Jacob William had never been one for noise.
He lived in a small house on the edge of town, where the hum of the refrigerator was the loudest thing most nights. The place smelled faintly of coffee and old books, and of the lavender soap his grandmother used to wash the curtains.
He'd moved in with her two years ago, after his mother died and the last of his college savings vanished in a haze of missed opportunities. Since then, life had settled into a pattern of quiet routines — helping her with groceries, fixing things around the house, and long evenings spent in front of a glowing computer screen.
Unemployed, yes — though he told himself he was between chances. The truth was less forgiving. Job applications had gone unanswered for months. The world outside had moved on without him.
But in strategy games, time obeyed him.
On his desk sat three medals from regional eSports tournaments — unassuming things, dull silver discs engraved with his username: JWill92. He'd earned them in online tournaments of Crusader Kings III and other grand strategy titles. To most, it was a niche hobby; to him, it was the one place he'd ever felt truly competent. He could command armies, mend dynasties, turn crumbling empires into legends.
And when his grandmother fell asleep in her chair, the television murmuring some half-forgotten British drama, he'd retreat into that world — a map of Europe spread before him like an open wound waiting to be healed.
That night, the rain came hard against the window.
Jacob sat with his headset off, the only light the soft glow of the monitor. The year on the screen read 867 AD. The kingdom: East Anglia.
He'd started the campaign on a whim — a challenge posted on a forum he still browsed out of habit. Survive as East Anglia under Norse invasion. Most players had given up after twenty years. He was in his sixtieth. The flag of his dynasty — a golden cross on white — stretched from the fens of Ely to the cold coast of Lincoln.
But victory, like everything else lately, felt hollow.
He leaned back in his chair, listening to the patter of rain, the creak of the old house. His grandmother coughed faintly in the other room — a sound that always stirred something protective in him.
He'd promised her he'd find work soon. Promised he'd do something meaningful.
Instead, here he was — a twenty-year-old who ruled an empire no one could see.
Jacob clicked "Save." Then, without really thinking, he lingered over the portrait of his ruler: Prince Æthelric of East Anglia, a nineteen-year-old second son, destined never to wear the crown unless fate intervened.
The irony wasn't lost on him.
He traced the outlines of the character's stats with the mouse: diplomacy, learning, piety. He knew the numbers by heart. In another life, he thought, maybe he could've been someone like that — clever, decisive, sure of himself.
But that wasn't his life.
He rose, stretched, and crossed to the window. The streetlight outside flickered against the wet pavement. Somewhere in the distance, thunder rolled like the echo of something ancient.
He smiled faintly at the thought. "If only life worked like the game," he murmured. "One restart and you fix everything."
The words hung there, quiet and foolish.
He turned off the computer, the screen fading to black. For a moment, he caught his reflection in the glass — tired eyes, unshaven jaw, a man caught between youth and failure.
He climbed into bed still thinking about the game — about East Anglia, about the coming Norse invasion. His mind replayed the strategies he'd used, the alliances he'd forged, the endless patience of a player who believed he could always outthink fate.
Outside, the rain turned to a heavy downpour.
Jacob closed his eyes. The sound became distant, hollow — and then it wasn't rain he heard, but the crash of waves.
Wind tore through the darkness. A distant horn blew, long and mournful.
He opened his eyes — not to the dim ceiling of his room, but to a vaulted roof of timber and smoke. The air was thick with the smell of pitch and ash. Shouts echoed beyond heavy wooden doors.
And when he looked down, his hands were not his own.
They were younger, thinner, marked by scars he didn't remember earning.
A voice shouted outside the chamber: "Prince Jacob! The council awaits!"
He froze.
"Prince—?"
He turned toward a bronze mirror on the wall. A stranger stared back — fair hair, sharp cheekbones, a Saxon face from a history textbook. The clothes were linen and wool, the air thick with the scent of burning tallow.
And beyond the window, the world of Crusader Kings — his world — stretched into life.