Clermont castle, Octomber 1428
Theodora slept soundly beside him, her dark hair fanning across the silk pillow in loose waves. In the gentle glow of a lone oil lamp, Michael could make out the slow, steady rise and fall of her chest. Each quiet breath she drew was a soothing rhythm against the churning anxiety inside him. How can she be so at peace? he wondered. To her, this was only another night in the castle—her home, their home. But to Michael, every inch of this bedchamber felt foreign. The heavy woven coverlet, the faint scent of beeswax and smoke, even the reassuring weight of the woman at his side—all of it belonged to another man. And that man was supposed to be him.
He eased himself upright on the edge of the bed, careful not to jostle Theodora. A shiver prickled his skin as the cold air drifting off the stone walls seeped through his thin linen shirt. Back in his old life, he would've reached for a thermostat or burrowed under a comforter. Here, there was only the dying warmth of the hearth and the hush of a medieval night. The stillness pressed in on him, magnifying the frantic beat of his heart.
Two days. Two days had passed since he'd woken up to this impossible reality. In that time, he had grasped at every possible explanation—coma, psychotic break, even death and purgatory—only to come up empty. The truth was unavoidable: he was here, somehow, living the life of Constantine Palaiologos. And he was utterly lost. Michael closed his eyes and willed the confusion and panic to ebb, if only for a moment. He knew he couldn't go on like this, cowering in this bedchamber under the pretense of illness. I can't keep pretending, he thought, clenching the bedsheets in his fists. Hiding here solved nothing; sooner or later, he would have to face the world beyond these walls. But the thought of stepping outside—of meeting Constantine's friends, his generals, his servants—made Michael feel like a lamb being led to slaughter. How long could he fool them? How long before someone looked into his eyes and saw the stranger behind them?
A muffled dong… dong… echoed through the night—the tolling of a bell from some distant tower, marking the hour. Michael flinched; in the stillness of midnight, the sound was haunting. He glanced back over his shoulder at Theodora. She hadn't stirred, still deep in dreams. For a moment, envy flickered through him. He wondered what her dreams were tonight. He would never know. There was a gulf between them, one he was desperate and afraid to cross.
Unable to sit still any longer, Michael rose abruptly and crossed the room. The old wooden floorboards and cold stone tiles beyond felt like ice against his bare feet. The sudden chill was bracing; he almost welcomed the discomfort as proof that he wasn't trapped in some figment of his imagination. This world was real. Each cold step, each breath of frosty air was confirmation of that. Michael reached the narrow window and unlatched the shutter. With a low groan, the hinges gave way and the shutter swung outward. A gust of winter air rushed in, pricking his skin with gooseflesh and billowing the chamber's heavy drapes.
He leaned out into the night. Clermont, the castle and city now his home, sprawled below in silence. The castle grounds directly beneath were dim, lit by the sparse glow of torches along the perimeter walls. Their flames flickered valiantly against the darkness, tiny beacons of light in an otherwise black sea. Further beyond, the hills of the Morea rolled into the distance, their slopes cloaked in shadow. Here and there, in the valley, a few pinpricks of light marked villages where peasants likely tended late-night fires or kept watch over sick livestock. The scents of the night drifted up to him: woodsmoke, pine from the forests, a hint of the crisp ocean breeze blowing from the distant coast. It was a beautiful, serene scene—and yet it felt utterly wrong to him. This is not my world, he wanted to scream, I don't belong here!
He inhaled deeply, letting the cold night air fill his lungs. It smelled of earth and ash, so different from the pollution-tinged city air he was used to. The sharp chill burned his throat for a moment, grounding him. As he exhaled, Michael closed his eyes and rested his forehead against the stone window frame. The solid, chill stone pressed into his skin, anchoring him. Think, Michael. Don't fall apart. He had to gather himself. Hiding away and trembling like a frightened animal would not change the reality. He was Constantine now, whether he liked it or not; the sooner he confronted that, the better.
