Aria POV
The axe catches the sunlight as it rises above my head.
I can't breathe. My wrists burn where thick ropes cut into my skin. Thousands of people scream around me—angry voices, hateful faces, all wanting me dead. But I don't understand why. Five minutes ago, I was somewhere else. Someone else.
"Death to the whore!" A woman throws a rotten tomato. It hits my face, cold and disgusting. The crowd roars with laughter.
My brain spins, trying to make sense of this nightmare. One second, I was in my lab in San Francisco, holding a champagne glass. My team was celebrating—we'd just finished three years of work on the AI propulsion system. Janet hugged me. Marcus popped another bottle. Then the equipment sparked. The explosion hit like a truck.
Now I'm here. Wherever here is.
The executioner raises the axe higher. He's massive, wearing a black hood over his face. My heart pounds so hard I think it might explode.
"Any last words, traitor?" His voice sounds like gravel.
Traitor? I'm not a traitor. I'm Dr. Aria Chen. I'm twenty-eight years old. I have a cat named Newton and a student loan I just paid off. This isn't real. This CAN'T be real.
But the wooden platform feels solid under my knees. The rope burns my wrists. The sun beats down on my head. And that axe—that axe is definitely real.
"Wait!" My voice comes out wrong. Higher pitched. Scared in a way I've never been scared before. "I didn't do anything! I don't even know what's happening!"
"Lies!" someone screams from the crowd. "You seduced Prince Damian! You brought shame to the Crown Prince!"
Prince? What prince? What are they talking about?
Then memories slam into my brain—but they're not mine. A beautiful blonde woman with poison in her smile. A younger man with kind eyes, trapped in a dark room. Love letters I never wrote. A wedding I never wanted. And a name that echoes in my skull: Lyanna.
My stepsister. She did this. She destroyed me.
But I'm not her. I'm not the original Aria who lived in this body. I'm someone else, trapped in her nightmare, about to die for crimes I didn't commit.
The executioner moves closer. "The Crown Prince Kael Valerius has ordered your death. You betrayed him with his own brother. You are guilty of treason, adultery, and bringing shame upon the royal family."
"No!" I pull against the ropes, panicking. "Listen to me! I can prove—"
The axe starts to fall.
Time slows down. I see the blade coming toward my neck. I see the crowd holding their breath. I see a man on a throne fifty feet away—dark hair, cold eyes, watching me die without any emotion on his face. That must be Prince Kael. The man I supposedly betrayed.
My engineering brain kicks in. It's what I do when I'm terrified—I solve problems. I calculate. I analyze. And right now, in this crowd of thousands, I see something that might save my life.
"YOUR SIEGE WEAPONS ARE BUILT WRONG!" I scream as loud as I can.
The axe stops. Just stops, an inch from my neck. I feel the cold metal against my skin.
Silence falls over the crowd. Everyone stares at me like I've grown a second head.
The executioner looks confused. "What did you say?"
I'm shaking so hard I can barely speak. But I force the words out. "The catapults. Over there." I nod toward the weapons lined up at the edge of the square. "They're wrong. The counterweight ratio is off. You're using 1:100 when you need 1:133. And the launch angle—you're calculating for stone density but not moisture retention in the wood. Those weapons will fail in battle."
More silence. Then someone laughs. "The witch speaks nonsense!"
"She's trying to delay her death with mad words!"
But the man on the throne—Prince Kael—stands up. Slowly. His gray eyes lock onto mine, sharp as knives. He starts walking toward the platform. The crowd parts for him like water.
He's tall. Dangerous looking. There are scars on his hands—fighter's scars. When he reaches the platform, he stares at me for a long moment. I can't read his face. Is he angry? Curious? Bored?
"Say that again," he orders. His voice is cold enough to freeze fire.
I swallow hard. My mouth tastes like blood and fear. "Your catapults won't breach Rothwyrd's walls. I can see the design from here. The trajectory calculations are wrong. You're not accounting for wind resistance or the density of limestone. When you attack, you'll lose thousands of soldiers because your weapons will fail."
"How do you know about Rothwyrd's walls?" His eyes narrow. "That attack is secret. Even my own court doesn't know the target."
Oh no. I just revealed classified information. Information the original Aria wouldn't have known. Information I shouldn't know either, except it's flooding into my brain from her memories—memories of overhearing his war council through a door she shouldn't have been near.
"I—" I start to make an excuse.
"Who sent you?" Prince Kael grabs my face, forcing me to look at him. His hand is rough, his grip tight. "Which enemy kingdom? How do you know our plans? ANSWER ME!"
"No one sent me!" The words tumble out. "I just—I know things. About physics. About force and trajectory and—"
"Sorcery," someone whispers.
"Witchcraft!"
"She's possessed by demons!"
The crowd's fear washes over me like a wave. This is bad. This is really, really bad. In a medieval world, being called a witch is the same as being called dead.
But Prince Kael raises his hand. The crowd goes quiet instantly. He's still staring at me, and something flickers in his cold eyes. Not kindness. Definitely not trust. But maybe... interest?
"Demonstrate," he says.
"What?"
"You claim my weapons are faulty. Prove it." He releases my face and steps back. "You have one week to rebuild one catapult. If it performs better than my royal engineers' design, I'll listen to what you have to say. If you're lying..." The corner of his mouth lifts in something that's not quite a smile. "The executioner will finish his work."
My mind races. One week. He's giving me one week to save my life using engineering knowledge from 800 years in the future. It's impossible. The technology doesn't exist. The materials are all wrong. I don't even know what tools they have.
But it's better than dying right now.
"I'll need materials," I say, trying to sound confident. "Rope, wood, iron fittings. And access to your current weapons for measurements."
Prince Kael studies me for another long moment. Then he nods to the executioner. "Take her to the workshop. Guard her day and night. If she tries to escape, kill her."
The executioner cuts my ropes. My hands are numb, covered in blood from where the rope cut too deep. Two guards grab my arms and start dragging me off the platform.
The crowd boos and hisses. Someone throws another tomato. I keep my head down, trying not to cry, trying not to think about how I'm trapped in the past with no way home and only seven days to avoid execution.
As the guards pull me away, I glance back at the platform. Prince Kael is still standing there, watching me. His expression is unreadable.
But standing next to him now is a beautiful blonde woman. Her smile is sweet as honey, but her blue eyes burn with pure hatred as she stares at me.
Lyanna. My stepsister. The woman who destroyed the original Aria.
She leans close to Prince Kael and whispers something in his ear. He nods, not looking away from me.
And I realize with ice-cold clarity: she didn't just want me executed. She wanted me humiliated, destroyed, erased. And now that I'm alive, she's going to do everything in her power to finish the job.
The guards shove me into a dark stone building. The door slams shut behind me.
I'm alone in a medieval workshop, trapped in someone else's body, with seven days to build a weapon that shouldn't exist for eight centuries.
And somewhere outside, my stepsister is already planning my death.
Again.