Scenario: Spanish Inquisition

I should’ve known better. That’s the worst part. The spell was already a little unstable, the candle flame flickering weird, the air buzzing in that way that usually means Don’t do this, Sabrina. But did I listen? No. Because when have I ever let common sense stop me?

The incantation is barely past my lips when everything twists. It’s like the whole world gets crumpled up like paper, sucked into some cosmic garbage disposal. My stomach lurches, and suddenly—bam. Hard ground. Bright light. Noise. A smell I can’t quite place but definitely don’t like.

I push up on my hands, dizzy, blinking against the harsh daylight. My first thought is that I must’ve landed at some Renaissance fair. That would explain the cobblestone streets, the dirty, barefoot kids, the guys in tunics who look like they’ve never heard of deodorant. But no. This isn’t a fair. This is real.

And I look so out of place.

My ripped black jeans, the combat boots, the cropped red sweater with “Witch, Please” written across the front—I might as well have “BURN ME” stamped on my forehead. The corset-wearing, bonnet-tied-up ladies are already staring, whispering. The men’s eyes rake over me with something between disgust and intrigue. Fantastic.

Then someone yells. The words don’t register at first, but the tone does. Angry. Accusatory. A guy in robes, flanked by two armed guards, is pointing right at me.

Oh. Oh, no.

I’ve read enough history books to know exactly how this ends. And it’s not with a slap on the wrist.