Hours passed. Or at least it felt like it. He remained at his desk, reading and writing by the dim glow of candlelight. The steady crackle of the fire filled the silence, a stark contrast to the storm still raging inside me. His massive frame, draped in shadows, was impossibly still. The only movement came from his messy black hair falling over his eyes—those non-earthly, fiery golden eyes.
If I were just a reader, I might have enjoyed this moment, imagining him as a brooding hero in a fantasy comic. Maybe I'd be curled up with chocolate and a matcha vanilla latte, swooning over the scene. But no. The lingering stench of fresh blood and damp wood, the freezing air that sent relentless shivers through me, and the burning pain in my waist—all of it shattered any fantasy. I was cold. Miserable. Exhausted.
And the worst part? I couldn't even sleep. My thin tunic was useless against the cold, and my body ached in places I never knew could ache. I clenched my teeth, my patience wearing dangerously thin. Does he not have a single blanket? A scrap of cloth? Anything?! Fine. If I wanted to survive the night without freezing, I had to do something.
I shifted carefully, inching toward the edge of the bed, watching him for any reaction. Nothing. He didn't even glance up. That was… odd. Bracing myself, I reached for the heavy curtains surrounding the bed, hesitating for just a second before trying to push them aside. "Umm… I want a cover," I said, my voice quiet, testing the waters. His head jerked slightly. His golden gaze flickered to me. Okay, he heard me. That was a start. "I want a cover," I repeated, louder this time.
I barely had time to process what happened next. In less than a second, he was in front of me. His hand closed over mine, his grip firm—too firm. Before I could react, he pulled me forward with such force that I lost my balance. I braced for impact, expecting to crash onto the cold floor—but instead, I collided with something just as hard. His arm. His forearm, to be exact. Which, by the way, felt like solid rock.
Pain shot through me. I winced, cursing my couch-potato lifestyle. Maybe if I had some muscle, this wouldn't hurt as much. Still gripping my wrist, he settled me on the edge of the bed and muttered something under his breath in that deep, unreadable tone. It wasn't directed at me—it was like he was talking to himself, as if he knew I wouldn't understand. Except… I did understand him.
I knew I did, back on the battlefield. But the moment I saw my own blood, the meaning of his words slipped away. Why? What had changed? And then there was the accusation—his claim that I had seduced his men. My brain had filed that under "hilariously delusional," but it was proof that, at least for a moment, I had understood his language.
Lost in thought, I barely noticed how close he had gotten. He was kneeling now, his face just inches from mine. Heat radiated from him, melting away the cold in my bones. My shivers stopped. His fingers trailed over my nose, my cheek, my lips—light, curious touches, as if mapping my face for the first time. Then his hands moved lower, gripping my shoulders, pulling me in. His breath fanned against my neck. Is he sniffing me again?! I doubted there was anything left to smell after last time. If anything, I probably reeked of dried sweat and regret.
Without warning, he lifted me again. I let out a startled yelp as he carried me back to the bed, laying me down with effortless ease. I tensed. What now? But instead of anything… questionable, he simply pulled me against him. His body was scorching compared to mine, like a human furnace. I felt the press of his muscles, the warmth of his skin—too much warmth. His face nestled against my chest, his strong arms wrapping around me, caging me in.
I barely had time to register what was happening before he squeezed me into him, like a massive predator curling into its nest. I was the nest. It might have looked romantic in theory, but in reality, my arms were pinned under his, quickly losing circulation. Was this a protective instinct? A way to keep me from escaping? Or was he just that comfortable treating me like a glorified body pillow? Either way, he wasn't letting go.
In the dimness of the tent, I adjusted slightly, testing my ability to move. He emitted a low sound in response—somewhere between a hum and a warning growl. Nevertheless, he loosened his grip just enough for me to shift into a more bearable position.
I stared at his face, half-buried against me. His breathing slowed, deep and steady, though his eyes remained closed. I knew he wasn't truly asleep. Resignation washed over me as I swallowed hard, accepting my fate.
There was no choice but to remain still, hoping to avoid another nightmare. At least, I reflected, I wasn't cold anymore—at least, for now.
After some time had passed, I attempted to move my arms. No luck; I was still trapped. His steel-like arms encircled me, refusing to budge. I exhaled sharply, striving to adopt a more positive perspective. After all, I had requested a cover, hadn't I? And here I was, secured beneath a human—a stone-heavy, furnace-hot blanket. His warmth seeped into my frozen bones, lulling me toward drowsiness. Perhaps, just perhaps, this was the moment I would drift off and awaken back in my own bed.
