POV: Maya Chen
The man's screams echo through the stone room.
I press the alcohol-soaked cloth against his infected wound, cleaning out the pus and dead tissue. He thrashes against the servants holding him down, but I can't stop. If I don't clean this properly, the infection will kill him.
"Please," his wife sobs from the doorway. "Please save him."
"I'm trying," I grit out, sweat dripping down my face despite the cold room.
The wound is worse than I thought. Three days of festering has done serious damage. In my time, I'd prescribe strong antibiotics and possibly surgical debridement in a sterile operating room.
Here? I have boiled water, alcohol, and hope.
I clean the wound as thoroughly as I can, removing all the infected tissue. The man passes out from the pain, which is almost a mercy. Once it's clean, I pack it with honey—a natural antibacterial that actually works.
"Change the honey dressing twice a day," I tell his wife. "Keep it clean. Boil any cloth that touches the wound. Make him drink lots of water. And if the red streaks start spreading up his arm, come find me immediately."
"Will he live?" she whispers.
"I don't know," I admit. Honesty seems important right now. "But he has a better chance now than he did ten minutes ago."
They help the unconscious man out of my room. His wife turns back, tears streaming down her face.
"Thank you, my lady. Whatever happens, thank you for trying when no one else would."
After they leave, I collapse into the chair, my hands shaking. That was terrifying. I'm not a surgeon. I'm a research scientist who worked in a lab, not an emergency room.
But I just performed medieval first aid on a dying man.
And now we wait to see if he lives or dies.
If he dies, I'm finished. Adrian will think I'm useless or dangerous. The people will call me a murderer witch. All my talk about saving lives will mean nothing.
I stare at my bloodstained hands and remember my father. He died because his heart gave out, and modern medicine couldn't save him despite all our technology.
This man might die because I don't have that technology.
The irony isn't lost on me.
A sharp knock makes me jump. The door opens and Adrian strides in, flanked by two guards.
He stops when he sees the blood on my hands, the medical supplies scattered across the table.
"I heard screaming," he says.
"A man with an infected wound. I treated him." I meet his eyes, too tired to be afraid. "He might live. He might die. I won't know for a few days."
Adrian moves closer, studying me with those cold blue eyes. "You didn't hesitate. They said you demanded supplies and started working immediately."
"What else would I do? Let him die?"
"Most would." Something shifts in his expression. "Most would say it's not their problem. That he's just a servant, not worth the risk."
"He's a person," I snap. "His wife loves him. His life matters. I don't care if he's a servant or a king—everyone deserves a chance to live."
Adrian is silent for a long moment. Then: "Come with me."
"Where?"
"You'll see."
The guards flank me as Adrian leads us through the castle. We descend stairs, going deeper into the fortress. The air grows colder, damper.
We're going underground.
My heart pounds. Is this where he executes people? Am I about to die?
But then we emerge into a massive room—and I stop breathing.
It's full of sick people.
Dozens of them, lying on thin mats on the stone floor. Some cough weakly. Others moan with fever. Children cry. The smell of sickness and death is overwhelming.
"This is the castle's lower ward," Adrian says quietly. "Where we put the sick so they don't spread their illness to the healthy. We lose five to ten people a week here. Sometimes more."
I walk between the mats, my mind cataloging symptoms. Dysentery. Pneumonia. Infected wounds. Tuberculosis, maybe. Diseases that would be treatable in my time.
Here? They're death sentences.
"Your kingdom isn't just dying from one thing," I realize. "It's dying from a thousand small things. Bad water. Poor sanitation. Infected injuries. Diseases that spread because you don't understand how contagion works."
"Can you fix it?" Adrian's voice is hard, but I hear the desperation underneath.
I turn to face him. "Fix all of this? In one week? No. That's impossible."
His jaw clenches. "Then you're useless—"
"But," I interrupt, "I can start. I can teach you basic hygiene that will cut infections in half. I can show you how to purify water. I can create simple treatments using things you already have. It won't cure everything, but it'll save lives. Lots of them."
"How many?"
"If you do exactly what I say? If you give me authority to make changes and enforce them? I could save maybe a third of these people. Maybe more." I gesture to the sick ward. "But I need help. I need supplies. I need people willing to learn and follow instructions even when they sound crazy."
Adrian studies the dying people, his scarred face unreadable. "My grandfather died in a room like this. Coughing up blood, drowning in his own lungs. The physicians did nothing. Said it was God's will."
So that's his wound. The trauma Cedric mentioned. Watching someone he loved die while everyone claimed it was inevitable.
"It's not God's will," I say firmly. "It's just disease. And disease can be fought with knowledge."
He looks at me then, really looks at me. "You believe that. You truly believe you can make a difference."
"I know I can. Give me the chance."
"And if you fail? If these people die despite your help?"
"Then at least they'll die knowing someone tried everything possible." My voice shakes. "That's more than most people get."
Adrian nods slowly. "You'll have your supplies. Your helpers. Your authority. Sir Cedric will assign you guards and servants. You'll work here every day, teaching and treating."
"And the marriage contract?"
"Will be drawn up tonight. We'll sign it tomorrow." He turns to leave, then pauses. "One more thing. The man you treated upstairs—his name is Thomas. He's my head gardener's son. If he dies, his father will never forgive you."
"If he dies, I'll never forgive myself," I reply.
Something flickers in Adrian's eyes. Respect, maybe. Or surprise.
"You're not what I expected, Mira."
"Neither are you."
He almost smiles. Then he's gone, his guards following.
I'm alone in the sick ward with dozens of dying people and no modern medicine.
Just knowledge. Just the understanding of how disease works, how the human body fights infection, how simple cleanliness can save lives.
It'll have to be enough.
I roll up my sleeves and approach the nearest patient—a young woman burning with fever.
"Let's start with basics," I murmur. "Clean water. Fresh air. Hand washing."
I work through the night. Showing servants how to wash their hands properly, how to boil water, how to keep wounds clean. They watch me like I'm performing miracles.
I'm not. I'm just applying science that won't be discovered here for centuries.
But to them, it might as well be magic.
As dawn breaks, I'm exhausted, filthy, and oddly hopeful. I've made a tiny dent in a massive problem.
A servant rushes in, breathless.
"My lady! Thomas—the man you treated—he woke! The fever broke! His wife says he's asking for food!"
My knees nearly buckle with relief. He lived. My first patient lived.
"Tell his wife to keep the wound clean. Change the honey dressing. Watch for infection."
The servant runs off to spread the news.
I did it. I saved someone.
Maybe I can survive this nightmare after all.
But then another servant appears, her face pale with fear.
"My lady, you need to come. Now. There's been a murder in the castle."
My blood runs cold. "What? Who?"
"One of the king's advisors. Stabbed in his chambers. And they found something next to the body."
"What?"
She holds out a small object. My hands shake as I take it.
It's a modern ballpoint pen.
Blue plastic. Made in China. Completely impossible to exist in 1434.
The servant whispers, "The guards are saying it's the devil's work. That the witch brought evil to the castle. They're coming for you, my lady."
I stare at the pen, my mind racing.
This is from my time. From the future.
Which means I'm not the only person from 2024 who ended up in medieval Valoria.
Someone else is here.
And they just committed murder.