Theodora slept soundly beside him, her dark hair spyed across the silk pillow in loose waves. In the faint glow of a lone oil mp, Michael could make out the gentle rise and fall of her chest. Each quiet breath she drew was a calming rhythm against the storm of anxiety raging inside him. God, how can she be so peaceful? he wondered. To her, this was just another night in the castle—her home, their home. But to Michael, every detail of this bedchamber felt alien. The heavy woven coverlet, the scent of beeswax and smoke in the air, the very weight of the woman sleeping at his side—it all belonged to another man. And that man was supposed to be him now.
He eased himself to sit on the edge of the bed, careful not to disturb Theodora. The cool night air clung to the stone walls, and he shivered in his thin linen shirt. In his old life he would have reached instinctively for the thermostat or pulled a comforter tighter; here there was only the distant warmth of the hearth’s embers. The silence was immense. No hum of electricity, no distant sound of cars on a highway—only the crackle of the dying fire and the faint whisper of Theodora’s breathing. The quiet was so absolute it pressed in on him, amplifying the frantic beat of his heart. Michael ran a hand over his face. It still startled him how unfamiliar it felt—the angles and pnes of it, the rough stubble of a beard he hadn’t had just days ago. He drew a slow breath, trying to steady himself, but his chest felt tight, constricted by an invisible band of fear.
Two days. Two days had passed since he’d woken up to this impossible reality. In that time, he had grasped at every possible expnation—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 Paiologos. 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 ter, 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 mb being led to sughter. 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 gnced 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 untched 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 fmes flickered valiantly against the darkness, tiny beacons of light in an otherwise bck 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 vilges where peasants likely tended te-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 ssh 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 particur 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, cims 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 bde? 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 st 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 chocote 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 test 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 ughter 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 st 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 st 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 came to him then, soft in memory: telling him tales of Byzantine glor. She used to gather him and his brothers when they were little and regale them with sweeping stories of emperors and battles, of the holy city of Constantinople with its golden domes and marble paces. Those stories in his youth had enchanted Michael—he’d hung on every word about bravery and destiny, dreaming of what it might have been like to live in such heroic times. If only the boy he’d been could see him now. Look, Grandma, he thought with a touch of dark humor, I’m here. I’m really here, just like we imagined. But the reality was nothing like the romantic adventures he’d envisioned. There was no shining armor or feeling of grand purpose. There was only fear, and loneliness, and the suffocating weight of expectation. This was not a storybook filled with valor and triumph; this was the slow, grinding uncertainty of day-to-day survival.
He knew what was coming. The Ottomans. The fall of Constantinople. And here he was, in the thick of it. How can I stop it?
Michael gripped the windowsill tighter, the cold stone biting into his skin. Constantine’s memories, his life, pressed in on him from all sides, drowning out his own thoughts. His hands, his muscles—everything felt different, as if Constantine was seeping into him, erasing who he had been. I’m still Michael Jameston, he told himself, but it felt less true with each passing moment. Each time someone called him "Despot," each time he looked into the mirror, that identity slipped further away.
Twenty-five years. Give or take, that’s how long he knew this Byzantine world had left before Constantinople fell in 1453. Twenty-five years until the end of an empire. But maybe—just maybe—that fate could be altered. Michael’s historical knowledge was patchy, but he knew enough about what was coming: the rise of the Ottoman threat, the desperate attempts to rally Western aid, the fatal final siege. It was a daunting road, one that even the real Constantine, with all his courage, hadn’t been able to divert. What could Michael possibly do better? He was no military genius or political mastermind; he was a middle-aged book salesman with a passion for history. Yet he did have one advantage: foresight. He knew what was likely to happen. He knew roughly when the storm would hit, even if he didn’t know all the details. That was something Constantine never had—a glimpse of the future.
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 his consciousness began to drift at st, Michael felt the weight of two worlds bearing down on him: one, a modern life that was slipping into memory; the other, an ancient life that demanded he become more than he ever thought he could be. Between them, he was stretched thin, like a man straddling a chasm. But for this moment, cocooned in the darkness with Theodora’s gentle touch anchoring him, he allowed himself to simply be. Tomorrow, he would face the coming dawn as Constantine. Tonight, in these st quiet moments, he mourned as Michael. And in the meeting of those two souls, somewhere between despair and hope, he finally closed his eyes and surrendered to a troubled, restless sleep.
