"Yes! Everything is wrong! Do you not see this face?!" Perdita yelled, gesturing wildly at the mirror.
The maid smiled sweetly. "We see the most beautiful bride in the kingdom, Princess Perdita. Now, we wait for the procession."
Perdita slumped, defeated. She couldn't run. She couldn't convince them she was someone else. And the wedding was imminent. She looked down at the anachronistic black headphones hanging over the gleaming white silk of the wedding gown.
'I am marrying a man who is a revered murderer, talking about some 'Warrior prince' in a world that doesn't recognize my own face. This is peak chaos.'
She needed a plan, and fast. The only way back to Adam and 2026 must somehow involve the man she was about to marry if this was where the magic sent her but she needs a fucking plan.
Before Perdita could form her first retaliatory thought, a herald's voice boomed from the hallway, cutting through the sudden silence of the chamber.
"The King, His Majesty, is here!"
Elara and the other maids instantly scrambled, dropping to their knees and bowing their heads to the floor. Trova stood confused, still in the heavy silk gown. The double doors swung inward, and the King stepped inside.
The shock hit Trova like a physical blow, stealing her breath.
He was massive, healthy, and imposing in heavy, ceremonial robes. But what arrested her was his face. It was the same square jaw, the same proud brow, the same rich brown eyes she knew from her own time.
"Dad!" Trova-Perdita exclaimed, the word escaping her in a rush of desperate recognition and relief. She rushed toward him, completely forgetting the medieval protocol. He's alive! He's well!
But the King's dark, immediate scowl froze her three steps away.
"Abomination," he bellowed, the word sharp enough to shatter glass. The sound shocked Trova, making her eyes widen and her body go rigid. This man was her father in the twenty-first century—a man who loved her fiercely, though dementia was slowly erasing her from his memory. Here, he was strong, robust, and looked as if he loathed her very existence.
He grabbed her arm, his grip surprisingly brutal for her own father. "I don't know what devilry you performed overnight, but you are to never let the Warrior Prince hear your voice," he commanded, his face inches from hers.
"But—" Perdita started, the protest choked in her throat.
"Silence!" he roared, his voice low and vibrating with menace. "You have been nothing but a nuisance and a royal embarrassment, and now that you will finally be of use to the kingdom, you decide to find your voice?"
"You're hurting me, Dad," Perdita whispered, her face scrunching up in genuine pain and disbelief.
He scoffed, pulling her arm closer, making the circlet feel like an iron band around her head. "And I will hurt you even more if you do not listen. You will act mute until you lose your voice again, do you understand?"
Trova had always done what her father wanted, even in the 21st century. She couldn't risk making him mad here. He was healthy and whole, better than she had seen him in years, and she loved him for it. But why did he hate her? Was it simply because she was mute? What was Princess Perdita's true, heartbreaking story?
The back of her eyes tingled, but she fought back the tears.
"Do you hear me?" he grated out.
Her arm was screaming under the pressure. "Yes, Dad—"
"Yes, Your Majesty," he gritted out, his voice a low growl. He didn't understand the strange, intimate word she was calling him, and he certainly didn't appreciate the familiarity.
Perdita looked away, bowing her head in submission. "Yes, Your Majesty," she repeated, the title tasting like ash.
It didn't matter that her father hated her here. She would make him happy and proud in this world because, at least, he could see her, unlike the father in 2026 who couldn't remember her due to the brain-forgetting disease.
"Stay mute," the King finished, his grip finally relaxing. "Else, if the Warrior Prince rejects you, I will make sure your life becomes hell in ways you cannot imagine." He pushed her roughly toward the maids.
"Get her ready. We will begin in a moment," the King told the frozen maids.
The King barged out of the chamber as violently as he entered, leaving Perdita standing alone in her wedding dress, her arm stinging and her heart shattered.
She walked quietly to the bed, ignoring the maids' nervous glances, and wrapped the headphones around her neck.
She couldn't be sad now. The headphones were advanced, built with a small solar panel that could self-charge, and she was fiercely proud of her past self for investing in them. They were her lifeline.
Now, she just needed to chin up and see her groom-to-be, Eureka.
