The clash of steel and screams of men filled the air as I ducked behind a fallen cart. Medieval warfare was nothing like I'd imagined—it was worse. The stench of blood and fear hung thick around our encampment, a constant reminder that Stefan and I were far from our modern lives in New York. Three months since we'd mysteriously appeared here, and I was still adjusting to leather armor instead of designer suits, to swords instead of spreadsheets.

"Formation!" Commander Reeves bellowed, his voice carrying across the training field.

I gripped my sword tighter, the leather wrapping on the hilt now familiar against my palm. My muscles had strengthened from daily training, my reflexes sharpened. Somehow, I'd adapted faster than Stefan, whose academic mind struggled with the physical demands of this brutal era.

"Eleanor, flank right!" The command came, and I moved without hesitation, my body responding with a fluidity that still surprised me.

Across the field, Stefan was paired with a burly soldier twice his size. He stumbled, barely deflecting a blow that would have cracked his ribs. While he lacked my newly acquired agility, he'd impressed the commanders with his strategic mind—mapping enemy movements, predicting attacks with uncanny accuracy.

"You're holding back," I told him later as we shared a meager dinner by the fire. "You need to commit fully to your strikes."

Stefan's eyes reflected the dancing flames. "I'm trying. It's just so... primitive." He reached for my hand, his touch a small comfort in this harsh world. "At least we're together."

I squeezed his fingers. "Always."

Little did I know how empty that promise would become.

---

The battle erupted at dawn, a surprise attack that sent our camp into chaos. Steel clashed against steel as I fought beside men I'd trained with for weeks. My sword found its mark repeatedly—not killing blows, but enough to disable opponents. I'd become a fighter, something I never imagined back in our apartment overlooking Central Park.

Through the chaos, I spotted Stefan near the command tent, surrounded by three enemy soldiers in black armor. Their swords glinted in the morning light as they closed in on him. Stefan parried one blow but missed the second attacker coming from behind.

"Stefan!" My scream tore through the battlefield noise.

Without thinking, I charged across the blood-soaked ground. Time seemed to slow as I threw myself between Stefan and the descending blade. The first strike caught my shoulder, sending white-hot pain through my body. I swung wildly, connecting with someone's armor.

"Eleanor, no!" Stefan's voice sounded distant as a second blade sliced across my chest.

I fought through the pain, driven by something primal. My sword found flesh—once, twice. A man fell. The second attacker hesitated just long enough for me to drive my blade into his thigh. The third man came at me with fury in his eyes.

The sword pierced my side before I could fully dodge. I gasped, tasting blood, but somehow managed to swing upward, catching him under his raised arm. He staggered back, then fled.

I collapsed to my knees, suddenly aware of the warm wetness spreading across my tunic. Stefan's face appeared above me, terror etched into every feature.

"Stay with me," he begged, pressing his hands against my wounds. "Eleanor, please!"

The sky tilted strangely. I wanted to tell him I loved him, that I'd do it again to keep him safe, but darkness pulled me under before I could form the words.

---

Pain was my constant companion in the weeks that followed. I drifted between consciousness and fevered dreams, catching glimpses of Stefan's worried face, feeling cool cloths on my forehead, hearing hushed voices discussing my chances of survival.

"The fever's breaking," a woman's voice said one day. "She might actually live."

Stephan was there through it all, or so they told me. Holding my hand, wiping my brow, changing my bandages. My body slowly knit itself back together, leaving angry red scars across my chest and side—permanent reminders of my sacrifice.

When I finally opened my eyes properly, sunlight was streaming through a small window. I was in a stone room I didn't recognize, lying on a straw mattress covered with rough linen sheets.

"You're awake." Stefan's voice drew my attention to the doorway where he stood, his face thinner than I remembered.

I smiled weakly. "Hey there."

He approached slowly, something strange in his expression. He sat beside the bed, studying me with furrowed brows.

"The healer says you'll recover," he said formally. "Your bravery on the battlefield is appreciated."

I reached for his hand. "I couldn't let them hurt you."

He stiffened at my touch, pulling back slightly. Confusion clouded his face.

"I'm sorry, but... do I know you? From before, I mean?"

My heart stuttered. "Stefan, it's me. Eleanor. Your Eleanor."

He shook his head slowly. "I don't... I'm told I was injured in the battle too. My memories are... confused. They say you speak of strange things—tall buildings of glass, horseless carriages..."

Ice spread through my veins as I searched his face for any hint of recognition, any sign that this was some cruel joke.

"You don't remember New York? Our apartment? The night we met at Columbia?"