Next day
A faint chill crept through me, prompting a groan as I reached out an arm, searching for my fluffy blanket. Pain shot through my limbs, an aching soreness radiating from my every movement. Why did I feel as though I had endured a grueling workout?
Fine, I thought, perhaps I had kicked my blanket off the bed. I reached blindly for the edge of the mattress—only to find nothing. I strained my other arm, wincing in pain, but still, no edge met my fingers. A creeping dread slithered up my spine.I wasn't in my bed, was I?
My eyes flew open, and dim, grayish daylight filtered through the heavy fabric of the tent. Gone were the bright morning rays and my familiar ceiling, replaced by the overwhelming scents of old wood, burning fire, and a thick, earthy aroma that clawed at my throat, eager to invade my lungs.
"No. No, no, no, NO!" Panic surged through me as I shot upright, my head spinning in confusion. "This is not happening," I muttered, shaking my head in denial. My voice grew louder, filled with frustration. "I quit! This story sucks! I want to change it now! This is not what I meant when I said I wanted a fresh start! This is nottttt—"
The sharp rustling of parchment jolted me from my outburst. I froze, slowly turning my head. The commander stood, staring at me with wide, golden eyes, a single sheet of parchment dangling from his fingers, momentarily forgotten. He pointed at me and barked something in his harsh language—an order, evident by his tone.
I ignored him, breath hitching as my hands trembled. A horrifying realization settled within me. "This isn't a dream," I whispered, my voice hollow. "I was really in another dimension. And I might be stuck here…"
Our gazes locked, mirroring shock. My voice cracked as I spoke the final, crushing word. "Forever." Tears welled in my eyes and spilled over, hot and endless. My chest tightened, the weight of reality pressing down on me, suffocating. I wanted to go home. Curling forward, I covered my face with my hands, my sore arms protesting the movement, sending fresh waves of pain slicing through my body. I sobbed harder, not caring if he would kill me or if I was merely a prisoner in this brutal, war-torn world. All I wanted was to escape.
Through my hiccuping sobs, I barely registered his movement in front of me. Then, a deep, rough voice sliced through the heavy silence. "Can you understand me?" I stiffened, pausing mid-sob. Slowly, I looked up, meeting his unreadable gaze. For an elongated moment, we stared at each other. His eyes flickered—calculating, distant. Then, abruptly, he turned toward the tent's entrance and called out in his language. A voice responded from outside, sending a twist of unease through my stomach. Was he summoning someone? No. His posture shifted, movements precise and practiced. I watched in stunned silence as he donned his armor, methodically fastening each piece in place, his expression eerily calm as though this were just another ordinary morning.
My throat tightened. "A-are you… going back to fight?" He didn't glance at me. Perhaps he couldn't comprehend my words. Yet hadn't he understood me earlier, had asked me a question? Surprisingly, he merely nodded, his fingers deftly fastening the last strap of his chest plate. "We have to take down the capital," he stated, his tone almost casual. "Only then can we return victorious to Ojan." Relief washed over me—not from a desire for more information, but because he had acknowledged my existence. He understood me. That single realization provided a glimmer of connection to this bewildering realm, a way to navigate this nightmare. Perhaps, just perhaps, there existed a path to figure out what was happening—and maybe even a route back home. Yet, as the name of this place echoed in my mind, my insides turned to ice. "W-what about me?" My voice trembled. "Where… where am I supposed to go?"
Finally, he turned to face me, his golden eyes devoid of warmth, cold and unyielding. "You're our prisoner," he stated flatly. "You won't be going anywhere." A jolt of memory struck—the knights who had attempted to seize me, even with him standing so close. My stomach twisted at the recollection. "Will you leave me here alone?" I asked, a sense of dread suffocating my words. He didn't even bother to look at me. "If you attempt to escape, my guards will behead you the moment you step outside this tent," he replied, his voice devoid of sympathy. With that, he strode out, leaving me in stunned silence.
My jaw dropped. What the hell?! I had thought we shared something, however uncomfortable and bizarre it may have seemed—even a fleeting connection forged in a night of tense intimacy. He had used me as a human pillow for God Sake ! Shouldn't that count for something? Wasn't this the part where he was supposed to develop feelings for me, like in those romantic novels I had once read? But no. No romance, no tenderness—just the grim promise of execution if I dared to set foot outside. Great. Wonderful. Perfect. A fantastic start to my next bout of tears. Later on, the troops departed for battle. And there I remained—not merely stuck in the tent, but confined within a wooden cage. Yes, indeed. A literal cage. Apparently, being treated like a prisoner was not degrading enough—I had to be imprisoned like some wretched animal.