"Your Highness, let us go," Elara whispered, standing ready.
Perdita started trying to hype herself up, a modern mantra against medieval despair. 'Okay, so Perdita of—what's the name of this kingdom?' she wondered. Oh, crap. I need Perdita's memories.
If she time-travelled, what then took the memories away? Was it the faulty incantation? The realization that she was flying completely blind, knowing nothing of this world or her role in it, hit her with crushing weight.
Fuck.
What kind of person was Perdita?!
Soon, The wedding procession commenced, not with grand fanfare, but with a somber, ominous gravity. Trova, clad in the restrictive white and gold silks, walked alone. The aisle felt impossibly long.
The great hall was vast, dimly lit by hundreds of flickering tallow candles, casting dancing shadows on the stone walls. It was filled with a throng of people Trova didn't know—nobles in thick velvet, guards in gleaming breastplates, and a sea of unfamiliar faces whispering sonnets of pity and excitement.
'Is the Queen my mother, or am I a concubine's daughter? Why did no one walk me? Is this the culture, or is it because I'm an "abomination"?' Trova wondered, her mind racing with unanswerable questions as she moved toward the altar.
The whispers and the low, heavy music of the procession faded as she scanned the front of the hall for her fiancé.
She saw him almost immediately.
There he stood beside a stern-faced priest, rigid and imposing in ceremonial armor that was intricately carved with gold and leather. His thick brown hair was brushed back, accentuating his strong jaw.
Trova's eyes widened. She froze mid-step, the heavy silk gown suddenly feeling like a massive lead blanket.
Is that Eureka standing there as her groom?!
Her brows furrowed in disbelief. The man who had seen her bare posterior, the man who called her a monkey, the man with the absurd, feminine name—he was the Warrior Prince she was meant to marry.
'He already hates my gut,' Trova's thoughts spiraled violently. Will he reject me? Will he shout, "I already caught her climbing a fence!"? Will he expose me? What is this life? Why is this happening?
Her feet slowed to a near stop. What was she supposed to do? Maintain the charade? She glanced backward, her eyes meeting the terrifying, dark scowl of her father, the King, who stood near the entrance. The look was a cold, silent command: Proceed, and stay silent.
Trova knew she had to do this.
Eureka—as she had realized he was—sensed her hesitation and turned his attention from the priest. His arrogant, penetrating brown eyes zeroed in on her, and Trova knew she was moments away from being exposed. Before their gazes could truly lock, she swiftly dropped her head, allowing the heavy veil and the cascade of her ornate hair to curtain her face.
The plan has to change now, she thought desperately. Else, he will leave me at the altar, and Dad will make my life hell.
But then, a lovely, slightly maniacal idea sparked in her mind. She would exploit the culture. She would hide. She wouldn't let him see her face again until the knot was tied, the paperwork signed, and he was officially stuck with her. Once they were married, his loyalty—that strange, uncultured honor he valued so much) would prevent him from immediately discarding her, giving her time to figure out the transmigration error.
With a slight, deliberate movement of her shoulders, she stylishly adjusted her veil and scarf, ensuring the fine silk completely obscured her face from any angle but the floor. A secret, triumphant smirk touched her lips beneath the fabric. This is going to work... hehe.
She resumed her slow walk down the aisle, maintaining the perfect posture of a meek princess, hiding the modern chaos churning underneath the silk and lace.
When she finally reached the altar, Eureka—the warrior prince, her groom stood perfectly still, his presence radiating immense, controlled power. He did not attempt to lift her veil, merely shifting his weight slightly as she came to a halt beside him.
The wedding ceremony began, droning on in a language she barely understood. Then came the reading of the official names.
"We are gathered here today to unite Princess Perdita Uxistedr..."
Trova winced internally at the name Perdita Uxistedr. She wished she could correct the Vicar—to add Trova—but the threat of her father's scowl pinned her into absolute silence. She was Perdita now.
The Vicar cleared his throat and continued: "...and Prince Kaelen Cadell Werayurh in holy matrimony."
Trova's head snapped up slightly, just enough to catch the hard line of her fiancé's jaw through the shimmering veil.
Kaelen?