I wake choking on earth.

Not a coffin—no, worse. A shallow grave, dug in haste beneath a twisted hawthorn. My fingers claw at the soil, lungs burning as I break the surface. Rain slashes down, turning the dirt to slurry. Thunder rolls like artillery fire. I gasp, roll onto my back, and stare up at a sky I don’t recognize.

This isn’t New Edinburgh. No orbital lights. No drone swarms. Just stars—too many stars.

My uniform is gone. I’m wearing linen and wool, soaked through. But strapped beneath my tunic, fused to my spine like a parasite, is my neural lace—still active. Flickering diagnostics bleed into my vision: TEMPORAL DISPLACEMENT CONFIRMED. LOCATION: UNKNOWN. TIME INDEX: APPROX. 1382 CE.

Then I see it—the crest carved into a nearby stone. A serpent coiled around a dagger. MacAinsley.

They’re alive. They’re here. And they think I’m dead.

But I’m not. Not anymore.

A twig snaps in the dark. Boots crunch on wet stone. Voices—Gaelic, rough and urgent. They’re coming to finish the job.

I push myself up, drenched and shaking. To my left, the cliff path winds down into mist-shrouded woods. To my right, the ruins of a watchtower loom, half-collapsed but defensible. Or I could run straight into the forest and pray the lace can guide me to sanctuary.

They’ll be here in seconds.