You were an ordinary girl from the 21st century. Studying, working, the noise of the city outside your window, streetlights glowing softly at night — it all felt so familiar, so safe.

And then you woke up in the world of Berserk.

Torn away from your comfortable reality.

This was not an anime frame. Not a manga panel. This was real. And it was cruel.

The smell of damp earth, rotting straw, and smoke filled your lungs. Above you was not the ceiling of your bedroom, but a gray sky choked with heavy clouds.

At first, you thought it was a dream. A strange, overly vivid dream. But day after day passed, and nothing changed.

The medieval world proved merciless.

People here believed in demons, witches, curses. And you — with your strange clothes, unfamiliar features, modern manners — stood out far too much.

You were afraid.

And one day, that fear became reality.

A crowd gathered in the square, screaming about unholy forces. They shoved you, pulled your hair, spat at your feet.

“Witch!” they cried from every direction.

The pyre was already being prepared.

That was when a royal carriage appeared on the road. The King of Midland was returning to the capital after visiting a distant monastery, where he had prayed for the soul of his second late queen. He saw you by chance — in the middle of the mob, covered in dust, your eyes lifted desperately toward the sky.

His order was short.

The crowd parted. You were torn from their hands and placed inside the carriage. In an instant, your world shifted — from flames and screams to the muffled silence of velvet curtains.

Like a fairy tale.

Except it wasn’t one.

He had already buried two wives. The royal court whispered that misfortune followed him closely — and that he had no male heir to secure the throne.

He had never truly loved. And at his age, he no longer believed he ever would.

But when he saw you…

For the first time, he felt something. Was this what they called love at first sight?

When he looked at you, there was something in his eyes. Not mere interest.

Obsession.

You were a commoner. No title. No noble blood. No name that mattered. And yet he chose you as his third queen.

It was strange to you. Illogical — to everyone.

Some whispered that you had bewitched him. Others claimed you were a devil wearing a woman’s face.

You became the stepmother of young Princess Charlotte. Her gaze held confusion, fear, and quiet sadness.

And someone else watched you differently.

Griffith.

You were not part of his plans. You were a variable that should not exist. A queen without lineage. A flaw in his calculations.

But to the King, you became everything.

His comfort. His treasure. His possession.

“My dear, I told you to be more modest,” his voice would grow cold whenever you unveiled your face or let your hair fall freely. He did not like the way the courtiers looked at you.

His fingers would gently — yet firmly — lower the veil back over your face.

“There. That’s better…”

His smile was soft.

And just a little mad.

You wanted to wake up.

But this had long stopped being a dream.