Yet, acknowledging it was one thing—living it was another. Michael's gaze dropped to his hands braced on the windowsill. In the moonlight, he could see the calluses on the palms, the old half-healed scars crisscrossing the knuckles. These were the hands of a warrior, not a salesman. He turned them over slowly, marveling at the strength in the corded muscles of his forearms and the unfamiliar old wound—a pale slash of a scar—running from wrist to elbow. Constantine had earned that scar in battle, no doubt. The memory of how flickered at the edges of Michael's mind, just out of reach. Sometimes, fragments of Constantine's life drifted up unbidden—a burst of anger at the sight of a particular coat of arms or the vivid recollection of riding a horse through these very hills weeks ago. Michael shuddered; the mingling of memory and reality made him feel as if he were dissolving into this identity, piece by piece.
He gripped the stone tighter. How long can I keep this up? he wondered. How long before a slip of the tongue or a moment of confusion gave him away? Perhaps a forgotten name of a servant he should know, or a misstep in addressing a noble… The prospect of being discovered for what he truly was—a fraud, an imposter—terrified him. In this age, claims of possession or witchcraft could be deadly. If he failed to convince people he was Constantine, what fate would that earn him? A prison cell? The executioner's blade? He swallowed hard, throat dry. The irony wasn't lost on him: he had always felt somewhat invisible in his old life, an ordinary man trudging through middle age. Now the idea of truly being seen—and recognized as an imposter—was more frightening than anything he'd ever known.
Michael's thoughts drifted, unbidden, to the life he'd left behind—those details of another world that felt more like a fading dream with each passing hour. An ache bloomed in his chest as images of his family came rushing forward. What happened to my body back home? Did it lie comatose in a hospital bed, eyes closed to the world, while baffled doctors tried to determine what was wrong? Could his ex-wife, Ellen, and their two sons be gathered at his bedside this very moment, trading hopeful smiles and praying for him to wake? Or perhaps—his stomach twisted at the thought—perhaps he had simply vanished from his time, leaving behind only questions and heartbreak. Would they think he had abandoned them?
He braced his hands on the sill as a wave of longing and guilt washed over him. Jason… Nick… He could see them so clearly it hurt. Jason, his firstborn, was thirty now—independent and determined, always charging forward. Michael remembered the last phone call with him a few weeks before all this happened. "Dad, I'm just swamped right now," Jason had said, voice hurried. "I'll visit once things settle down, promise." Then a rushed goodbye and the line went dead. Michael had chuckled at the time, shaking his head at how busy his son was, figuring there would always be another day, another chance to talk at length. Now that casual dismissal felt like a knife of regret. Would there be another day? Jason had always been so eager to conquer the world; he seldom looked back... would he even notice that his father was gone? Would he regret those missed phone calls if Michael never returned?
Nick, his younger boy, was so different—gentle, introspective, an old soul at twenty-five. Michael's throat tightened as he remembered the sight of Nick curled up in the armchair by the living room window on rainy evenings, a thick novel in one hand and a mug of cocoa in the other. Sometimes Michael would join him, both of them quietly sharing the space, the only sound the soft patter of rain and the rustle of turning pages. Father and son, lost in their own worlds yet together in comfortable silence. Those moments were rare treasures, even if they hadn't seemed so then. Did I ever tell him how much I loved those times? Michael wondered, tears pricking at his eyes. He could almost smell the rich chocolate and hear the rain if he let himself drift in the memory. Had he taken it all for granted, assuming he'd have countless tomorrows to sit with Nick, to see him smile that shy smile as he talked about the latest book he'd read? A shuddering breath escaped Michael's lips. I may never get the chance now.
