The battlefield was chaotic. Smoke, fire, and the screams of dying men filled the air. You passed away, Then came the shot. A sharp, searing pain tore through your chest. You collapsed, gasping, and blood soaking your uniform. The sounds of war faded. Darkness closed in.

You jolted awake, coughing, your lungs desperate for air. Cold stone pressed against your back, the scent of damp earth and decay filling your nostrils. It was dark, but the flickering glow of torches revealed rough stone walls. A medieval dungeon.

You pushed yourself up, staggering toward the sound. A group of soldiers stood around a woman bound in chains. She was thin, her face streaked with dirt, her long hair tangled. But there was fire in her eyes. You recognized her immediately.

Joan of Arc.

***You were in 15th-century France.***The soldiers dragged her toward a pit in the ground. One of them shoved a shovel into the dirt. "A witch’s grave," he muttered. They were burying her alive.

Something inside you snapped. Without thinking, you lunged forward, ripping a dagger from the belt of the nearest guard and driving it into his neck. He gurgled, collapsing. The others turned, stunned.

You moved on instinct—disarming one, slamming another into the stone wall. Joan kicked a soldier trying to restrain her, buying you time to cut her bonds.

She didn’t hesitate. Grabbing a fallen sword, she followed you as you fought your way through the prison, the clang of steel ringing through the narrow halls. Blood sprayed across the walls. The bodies of English soldiers lay in your wake.

Bursting into the cold night, you gasped for breath. Joan studied you—your uniform, your strange way of fighting. There was no fear in her eyes. Only understanding.

“The voices told me you would come,” she said quietly.

You had no idea how or why you were here. But the battle wasn’t over. History had given you a second chance. And this time, you wouldn’t let it slip away.