Chapter 2
Roman
Images of blood and death flooded my mind as I jolted awake, the echoes of battle ringing in my ears.
I opened my eyes. Had I died? Had I crossed into the afterlife? Or had I time traveled once more to some strange new world?
I prayed for the latter as I took in my surroundings. Everything was unfamiliar—shiny, noisy, unnatural. Objects I couldn’t name blinked and whirred, emitting soft hums and distant beeps.
Voices crackled from a box embedded in the wall.
I shouted at them. No response.
Music floated through the air, metallic and jarring—nothing like the orchestras I had once attended with my mother in the 18th century. Nor did it resemble the trumpeting fanfare of the tubicines, the blasts from a cornu, or the eerie hum of a water organ before a gladiator fight in Rome.
I clamped my hands over my ears to drown out the chaos.
Timepieces glowed in the dim light, displaying numbers and dates I recognized, yet couldn’t make sense of. Floor lamps with delicate white orbs cast an eerie golden glow, while a cone-shaped object protruded from the ceiling, radiating light from a large, unnatural globe.
And the music. It pounded beyond a closed door like an entire band was playing just out of sight.
The room spun. My vision warped, orbs of light dancing before my eyes.
I couldn’t make sense of any of it.
Then—darkness.
I slipped away, dragged back into the abyss.
The dream began sweetly. A small deer I had hunted hung over my shoulders, its antlers tapping gently against my arm as I made my way through the forest. My steps were eager—I could already see my wife’s smile and hear my children’s laughter.
I would lay the beast before my beloved, and she would kiss me in thanks before setting to work, her practiced hands gutting and skinning the animal with ease. Then, I would gather my children onto my knees, spinning their tales of the wild as the scent of roasting meat filled our home.
A perfect moment. A perfect memory.
But memories were fragile things. And soon, this one would splinter, too.
I quickened my pace, my heart thrumming with anticipation, the same way Tempestas, my horse, would quicken when he sensed home was near.
Tempestas… I no longer had that horse. That was another time. Another life.
The crisp scent of the coming snow hung in the air, mingling with the damp earth as my boots crunched over fallen leaves.
This deer would keep us fed through winter, with the root vegetables stored in the cellar and the preserves my wife had put up in late summer. We would survive another cold season.
Then—smoke.
The acrid scent hit me like a fist, punching the breath from my lungs. My stride faltered, shifting into a jog. The deer grew heavier on my back, weighing me down.
Something was wrong.
I flung the carcass to the ground and ran.
Flames licked the sky as my house came into view, black smoke curling like a serpent into the somber gray heavens. Screams pierced the air.
Four figures stumbled from the inferno, engulfed in fire.
A sound tore from my throat, raw and broken.
My children fell, one by one.
My wife, her beautiful hair now devoured by flames, tried to lift them, but her body was already collapsing.
I ran harder. Faster. But the quicker I ran, the farther away they seemed.
Arms outstretched, I reached for them—and fell.
Darkness swallowed me whole, dragging me into a chasm of oblivion, my family’s screams echoing in my ears.
I hit the ground hard. The impact knocked the air from my lungs.
For a moment, I thought I was dead and that I had finally joined them.
Then, a shadow loomed over me. A face hovered above mine.
And I knew—this nightmare was far from over.
I jolted awake, back in the strange bed in this unfamiliar room.
A strangled yell tore from my throat as I lashed out, shoving the stranger away.
The man stumbled, his arms pinwheeling before he caught his balance. “Whoa, whoa, whoa, there, son. I’m a friend, remember?”
I pushed myself up; the bed beneath me was too soft and clean—it smelled of lavender and soap, foreign scents that didn’t belong to me.
The man stood before me, studying me almost amusedly.
He was older, with thinning gray hair and round spectacles perched on his nose.
His clothes were unlike anything I’d ever seen—a loose, garish shirt patterned with flowers and strange musical instruments paired with pants that sagged awkwardly from his hips.
My gaze flicked behind him. The people in the glowing wall box were gone.
“Is my music too loud?” he asked, propping his hands on his hips. “I usually listen to the classics—Bach, Beethoven, and the greats. Sometimes, I go for jazz. Miles Davis, John Coltrane… those guys stir the soul.”
He exhaled, shaking his head. “But today, I needed a mood boost, so I flipped on some ’70s tunes. Those old rockers could belt out a song.”
’70s tunes? Old rockers? Did he mean rocking chairs? And jazz—what in the devil’s name was that?
The man squinted at me. “Am I talking too fast? Or is it the Hawaiian shirt? Maybe too colorful? I usually don’t wear this kind of thing, but I figured I’d switch it up for a change.”
