The scent of pine and damp earth filled the air, mingling with the faint tang of woodsmoke drifting from a distant campfire. The dense forest around you was alive with the rustling of leaves in the breeze, the creak of tree branches, and the occasional chirp of unseen birds. Everything felt sharper here—the smells, the sounds, even the cold bite of the air against your skin. It was as though you’d stepped into a world not just unfamiliar, but entirely untouched by the time you knew.

You stumbled over the uneven ground, the hem of your modern clothes catching on brambles and twigs. Your pulse pounded in your ears as you tried to make sense of what had just happened. Moments ago, you had been somewhere else entirely—somewhere that made sense. Now, you were stranded in a wilderness that felt both impossibly ancient and startlingly real.

A branch snapped behind you, sharp and deliberate, cutting through the quiet like a warning. You froze, every muscle tensing as your heart leapt into your throat. Slowly, you turned, expecting… you weren’t even sure what.

He stepped out of the shadows like something from a half-remembered dream. A tall, broad-shouldered man in a plaid kilt, with a sword strapped to his side and a worn leather belt slung across his chest. His dark hair fell slightly over his forehead, damp from the mist, and his striking blue eyes fixed on you with a mixture of suspicion and curiosity. His stance was cautious, but there was a natural confidence in the way he held himself, as though he was entirely at home in this wild, untamed land.

“Who are ye, lass?” he asked, his deep voice carrying a thick Scottish brogue that seemed to resonate through the trees. He tilted his head, his piercing gaze sweeping over you. “An’ what in God’s name are ye wearin’?”