I wondered glumly where they had hidden the key. What if it were in the commander's possession, and he perished in battle, leaving me to rot in this accursed cage? I hadn't even completed my second round of sobbing yet when the terrifying cheers of soldiers erupted outside, rumbling like a tempest, shaking the very ground beneath me. The cage rattled with their fervor, sending shivers crawling across my skin. I buried myself deeper into the thick fabric that enveloped me, clutching the small flask of water I had been given. What was my plan? Sleep. Sleep and pray to whatever higher power existed that I might awaken back in my own home.
Claudius
As Claudius stepped out of the tent, he observed the large wooden cage being carried into position. He exhaled sharply, relief flooding through him. Good. He had specifically ordered a wooden cage instead of iron; she was far too fragile to withstand iron bars.
Not that she understood the truth. The cage wasn't intended to keep her confined but to keep others at bay. He had made a brutal example of every soldier who dared to reach for her, with swift and public punishments that ensured no one would make that mistake again. Still, he couldn't afford to be complacent.
Heat crept to his ears as an unwelcome thought intruded—he felt damn good today: strong, focused, and more well-rested than he had been since the war began. And he knew precisely why. Last night, for the first time in years, he had slept deeply.
The memory flickered involuntarily—the softness of her body against his, the rhythmic beat of her heart beneath his ear, and the strange, unfamiliar warmth that had settled in his chest. Damn it. He clenched his jaw. Men grew weak when deprived for too long. After years away from home, even the women there were not as soft as she was. He pushed the thought aside just as his second-in-command approached, offering him the key to her cage with a small nod.
"She's inside. Being watched."
Claudius accepted the key without a word, gripping the reins of his horse and swinging himself into the saddle. The army awaited his command. Letting out a slow breath, he raised his voice to the troops. "This is our last battle! Tonight, we storm Sojun's capital! And tomorrow—" His golden eyes gleamed as he drew his sword. "We return to Ojan with victory!"
A deafening roar of approval shook the valley as thousands of voices answered his call. And with that, they rode into war.
The wooden bars ..
It has been three days since he left me. Three days of staring at the same wooden bars, the same dimly lit tent, and the same bowl of suspicious-looking food that I refuse to touch. Three days, and I still haven't figured out how to return to my world. I've tried everything. Sleeping—so much that the guards began to poke me with a stick to check if I was still alive. Bleeding—maybe my blood was the key? Nope. Nothing works. I'm starving, but there's no way in hell I'm eating whatever that mystery meat is. My modern stomach can't handle medieval bacteria. One bite, and I'd drop dead before I found a way home. The water tastes odd as well. I sip it just to stay alive. Honestly? Best diet I've ever been on. At this rate, my curves have enough fat reserves to last me at least another month.
But the worst part? I've stopped trying to escape. Instead, I find myself waiting for him. That terrifying, infuriating, beautiful failure of a hero. At least if he were here, I'd be out of this damn cage. I could ask him about their food—specifically whether they used spices because everything here smells like boiled regret. Not that it matters. I haven't eaten meat in two years, and I refuse to start now with whatever mystery corpse they serve.
Day Four arrives, and I wake up staring at the ceiling of my cage. My body aches from sleeping in this cramped position. My head feels heavy. Someone enters the tent. I assume it's the bearded guard again. He's the only one who seems genuinely concerned for my well-being. Lately, he's practically begged me with his eyes every time he brings food. I pull the cover off my head, ready to give him my daily nod of refusal. But it's not him. A different man stands there, wearing unfamiliar attire—fabric that is sleeker, with a different cut than the commander's knights. The smile on his face makes my skin crawl. Something is wrong.
I shuffle back against the bars, but he moves quickly—too quickly. Before I can react, his hand clamps around my ankle, and a sharp crack of pain shoots up my leg. His grip is too strong; I feel my bone nearly snap. A strangled gasp escapes my lips as I attempt to yank myself free—And then, suddenly… I am free. Just like that. My leg slips free, but his hand is still gripping me. It takes a moment for my brain to process what I'm seeing. His hand. Detached from his forearm. Still locked around my ankle. The cage is covered in blood.
Horror surges through me as my stomach flips. I jerk my head up—and see him. My guard. The bearded one. The only person who had ever shown me kindness. He stands there, panting, sword dripping with fresh blood. His eyes lock onto mine for a single, fleeting second. Then—he turns the blade on himself and plunges it into his own chest. The world tilts. The last thing I see before my vision goes dark—is the look in his eyes. And then—nothing.