"I'm sorry," he said, standing abruptly. "The commander says you saved my life, and for that I'm grateful. But these stories of another world..." He looked genuinely troubled. "Perhaps the fever has affected your mind."

As he turned to leave, I caught a glimpse of something in his eyes that didn't match his confused words—something calculating and cold that sent a chill through my healing body.

Recovery came slowly, my body mending while my heart fractured in ways I couldn't yet comprehend. The stone walls of the infirmary had become my prison, each day bringing new hope that Stefan would remember, that his eyes would light with recognition when he saw me.

But hope was a cruel mistress.

"Do you remember the night we met?" I asked him during one of his dutiful visits. He sat stiffly in the wooden chair beside my bed, maintaining the polite distance of a stranger. "You were working late in the library, surviving on vending machine coffee and determination."

Stefan's brow furrowed with what looked like genuine effort. "I'm sorry, but no. Nothing comes to mind."

"I bought you dinner that night. You were so proud, you didn't want to accept it, but you were practically starving." My voice cracked as I reached for his hand. "You said I was your guardian angel."

He pulled away gently but firmly. "Perhaps you're confusing me with someone else. The fever can cause vivid dreams that feel like memories."

The dismissal in his tone cut deeper than any blade. This wasn't confusion—this was polite rejection wrapped in false concern.

Through the narrow window, I watched Stefan cross the courtyard with increasing frequency, always heading toward the commander's quarters. Always toward her.

Rosalia Silva was everything I wasn't in this medieval world—born to privilege, adorned in fine silks while I wore rough-spun wool, commanding respect while I was merely tolerated. Her dark hair cascaded in perfect waves, her skin unmarked by battle scars. She moved through the camp like royalty, which, in essence, she was.

The first time I saw them together, I told myself it was coincidence. Stefan sat beside her on a blanket spread beneath an oak tree, sharing bread and wine while she laughed at something he'd said. The sound carried across the courtyard like silver bells, musical and carefree.

I pressed my face against the cold stone of my window, watching him lean closer to catch her words. His posture was relaxed, engaged—nothing like the stiff formality he showed me.

"They make a handsome pair, don't they?"

I turned to find Marta, one of the camp followers, standing in my doorway with a knowing smirk. Her eyes glittered with malicious pleasure.

"The deputy commander's daughter has quite taken with our mysterious strategist," she continued, settling herself on the edge of my bed uninvited. "Of course, a man of his talents deserves a woman of proper breeding, don't you think?"

My hands clenched the rough blanket. "Stefan and I—"

"Oh yes, your delusions." Marta's voice dripped false sympathy. "Poor dear, the fever has quite addled your mind. Claiming to be his lover when anyone can see he barely tolerates your presence. It's almost embarrassing."

Heat flooded my cheeks, but I forced my voice to remain steady. "I saved his life."

"And he's grateful, certainly. But gratitude isn't love, is it?" She leaned closer, her breath sour with ale. "Lady Rosalia says you tell the most fantastical stories—flying metal birds, buildings that touch the sky. The poor girl thinks you've lost your wits entirely."

After Marta left, I watched through my window as Stefan and Rosalia walked hand in hand along the camp's perimeter. She pointed at something in the distance, and he nodded, his attention completely focused on her words. When she stumbled slightly on the uneven ground, his arm immediately circled her waist to steady her.

The gesture was so natural, so protective—exactly how he used to touch me.

Weeks passed in this torment. I grew stronger physically while dying emotionally. Stefan's visits became shorter, more perfunctory. He'd ask about my healing with the detached concern of a stranger, then make excuses to leave.

Meanwhile, Rosalia made sure I witnessed their growing intimacy. She'd walk past my window at precisely the times when I took my daily exercise, Stefan's arm around her shoulders, her head resting against his chest. She'd organize elaborate picnics in the courtyard where I couldn't help but see them, feeding him grapes while he gazed at her with obvious adoration.

The final blow came on a morning when nausea had been plaguing me for days. I'd dismissed it as lingering effects from my injuries until the pattern became undeniable. The missed cycles, the morning sickness, the exhaustion that went beyond physical recovery.

I was pregnant.

My hands trembled as I pressed them against my still-flat stomach. This child was conceived before Stefan's supposed memory loss, proof of our love that couldn't be denied or forgotten.

When Stefan arrived for his daily visit, I could barely contain my excitement. Surely this would break through whatever barrier had formed in his mind.

"Stefan, I have wonderful news." I reached for his hands, but he stepped back instinctively. "I'm carrying your child."

The color drained from his face. His expression shifted from polite concern to something approaching revulsion.

"That's impossible," he said flatly.

"No, it's true. From before your injury, before you lost your memory. This baby is proof of what we had together."

