Cold, biting dampness seeped through his skin, dragging him out of a deep, dreamless sleep. Every muscle in his body ached with a dull, throbbing weight, as if he had been beaten with a wooden rod. Jean-Louis gasped, inhaling a sharp, rancid lungful of air that burned his throat. The air was thick and heavy, carrying a suffocating scent that immediately made him gag. Instead of the sweet, lavender-scented silk of the royal bedchamber, his nose was assaulted by the unmistakable stench of rotting pig manure. He tried to roll over, expecting the plush, familiar give of a feather mattress. Instead, his shoulder slammed into a hard, uneven surface that offered no comfort. Prickling straw poked mercilessly through his thin shirt, scratching his back and hips. Dust swirled in the dim light, making him cough violently as he pushed himself up onto his elbows. "Valerius!" he called out, his voice raspy and thin, lacking its usual resonant command. Silence answered him, heavy and unyielding. No eager footsteps of his chief chamberlain echoed down marble corridors. No servants rushed forward with warm water, fresh linen, or silver platters of sweet grapes. Only the steady, mocking drip of water leaking from a collapsed thatch roof broke the quiet. Had some enemy breached the palace gates under cover of darkness? Had his royal guards betrayed him, dragging him to some damp dungeon in the dead of night? His head spun with a sudden, sickening vertigo as he managed to sit upright. Blinking against the gloom, he stared at his surroundings in growing horror. Rotting wooden beams sagged overhead like broken ribs, barely holding up a roof of moldy straw and mud. Peeling mud walls pressed in on him from all sides, forming a cramped room no larger than his royal dog kennels. This was a peasant's hovel, filthy, drafty, and smelling of damp earth and animal waste. Anger, cold and sharp, flared in his chest, temporarily overriding his confusion. They would hang for this desecration of the sovereign's body. Whoever had orchestrated this kidnapping would feel the full, merciless wrath of the crown. Looking down at his arms to inspect his bindings, he froze. Coarse, itchy brown wool covered his forearms instead of the finely embroidered royal silk he had worn to sleep. He raised his hands to his face, expecting the soft, unblemished skin of a ruler who had never lifted anything heavier than a golden scepter. Horror, pure and paralyzing, gripped him as he stared at his palms. Rough, thick callouses lined his skin. His fingers were wide, muscular, and scarred with small cuts. Dirt was caked deeply beneath his fingernails, which were jagged, split, and completely unmanicured. These were the hands of a common laborer, a man who worked the earth until his bones ached. Desperate to see what had happened to him, he scrambled on his knees across the filthy straw. A small, muddy puddle had formed on the uneven dirt floor beneath a leak in the roof. Throwing himself toward it, he ignored the mud that splattered across his chest and face. Leaning over the water, he held his breath, waiting for the ripples to settle. Staring back at him was his own face, yet it was terrifyingly different. His sharp, high cheekbones and piercing, hawkish blue eyes remained unchanged, burning with the same fierce intelligence. Greasy, tangled hair fell around his shoulders, and a thick layer of grime covered his aristocratic jawline. He looked like a ghost of himself, a specter trapped in a beggar's skin. Yesterday—surely it was yesterday—he had stood in the Great Hall of his palace. He had signed the Edict of the Sun, sacrificing his own life's blood to bind the fracturing reality of France. France had been on the verge of collapsing into an abyss of non-existence, and he had used an ancient temporal artifact to stitch the timeline back together. Sparks of blue fire had danced across the chamber, tearing at the stone walls of his palace before engulfing him. Pain, raw and cosmic, had torn his soul apart, but he had embraced it because a true king did not shrink from sacrifice. Sacrifice was the duty of a true ruler, the ultimate proof of his absolute authority. But he had not expected this cruel twist of fate. To be stripped of his title, his wealth, his very identity—it was a fate far worse than death. Without his crown, without the respect of his people, he was nothing. Fear, cold and suffocating, gripped his throat as he realized the truth: the timeline had rewritten itself, and he had been erased. Standing up, his knees wobbled, a strange ache pulsing through his lower back. Every joint groaned with a dull, unfamiliar pain of a body that had spent years in hard labor. Stumbling toward the single, grease-stained window, he rubbed a patch of grime away. Looking out, his breath caught in his throat. Rolling green hills stretched toward the horizon, but