly voluptuous figure. Her defining feature, however, was her hair. Crimson red and impossibly long, it cascaded down her back, pooling in thick, silken rivers across the dark oak floorboards. It wrapped around the base of her stool like a protective veil.
Her pale skin caught the flickering amber of the gaslight, highlighting the light pink freckles scattered across her cheeks. Yet, any warmth in her complexion was immediately killed by her eyes. They were deep, piercing red, devoid of warmth, blinking so rarely that she seemed more like a porcelain doll than a living, breathing girl.
She knew they were coming. Her loyal attorney, the only shield she possessed, had retired three days ago. The wolves were no longer at the door; they were in the house.
A shadow detached itself from the heavy damask curtains near the balcony.
Rosaleah did not flinch. Her dark red lips settled into a flat, displeased line. She watched as the intruder stepped fully into the dim light. He was dressed in soot-black leather, a rusted rebreather mask covering his lower face—a common tool for the smog-choked alleys of the lower districts, but here, it was meant to terrify. In his gloved hand, a jagged blade dripped with a clear, viscous liquid. Hemlock and copper. A quiet death.
"You are early," Rosaleah stated. Her voice was a chilling soprano, formal and entirely detached from the reality of her impending murder. "I had calculated my uncle would wait until the reading of the preliminary will on Tuesday."
The hitman paused, clearly unnerved by her lack of a scream. He let out a raspy chuckle through the mask. "Your uncle is an impatient man, little bird. Don't fight. It'll just make the poison burn."
"I have no intention of fighting," she replied coldly, her gaze locked on the tip of his blade. "It is a statistical inevitability. One cannot fight the tide with bare hands."
She tightened her grip on the edge of her stool. Her heart hammered wildly against her ribs, a frantic, terrified bird trapped in a cage of bone, but she refused to give him the satisfaction of her fear. If she was to die, she would die as a Sorcière: unyielding and superior.
The assassin raised the blade, taking a slow, deliberate step forward. "A shame. You're a pretty little thing beneath all that gloom."
He lunged.
Then, the universe tore itself open.
It did not happen with a magical chime or a burst of holy light. It happened with a sound like tearing sheet metal and a violent flash of sterile, blindingly blue light—a color that did not belong in this era of soot and gas.
Directly above the lunging hitman, the ceiling simply ceased to exist, replaced by a swirling, chaotic vortex that smelled sharply of ozone, stale coffee, and exhaust fumes.
"What in the—!" the assassin managed to choke out, looking up.
From the glowing abyss plummeted a figure. Accompanying the figure was a high-pitched, thoroughly undignified scream that echoed through the grand chamber.
"HOLY SHIIIIII—"
With a sickening, meaty CRACK, the falling entity collided perfectly with the assassin's shoulders. The force of the impact drove the hitman straight into the hardwood floor. The heavy oak boards splintered. The assassin's eyes rolled to the back of his head, the poisoned blade clattering uselessly into the corner of the room, and he went entirely limp.
Instantly, the blue vortex snapped shut with a sharp pop, leaving the room plunged back into the dim, amber glow of the gaslight. The smell of rain and old dust returned.
Silence descended, thick and suffocating.
Rosaleah did not move. Her unblinking red eyes stared at the spectacle before her.
Groaning in agony, the figure rolled off the unconscious assassin. It was a person of utterly bizarre construction. They wore peculiar, tight-fitting blue trousers made of a rough, alien canvas, and a strange, thick grey tunic with a cowl pulled over their head—what Mello, a perfectly ordinary twenty-one-year-old from the year 2020, would call jeans and a hoodie.
Mello clutched their head, squeezing their eyes shut. "Ow... oh, man. Did the ceiling cave in? I told my landlord about that leak... I swear to God, I'm suing."
Rosaleah leaned forward slightly, her crimson hair shifting over the floorboards like a living entity. She analyzed the scene with rapid, paranoid precision.
The attire is foreign. Woven from an impossible material. The entrance was a localized tear in the fabric of space. The scream... a calculated sonic disruption meant to shatter the assassin's focus. The impact? Flawless. A plunging martial arts strike utilizing total body weight to incapacitate a lethal threat without drawing a weapon.
"Bro, my back," Mello groaned, finally opening their eyes and sitting up.
Mello blinked. Once. Twice. The modern apartment with the peeling paint and the half-eaten pizza on the counter was gone. Instead, they were sitting on a splintered, absurdly expensive-looking rug. Beneath them was a man dressed like a steampunk cosplayer who had clearly been knocked out cold. And sitting in front of them, looking like a Victorian ghost story brought to life, was a girl with eyes the color of fresh blood.
Mello froze. The panic that had been bubbling in their chest crystallized into pure, unadulterated shock. They slowly reached into the pocket of their hoodie, pulling out a sleek, black rectangle made of glass and metal. Mello tapped it. The screen lit up, casting a harsh white glow on their face.
No Signal.
Rosaleah's eyes narrowed infinitesimally. A scrying glass. They are checking the perimeter for magical tripwires. Incredible.
"Where... where am I?" Mello whispered, the 2020 slang completely failing them in the face of this absurdity. Mello looked from the phone, to the unconscious man, and finally to Rosaleah. "Did... did I hit him?"
Rosaleah stood up. She did it slowly, deliberately, ensuring her posture was perfectly straight. Her oversized white shirt billowed slightly in the draft from the open window.