Stefan's jaw tightened, his eyes growing cold in a way that made my blood freeze. "I would never... with someone like you." The words came out harsh, disgusted. "Whatever delusion you're clinging to, this ends now."

He turned and strode from the room, leaving me alone with the crushing weight of his rejection and the terrible certainty that the man I'd loved was truly gone.

The great hall blazed with torchlight and laughter, the entire camp gathered for the monthly feast. I stood in the shadows near the servants' entrance, my hands still trembling from the bitter herbs Stefan had forced down my throat three days ago. The cramping had finally stopped, along with the life that had been growing inside me.

My body felt hollow, scraped clean of hope.

"Attention, everyone!" Commander Silva's voice boomed across the hall, silencing the revelry. "My daughter has wonderful news to share."

Rosalia rose gracefully from the high table, her silk gown catching the firelight like spun gold. Stefan sat beside her, his hand resting possessively on her lower back. The sight of his touch—so tender, so protective—sent ice through my veins.

"Thank you, Father." Rosalia's voice carried the musical quality that had enchanted Stefan so completely. She placed both hands over her still-flat stomach, a gesture I recognized with sickening clarity. "I am blessed to announce that I carry the child of our brave strategist, Stefan Mitchell."

The hall erupted in cheers and applause. Men raised their tankards in toast while women rushed forward with congratulations. Stefan stood, accepting the backslaps and well-wishes with a smile that reached his eyes—a smile I hadn't seen since before his supposed memory loss.

"When is the blessed event?" called out Captain Morris.

"Late spring," Rosalia replied, her eyes finding mine across the crowded hall. The triumph in her gaze was unmistakable. "We couldn't be happier."

I pressed my back against the cold stone wall, fighting the urge to vomit. The timeline was impossible to ignore—she must have conceived around the same time I did. While Stefan was visiting me with polite concern, claiming confusion about our past, he was bedding the deputy commander's daughter with full knowledge of what he was doing.

Gifts began appearing on the high table: carved wooden toys, soft blankets, precious stones. The camp's blacksmith presented a tiny silver rattle that caught the torchlight. Stefan examined each offering with genuine pleasure, his face glowing with paternal pride.

"A child born of true love," someone shouted, and the crowd cheered again.

True love. The words twisted in my chest like a blade.

Rosalia's eyes met mine again, and this time she smiled—a cold, calculating expression that revealed the truth I'd been too naive to see. This wasn't coincidence or cruel fate. This was orchestrated.

"Eleanor." A rough hand grabbed my shoulder, spinning me around. Commander Silva's aide, Marcus, looked down at me with disgust. "Lady Rosalia requires your service."

I followed him through the celebrating crowd, past the high table where Stefan was now feeding Rosalia delicate morsels from his own plate. She laughed at something he whispered in her ear, then looked directly at me as I passed.

"The mad girl who claims to know my beloved," she said loudly enough for nearby tables to hear. "How tragic that battle-fever can so scramble one's wits."

Stefan glanced at me with what looked like pity, but I caught something else flickering behind his eyes—guilt, perhaps, or annoyance at being reminded of his deception.

Marcus led me to a small chamber off the main hall where buckets of water and cleaning rags waited. "Lady Rosalia's quarters need attention. The celebration has left quite a mess."

I stared at the supplies, understanding washing over me like a tide of humiliation. "You want me to clean her rooms?"

"You'll do as you're told," Marcus snapped. "Your delusions about being anyone of importance are over. Lady Rosalia has been generous enough to offer you employment as her personal servant. Consider yourself fortunate."

The chamber spun around me. From Stefan's lover to Rosalia's servant in the span of weeks—it was a fall so complete, so devastating, that I could barely comprehend it.

"The arrangement is already approved by the commander," Marcus continued. "You'll move your belongings to the servants' quarters tonight. Lady Rosalia expects her chambers spotless before she retires."

Back in the great hall, the celebration continued. Stefan had his arm around Rosalia's shoulders as she accepted more congratulations, her hand never leaving her stomach. The sight of their happiness—built on the ashes of my own—was more than I could bear.

I picked up the cleaning supplies with hands that shook with more than exhaustion. As I walked toward the stairs leading to Rosalia's chambers, I heard Stefan's laughter ring out above the crowd. Rich, genuine, completely unburdened by guilt or memory of what we'd shared.

The man I'd loved, the man I'd nearly died to save, was gone. In his place sat a stranger who'd used my sacrifice as a stepping stone to a better life, leaving me to scrub the floors of his new love's chambers.

I climbed the stone steps, each one taking me further from the woman I'd been and closer to whatever I was becoming.