He cocked his head like a curious bird. “Cat got your tongue? You were in bad shape when you arrived. I’ve been tending to your wounds for a couple of weeks. Thought you were a goner for a while there.” He let out a small chuckle. “Glad to see you’re still here.”
Weeks.
I swallowed hard and yanked back the pristine white bedding.
My body was no longer my own.
Pink scars and fresh scabs marred my torso, the wounds unfamiliar, sealed beneath small squares of white. I reached for one, fingers curling to peel it away—
A firm hand stilled mine.
“Easy now.” The man’s voice was gentle. “Some of your wounds are stubborn, and we don’t want them getting infected. I’ve applied an antibiotic and sterile gauze to those.”
I frowned as a memory surfaced—Kiowa warriors thundering across the plains on horseback, their war cries piercing the air.
And then, the searing agony of a blade plunging through my belly.
Who was that man? The one who sliced my palm with my dagger, whispering the sacred scripture? The one who sent me here?
The man before me scratched the side of his head, studying me.
“Do you understand me? We spoke last week—don’t you remember?
You were hiding in the closet over there.
” He pointed to the far side of the room.
“You scared the hell out of me when you finally came out, wandering around muttering like the devil himself.”
Then his expression softened.
“And then you saw this.”
He picked up a silver frame and clutched it to his chest.
“You are married to my Olivia.”
His voice wavered. His eyes moistened.
Fragments of memory trickled through my rattled brain—yes. Jack. Olivia’s father.
I had woken up in this room and yelled at the strange, glowing box on the wall. Stumbled through the unfamiliar surroundings. I spoke to Jack.
But I thought it was a dream.
Was I still dreaming?
I patted my bare chest, pressing my palm against my skin. Solid. Real.
No. This wasn’t a dream. I was in the time when Olivia was born.
A sharp pain stabbed through my heart. Olivia. Our child.
Where was she?
Rage surged, white-hot and consuming. Who sent me here? Away from my love? And why?
I shoved the bedding aside and swung my legs over the edge of the bed. My skin prickled at the feel of the strange fabric covering my legs—soft, loose.
I stared at it in confusion.
Jack cleared his throat. “Sorry—I had to dress you in something. These are old sweatpants. They belonged to Tristan.”
His expression darkened.
“Olivia had some of his clothes in her Jeep. You’re a big guy, so… we made do.” His jaw clenched. “At least I found a use for his belongings.”
A muscle in his cheek twitched.
“I hope he burns in hell, that son of a bitch,” he muttered, his voice rough with loathing. Then he exhaled, shaking his head. “Forgive my language.”
Tristan.
The man Olivia once loved. The man who betrayed her. The man who killed her father.
And now, he would pay.
I clenched my fists, rage coursing through me like wildfire. He put her through pain. Through hell.
I bolted to my feet, towering over Jack. “How are you alive?” I demanded. “Olivia told me Tristan killed you—she watched you die.”
Jack’s face twisted with sorrow. A lone tear slipped down his wrinkled cheek.
He eased the silver frame away from his chest and set it down, his fingers lingering over the image as if it were fragile enough to shatter.
“And that’s Olivia’s last memory of me?” he whispered. “Oh, dear… my darling Olivia doesn’t know.” His voice trembled. “I thought I was a dead man. Yes, I did.” He swallowed thickly. “I survived because of Lee—he saved me.”
His gaze drifted to Olivia’s picture, and he traced a fingertip over her face. “That was eight months ago. My daughter has been gone since then.”
My breath stilled. Eight months?
None of this made sense. I staggered backward, the room spinning. No. That’s impossible.
“Eight months?” My voice rose in disbelief. “Olivia’s been gone for two years, not eight months! We met two years ago!”
Jack’s face paled, his mouth parting slightly. His hands shook as he patted his leg. “My goodness, son… how is that possible?” He exhaled. “Oh, I have so many questions. Where is she now? How did you meet her?”
But I wasn’t listening. My mind was already elsewhere.
I needed to find Olivia.
I turned toward the door. “I have to go back to her. She’ll think I’m dead.”
A sudden pain shot through my chest, nearly knocking me off balance.
Jack reached for me, his grip surprisingly strong. “No, son. What you need is to rest. Heal. Gather your strength.” His voice was firm but kind. “Please, go back to bed. I’ll call my neighbor—he’ll know how to advise us.”
I ripped my arm from his grasp.
“No! You don’t understand! I have to be with Olivia!”
My breathing was ragged, and my heart was pounding against my ribs.