"You need not feign ignorance to mask your lethality," Rosaleah said, her tone imperious and ringing like a silver bell in the quiet room. "It was a flawless execution. I presume you are the Guardian."
Mello's jaw went slack. "The... the what? Guardian? No, look, I think I fell through my floor. Or your ceiling. I live on the third floor of my complex—"
"A complex," Rosaleah interrupted, nodding slowly. "A fortified stronghold. I understand. Your origins must remain classified." She stepped over the unconscious assassin, her bare feet making no sound on the wood. "I must admit, when Arthur spoke of a final contingency before his retirement, I assumed he meant a mercenary company. I did not anticipate he would summon an entity from the outer rifts."
"Summoned?" Mello scrambled backward, hands raised in a placating gesture. "Whoa, hey, lady. Nobody summoned me. I was making ramen. I literally just tripped over my laundry basket and fell into a blue hole!"
A tactical roll, Rosaleah translated in her mind. 'Laundry basket' must be a code for an activation array. 'Ramen'—an elixir of preparation? He speaks in ciphers to prevent the enemy from learning his methods. Brilliant.
"Your discretion is admirable," Rosaleah said, stopping a few feet from Mello. She looked down at them with a cold, calculating gaze. "But we are alone now. The threat is neutralized, thanks to your... plunging maneuver. You may drop the facade."
Mello stared up at her, utterly bewildered. "Facade? Lady, I am wearing sweatpants under these jeans because it's cold. I don't know martial arts. I just crushed a guy because gravity exists!"
"Gravity," she repeated the word as if tasting a rare vintage wine. "Yes. The manipulation of earthly tethers. A terrifying power. It is no wonder Arthur sent you."
Mello opened their mouth to argue, to scream for help, to explain the concept of alternate dimensions or whatever sci-fi nonsense was currently ruining their life. But as Mello looked at the assassin on the floor, the jagged, poisoned blade resting nearby, a cold, hard realization settled in their stomach.
This wasn't a dream. This girl, with her terrifyingly blank expression and endless red hair, was serious. And she was wealthy. And someone had just tried to murder her. If Mello denied being this "Guardian," what would happen? They had no money, no ID that made sense here, and a smartphone that was essentially a glowing brick.
Survival instinct, honed by years of navigating the modern gig economy, kicked in.
Mello slowly lowered their hands and swallowed hard. "Right. The... the Guardian. That's me. Sent by Arthur. Yep."
Rosaleah's eyes flicked to Mello's trembling hands. The adrenaline of the kill still courses through him. He is suppressing a berserker rage. I must keep him calm.
"You may rise," Rosaleah commanded softly.
Mello scrambled to their feet, wincing as their bruised back protested. They towered over Rosaleah, but somehow, looking down at her cold, unblinking face, Mello felt like the smaller person in the room.
"What is your designation?" she asked.
"My... my name? It's Mello."
"Mello." She tested the syllables. "A deceptively soft moniker for a weapon of your caliber. Very well, Mello. Our contract begins immediately."
"Contract?" Mello echoed, panic flaring again. "Wait, I didn't sign anything. I don't even know what year it is."
"It is 1888, naturally," she stated, as if Mello had asked if the sky was blue. "And you need not sign anything. Your arrival sealed the pact. You shall serve as my personal butler and primary bodyguard. You will reside in the chambers adjacent to mine. You will eat what I eat, trust no one but me, and ensure that I draw breath to see my nineteenth birthday."
Mello's brain short-circuited. 1888? Bodyguard? Butler? I can't even fold fitted sheets properly!
"Listen, Miss—"
"You shall address me as Lady Sorcière, or simply Rosaleah when we are entirely alone, to maintain the illusion of a master-servant dynamic to the outside world," she instructed smoothly, turning her back on Mello and walking back toward her stool. She gathered her massive veil of crimson hair and sat down, crossing her legs.
"Lady Sorcière," Mello tried again, desperately. "I appreciate the job offer, truly. In this economy, it's a blessing. But I am not qualified to fight off assassins! Look at me!" Mello gestured to their hoodie. "I am wearing a cartoon frog on my shirt!"
Rosaleah glanced back at the graphic tee visible beneath the unzipped hoodie. She stared at the frog.
An emblem of a forgotten deity? A warning of amphibious, toxic lethality?
"Your modesty is a valuable shield," Rosaleah said, her tone softening just a fraction, though her face remained stone. "Let them underestimate you, Mello. Let my uncles and cousins see a fool. When they strike, you shall crush them as easily as you crushed the insect upon my floor."
She pointed a pale, delicate finger at the unconscious hitman. "Now. Secure the prisoner. We must ascertain which of my dear relatives paid for his services before the morning light breaks."
Mello looked at the hitman. Then at the poisoned knife. Then back at the terrifyingly beautiful, utterly delusional eighteen-year-old girl who now owned their life.
Mello sighed, a long, exhausted sound that carried the weight of a ruined twenty-first-century life. "Right. Secure the prisoner. Do you... do you guys have zip ties in 1888?"
Rosaleah nodded slowly, deeply impressed. "Zip ties. Another cipher. Use the velvet curtain cords, Guardian. They are exceptionally strong."
As Mello awkwardly shuffled over to the curtains to retrieve the cords, muttering under their breath about the lack of Wi-Fi and tetanus shots, Rosaleah watched them. For the first time in months, the crushing weight of her paranoia eased by a fraction of an ounce.
Arthur was right, she thought, watching Mello trip slightly over a floorboard. A master of deception. I am finally safe.