The first thing I felt was cold.
Not the biting chill of death — this was different. Damp. Heavy. Real.
I drew in a breath, sharp and unsteady. Air filled my lungs. Actual air.
And it hurt.
I opened my eyes to dim light filtering through wooden beams. The ceiling above me was low, patched with soot and cobwebs. All around, the air smelled of yeast, oak, and fermenting grapes.
I blinked slowly, my vision swimming before it steadied. Rows of barrels stretched across the room — stacked, polished, sweating with condensation. Somewhere close by, a cart rolled across stone, and men's voices murmured, busy and impatient.
Where… where was I?
I tried to move and realized with sudden horror — I was naked.
My skin was slick with the scent of wine and dust.
"What in God's…" I muttered, scrambling to my feet. My knees nearly buckled as I looked around, searching for anything to cover myself.
On a nearby rack hung a pile of rough linen tunics. I snatched one and pulled it over my head, the fabric stiff and smelling faintly of grapes. It was far too short, but it would have to do.
As I stumbled toward the doorway, my bare feet slapped against the damp floor. A man carrying a tray of glass bottles nearly collided with me. Wine sloshed onto his apron as he cursed under his breath.
"Watch where you're going, fool!"
"I—I'm sorry," I stammered, stepping aside, my heart pounding.
The man brushed past me without another glance, muttering something about drunks and laziness. I turned, dazed, taking in the sight — a workshop alive with motion. Dozens of people, some wearing tunics similar to the one I wore, hurried between vats, carrying crates, rolling barrels, shouting instructions.
Sunlight spilled in through open shutters, painting everything in shades of gold and smoke.
"What… what is this place?" I whispered.
I moved through the workers like a ghost, bumping shoulders, mumbling apologies, trying to make sense of anything. My mind spun. Last I remembered, I was falling — light and fire swallowing me whole. Now I was here, in a place that looked nothing like the world I knew.
I stepped outside, and the shock nearly stopped my heart.
The air was different — cleaner, crisper, touched with the scent of vineyards stretching across rolling hills. Houses stood where old fields once were, built of stone and timber, with tiled roofs and narrow chimneys. Women walked by carrying baskets of grapes, men hauling carts full of fruit. Bells rang from a distant church tower.
It looked like my village… and yet it wasn't.
I turned slowly, eyes wide. "What part of the world is this?" I murmured. "Where have I landed?"
People passed by, giving me strange looks — my tangled hair, the way the too-short tunic rode up over my thighs, the wild confusion in my face.
Some muttered, others ignored me completely.
"Please," I said, catching a young man by the arm. "Where is this place?"
He frowned, pulling free. "What kind of question is that? This is Montvale."
The name hit me like a hammer.
Montvale. My home.
But everything was wrong — the buildings, the roads, the people. None of it matched what I remembered.
"Montvale?" I repeated softly. "No… it can't be."
The man gave me an odd look. "You've had too much to drink, friend. Best get some water in you before your boss sees you like this."
"Wait!" I blurted, stepping in front of him. "Do you know where I can find Darius Venn?"
The man froze, then laughed. "Darius Venn? You mean the book about Darius Venn?"
"No," I said, shaking my head. "The warlord. I'm looking for him."
He stared for a second, then burst out laughing again. "You really are drunk, aren't you? How many bottles did you steal from the cellars?"
My throat tightened. "What do you mean?"
"Darius Venn's been dead for centuries," he said, still smiling. "You only hear stories about him now. They teach his tyranny in schools. You must be new here if you don't know that."
His words slammed into me, dull and heavy. "Dead?" I repeated. "He just—he just killed me moments ago."
The man blinked. "What?"
I swallowed hard, fumbling. "I mean… killed my mood. That's what I meant. Just killed my mood, that name."
He chuckled. "Aye, that makes sense. It kills everyone's mood, hearing about that monster. He was a butcher, they say. Burned villages, murdered families. The usual tyrant's tale."
My pulse thundered in my ears. I could barely breathe. "When… when did all that happen?"
He scratched his chin, thinking. "Must've been four centuries ago, give or take."
My mouth fell open. "Four… hundred…" The rest died in my throat.
I slapped a hand over my mouth to keep from screaming. The man took a step back, frowning. "You all right, mate?"
I nodded quickly, still clutching my lips, my mind spinning, spinning — four hundred years. Four hundred years had passed.
"Well, I'd best be off," he said, backing away. "If you want to read about your dear warlord, the library's got a fine copy of his story."
"Wait!" I said, lowering my hand. "One more thing. What year is it?"
He looked puzzled. "You really hit your head, didn't you? It's the year 1568."
The words struck harder than any blade.
I took a step back, dizzy, my vision swimming again.
The man frowned. "You sure you're all right?"
I barely heard him. "And… and the blacksmith," I managed to whisper. "The one Darius murdered — his wife, his daughters. Do you know of them?"
A small smile tugged at his lips. "Of course. Everyone knows that story. His daughters were the doom of Darius Venn. They rose against him years later — ended his tyranny, avenged their parents. Elen and Mira, they were called. Legends, both of them. Though Elen died in the final battle, Mira survived. Wrote the book about it herself."
My vision blurred as tears welled in my eyes. My throat locked.
Elen… died in battle. Mira… a legend.
I didn't know what I felt — pride, sorrow, regret. Maybe all of it, tangled together like smoke.
The man went on, unaware of the storm inside me. "Funny, though. That wine company where you work — it was their home. Where it all happened, all those years ago. Hard to believe, eh?"
I turned slowly toward the building behind me. The mountains beyond.
It was the same view I'd seen from my forge centuries ago.
Different. Yet the same.
"What have I done…" I whispered.
The man laughed softly. "You ought to know the story of the place you work, friend. Or are you not from around here?"
I didn't answer. I couldn't.
He gave me a small wave. "Well, I'd best go. The place's owned by Mira's descendants now. Good folk, they say."
Just then, a sharp voice called out from the building.
"Hey! You there! Back to work!"
I turned to see a man standing in the doorway, wiping his hands on a rag, scowling at me.
My companion grinned. "Looks like your boss is calling. Better not keep him waiting."
He walked off down the road, whistling softly.
I stood there, staring at the vineyard, at the house that used to be mine — now filled with strangers and ghosts.
I couldn't think.
Couldn't move.
Only one thought echoed in my head, over and over again:
Four hundred years.
And I was too late.