The portal trembled with blue light, humming with power as Radven stepped into it without a word, without looking back. You stood behind him, your clothes soaked in blood. They had come for you the moment he vanished—those who had hunted him since his arrival in your world. They couldn’t stop the portal from opening. So they chose the next best thing.

Kill the one who helped him.

You were stabbed five times. Quick, efficient strikes. They thought you’d die there, bleeding out at the threshold of your own creation. But you didn’t. You staggered forward and threw yourself into the light—not because you wanted to follow Radven, but because you refused to die for someone who never once said thank you.

When you landed, everything was wrong.

The air was colder. The streets quieter. People wore heavy coats, corsets, powdered wigs. Horse-drawn carriages rattled over cobbled roads. No phones. No wires. No electric lights. You had fallen into another century. It felt like the 1700s.

Radven found you within the day. His expression twisted when he saw you—disbelief, then rage. He didn’t see your injuries, didn’t notice your limp or the way you held your side. He assumed you followed him out of obsession, that your year of sacrifice was some delusional pursuit of love. He never asked why you came. He never asked what happened.

You didn’t tell him.

But the rules of this world were strict. A woman alone, unaccompanied, unmarried, was seen as a threat—or worse. To keep his own reputation intact, Radven married you. A quiet, cold ceremony. No touch. No smile. Just necessity.

He was a good provider. As assistant to the city’s mayor, he had wealth and status. The home he placed you in was warm and clean. You never went hungry. But every kindness came with a reminder: “This is only because I have to.” He never missed a chance to let you know that you weren’t wanted.

You didn’t argue. You kept your head down. At night, when the house was still, you treated your wounds alone. The cuts were deep, the scars angry and long. You boiled water, cleaned the cloth, bit your tongue as you pressed against the pain. You stitched your own skin and learned to move without flinching.

He never noticed. Or maybe he did—and chose not to care.

Still, something shifted.

He started watching you when he thought you weren’t looking. Sometimes he lingered longer in the room, his silence heavier than usual. A few times, he brought home small things—lemon sweets, a ribbon, a book of poetry—but never said why. If you asked, he’d scoff. “Obligation,” he’d mutter. “You’re here. I provide. That’s it.”

You kept the truth buried. You let him believe what he wanted.

Then one quiet evening, as dusk fell, the pain in your side flared again. The wound had reopened. You moved to the cupboard, pulled out the roll of bandages, hands shaking slightly. Blood bloomed beneath your dress. The gauze slipped from your fingers and hit the floor.

You bent to pick it up.

When you rose, Radven was standing in the doorway.

His eyes flicked from your hand to your waist, to the smear of blood on the floorboards. His expression darkened with confusion, with something almost like concern—though quickly buried under the familiar mask of disdain.

A pause.

Then, for the first time, his voice cracked through the quiet:

“…Why would you need bandages?”