I was disappointed that I wasn’t informed that I would be placed under the Crown Prince’s roster.
Still… I had fun reassembling that rifle.
*Back at the crown prince's office.*
The pieces lay across the long oak table in the prince’s private study—barrel, stock, firing mechanism, screws machined with uneven threading.
This wasn’t modern. The machining lacked precision. The tolerances were forgiving in ways no 2023 factory would allow. But it wasn’t primitive either; whoever made this understood the concept of trajectory. Understood stabilization. Understood what happened when controlled fire met compressed force.
It was transitional.
A bridge between matchlock philosophy and something far deadlier.
“Where did you find this?” I asked.
Across the room, seated in composed elegance, was Crown Prince Gregory Michaelis Walter.
His sharp eyes never left me.
“In a temple,” he said calmly.
“A temple?” I repeated.
“Yes. An abandoned structure near the eastern cliffs. No deity enshrined within. No records of pilgrimage. No historical mention before a century ago.”
His fingers tapped once against the armrest.
“It was discovered by accident. A landslide exposed the entrance.”
“And inside?”
“Nothing,” he said. “Stone walls. An empty chamber. And that weapon was placed upon a pedestal.”
He paused.
“It was protected by preservation magic. Dense. Ancient. Not deteriorated in the slightest. Dust does not settle within that chamber. Wood does not rot. Metal does not rust.”
So the pristine condition wasn’t maintenance.
It was intentional containment.
“Who cast the magic?” I asked.
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“We do not know.”
That answer was honest. I could tell.
Philip stepped forward slightly. “We brought it to the royal scholars. None could decipher its mechanism. It does not operate by mana infusion. It does not respond to standard enchantment triggers.”
Because it wasn’t magic, it was chemistry.
“And there was something else,” the prince added.
My pulse slowed deliberately.
“A note.”
I kept my expression neutral.
“May I see it?”
Gregory nodded to Philip.
Philip retrieved a folded parchment from a lacquered case and placed it before me as though presenting evidence in a trial.
The paper was old but perfectly preserved. No yellowing. No brittleness.
I unfolded it.
And the world narrowed.
The script wasn’t ornate. It wasn’t an ancient dialect. It wasn’t ciphered.
It was modern handwriting.
English.
My throat tightened as my eyes traced the line.
“I wondered how long it would take before another arrived.”
For a moment—
Nothing.
No thoughts.
No sound.
Just the quiet confirmation of something I hadn’t allowed myself to consider.
I wasn’t unique.
I wasn’t an accident.
Someone had been here before me.
A hundred years ago, according to the prince.
And they had known.
They had known someone else would come.
My grip tightened around the page.
The room felt smaller.
Philip’s voice cut gently through the silence. “Can you read it?”
I looked up slowly.
Both men were watching me.
Gregory’s gaze was not hopeful.
It was sharp.
“Yes,” I said evenly.
Philip stiffened. “You can?”
I let a beat pass.
“It’s written in an archaic trade dialect,” I lied smoothly. “Fragmented. Incomplete.”
Gregory’s eyes narrowed just slightly. “And what does it say?”
I lowered my gaze back to the page as if translating.
“It appears to be a dedication,” I said. “A craftsman marking his creation. Nothing strategic.”
Silence.
The prince stood.
He approached with measured steps until he stood across the table from me.
“And you are certain of this?”
I met his gaze without hesitation.
“Yes, Your Highness.”
A long pause stretched between us.
Then he smiled faintly.
“Very well.”
He stepped back.
“You may keep the weapon for study.”
Philip blinked. “Your Highness?”
“I trust Lady Amethyst’s… expertise.”
Trust.
That word felt like a blade wrapped in silk.
I folded the note carefully and returned it to the table.
“Thank you.”
The meeting concluded shortly after.
But as I left the palace halls and stepped into the cool afternoon air, my mind replayed the line again and again.
I wondered how long it would take before another arrived.
Not if.
When.
The writer assumed continuation.
Which meant one of two things:
Either transmigration was cyclical.
Or deliberate.
And if it was deliberate—
By whom?
The 16th century.
That would explain the rifle’s construction logic.
Early understanding of ballistics. Experimental rifling. No industrial perfection.
A mind ahead of its time.
Dropped into a world that ran on magic instead of gunpowder.
Did he try to change it?
Did he fail?
Was the temple a tomb?
Or a message capsule?
The preservation magic bothered me the most.
He couldn’t have cast that alone—not if he was from Earth without magical affinity.
Which meant he either learned.
Or he wasn’t alone.
A chill traced down my spine.
New companions.
Not allies.
Not yet.
Just proof.
Proof that this world had already intersected with mine once before.
And if it happened twice—
It could happen again.
As the carriage carried me back toward the estate, I stared at my reflection in the window.
Ethan Lowes.
Dead in 2023.
Alive in the body of Amethyst Von Versailles.
And somewhere in this kingdom’s past—
Another Earth-born mind had walked these lands.
Had he fought?
Had he hidden?
Had he ruled from the shadows?
Or was he still here?
The most dangerous realization wasn’t that I wasn’t the first.
It was this:
If he expected another arrival…
Then he understood the pattern better than I did.
And if there was a pattern—
Then we were pieces in something far larger than a single kingdom’s war.
The carriage wheels rattled softly over stone.
I closed my eyes.
Someone came before me.
And if fate was consistent—
Someone would come after.
The question was not whether I had companions in this world.
The question was whether they would stand beside me.
Or across from me.
