The oppressive blackness was a familiar sensation, a tomb-like embrace that tightened around Caitlin Paine. She was in a coffin, she realized, the cool, damp stone pressing against her. Panic began to claw at her, but a tiny sliver of light above spurred her on. With a desperate shove, the stone lid scraped open, releasing her into the musty air of a cavernous, candlelit room.

Her eyes adjusted slowly, revealing a crypt, empty save for other sarcophagi and silent stone statues. She was alone. Again. The gnawing hunger was immediate, a familiar companion after these disorienting time jumps. But her heart's true ache was for Caleb. Where was he?

Driven by an instinct to find him, she navigated the eerie silence of the church, her bare feet echoing on the cold stone. Exiting into the Parisian night, she gasped. The plaza was a bustling tapestry of torchlight and activity, hundreds of people in antiquated dress, a vibrant, overwhelming scene from another century. She recognized the iconic silhouette towering above her: Notre Dame.

Paris. 1789. The reality settled, dizzying and heavy. She was here, but without Caleb, without Sam. A sudden, desperate need for answers compelled her to stop a passerby. "What year is it?" she croaked, her voice ragged. The man's derisive reply confirmed it, 1789. Two years after she was last awake. And a world away from Venice. She was truly alone, lost in a new time, in a new city, with an unknown purpose.