And Ellen… Michael's thoughts turned to his ex-wife, stirring up a complicated mix of emotions. There was a time when her laughter had been his favorite sound. He could still picture the way she'd throw back her head when something truly delighted her, dark curls bouncing and eyes sparkling with mirth. That image was from long ago, back when they were young and the world was open before them. In recent years, their interactions have been strained, and they have been reduced to polite conversations about the boys or awkward exchanges on birthdays and holidays. Their last talk had ended with a hollow promise to "catch up soon" that neither truly meant. Ellen had moved on—he knew that. She had her career, a new circle of friends, perhaps even someone new to love. Michael had made peace with that, or so he thought. Yet now, in this silent medieval night, he felt a pang of loss sharper than he ever expected. Ellen was part of the life that had been his, the life that was now irretrievably gone. Would she grieve for him, if he never woke up in that other world? Or would his disappearance merely be a brief disturbance in her busy life? He suspected it might take weeks before she even realized he was missing; they just weren't entwined in each other's daily lives anymore. The realization stung more than it should. Maybe she'll think I ran away, he reflected bitterly. Just decided to disappear. It wasn't fair to her—or himself—but a dark voice in his mind whispered that perhaps she'd be relieved to be free of any remaining obligations tying her to her ex-husband.
Michael let out a soft, miserable sigh and bowed his head. His family, his home, the very era of conveniences and customs he understood—it was all slipping through his fingers like sand. "What does any of it matter now?" he whispered under his breath. The sound of his own voice—low, rougher than he remembered—echoed faintly in the chamber. In the stillness, it almost sounded like someone else had spoken. He grimaced at the irony. The 21st century is out of reach, he thought. All the people he loved, all the things he knew… he might as well be an entire world away. In fact, he was centuries away. And yet, they refused to let him go. How was he supposed to focus on surviving in this strange medieval world when half of his soul was still mourning the one he'd lost?
Behind him, he heard the rustle of sheets and a soft moan. Michael stiffened, quickly wiping at his eyes. He turned to see Theodora shifting in their bed. She reached out with one hand, perhaps seeking the warmth of her husband that had been next to her moments ago. Finding nothing but empty, cool sheets, she stirred fully awake. In the semidarkness, Michael saw her push herself up onto one elbow, her long hair tumbling over her shoulders. Her face was in shadow, but he could imagine the gentle crease of concern on her brow.
Theodora stirred behind him, her soft voice mumbling something unintelligible in her sleep. She had been nothing but kind these last two days, offering him gentle words and space to recover from his supposed illness. But Michael couldn't bring himself to meet her kindness with anything but distance. This woman—Constantine's wife—looked at him with trust, with the comfort of a partner. And yet, he was a stranger. How long before she sensed it? Before the mask he wore slipped, and she realized the truth?
His grandmother's voice echoed in his memory then, reciting stories of Byzantium's last stands. He could almost see her hands gesturing vividly as she painted pictures of glittering domes, grand processions, fierce battles. Look, Grandma, he thought with a bitter smile, I'm here. I'm really here—just like your tales. Too bad there's nothing heroic about any of it.
He heard the faint howling of the wind outside the tower walls and imagined the conflicts brewing out there. The Ottomans. The future. Twenty-five years or less until doomsday. What difference can I make? A salesman with only a patchy grasp of actual history—no illusions about that—he was hardly a mighty general or a brilliant political thinker. Yet he alone knew what was coming.
The thought terrified him. What if he failed? What if this empire, this world, was destined to fall no matter what he did? His hands trembled as he pulled them away from the window, staring at them as if they didn't belong to him.
The weight of Constantine's life was overwhelming. I'm not Constantine. But here, in this world, he had no choice but to be. Could he become that man? Could he save the empire?
He leaned heavily against the wall, trying to still the rising panic. Michael's life—his family, job, modern comforts—was gone. But he still had something. He had knowledge. He could use that. He had to use it.
As he slipped back under the heavy blankets, Theodora murmured something wordless and nestled closer, warm and familiar in the predawn chill. Tucked against the pillow, Michael closed his eyes. Sleep hovered restlessly on the edge of his mind, full of unwanted memories and hopes that both soothed and tormented him. But for now, at least, he let exhaustion carry him off. In the fragile space between fear and resolve, he drifted to a troubled slumber, bracing himself for all that would come with the morning light.