they were scarred by deep, jagged trenches. Strange, metallic towers rose in the distance, humming with a faint, unnatural energy that he had never seen before. This was France, but not the France he knew. Something had gone horribly wrong with the timeline. And in this new, twisted world, he was a nobody. A sudden, heavy thud shattered his thoughts. Wood groaned as the flimsy door of the hovel rattled on its leather hinges. Jean-Louis flinched, his hand instinctively flying to his left hip where his silver-hilted rapier should have hung. Nothing met his fingers but the rough, coarse fabric of his wool tunic. Another thud shook the small shack, harder this time. Choking dust fell from the ceiling in a suffocating cloud, coating his hair and clothes. Rough and uncultivated, a voice roared from outside, "Open up, you lazy dog!" Before he could rise, the door exploded inward. Splinters rained down on the dirt floor as a heavy boot kicked the wooden planks aside. A massive, burly man stepped through the shattered frame, blocking the pale morning light. Pierre stood at least six feet tall, with shoulders as broad as an ox and a stomach that stretched his stained leather apron. His face was red, covered in a greasy sheen of sweat, and a thick, wild beard hid his jaw. In his massive, calloused hand, he gripped a heavy wooden club. Kicking a pile of rotting straw toward Jean-Louis, he sent a swarm of small black bugs scattering across the dirt. "Still in bed, are we?" Pierre sneered, stepping into the cramped space. "I told you yesterday, boy. I don't run a charity for idle dreamers." Jean-Louis drew himself up, trying to find his footing on the slippery floor. Even in rags, he carried his spine straight, his shoulders square with the innate dignity of a sovereign. "You dare enter my presence without permission?" he demanded, his voice dropping to a dangerous, low register. "State your name, peasant, before I have your tongue harvested for treason." Pierre blinked, staring at him as if he had just spoken in some ancient, dead language. Then, a slow, ugly grin spread across the big man's face, revealing a row of yellowed, crooked teeth. "Treason?" Pierre barked out a laugh that shook the small room. "You've finally lost your mind, Louis. The dampness has rotted what little brain you had left." "My name is King Jean-Louis XII," the monarch spat, his fists clenching so hard his new callouses burned. "And you are standing in the presence of your sovereign. Kneel, or face the gallows." He took a step forward, his eyes burning with a cold, aristocratic fury that had once made powerful dukes tremble. Instead of falling to his knees, Pierre stepped closer, his smile vanishing into a harsh, dark scowl. "I don't care what fancy names you call yourself in your head," the landlord growled. "You owe me three copper coins for this roof over your head. And you will pay it today, or I will throw you to the hogs." Three copper coins. Jean-Louis had never even touched a copper coin in his life; he dealt in gold louis and royal bank drafts. "I have no coppers," Jean-Louis said coldly, his jaw tight with suppressed rage. "But if you fetch my guard at the nearest outpost, you will be rewarded with a chest of gold." Pierre spat on the dirt floor, right at Jean-Louis's bare feet. "Gold? You don't have a single crumb of bread to your name, let alone gold." Raising his club, the landlord tapped it menacingly against his thick palm. "I'm done with your madness, boy. Pay me, or get out." Desperation, cold and sharp, began to mingle with Jean-Louis's anger. He looked around the room, searching for anything of value, any proof of his identity. There was nothing. Only a broken wooden stool, a cracked clay pitcher, and the pile of wet straw. How had his world rewritten itself so completely? He remembered the ritual, the blinding blue light of the temporal tear, the feeling of his own soul being stretched across the stars. He had done it to save France from collapsing into an abyss of non-existence. But instead of waking up as the savior of his nation, he was a nameless debtor. "I am your king," Jean-Louis insisted, his voice trembling with a mixture of rage and growing panic. "You must recognize me. Look at my face! Look at my eyes!" He stepped closer to the giant, refusing to back down. A king did not retreat before a peasant, no matter the circumstances. Pierre's eyes narrowed, a flash of genuine anger replacing his amusement. He reached behind his back, his jaw clenching. He pulled a rusted, three-pronged pitchfork from where it rested against the outer wall. "I'll show you what we do with madmen who insult the crown." Jean-Louis demands Pierre bow to his sovereign, but Pierre merely laughs and thrusts a rusted pitchfork inches from his throat, snarling that the 'Mad King Jean-Louis' died a decade ago.

Chapter 1: A Bed of Rotten Straw