A dull ache pounded behind Bronwyn’s eyes, a rhythmic drumbeat to the chaos in her mind. One moment, she’d been staring at three wide-eyed children, a strange masked man, and the infuriating grins of her kin. The next, the world had spun into a murky grey, pulling her down into a familiar, dizzying void. Her new body, it seemed, was less resilient than her old one, or perhaps the shock had finally found its mark. Sounds drifted into her growing awareness, muffled like voices through thick walls. Footsteps, heavy and light, scraped against the packed earth floor. The creak of the wagon’s wheels, then silence. Faint shouts, Ronan’s booming laugh. She let out a soft groan, the sound raspy in her throat. Her head throbbed, a dull pulse echoing the frantic beat of her new heart. Too much, too fast. The world tilted, then righted itself, leaving her with the lingering sensation of having been shaken like a sack of grain. --- Ronan Stonefield, ever the strategist of chaos, had a glint in his eye. His bulky frame moved with surprising nimbleness as he herded the three small children from the wagon. Finn, bless his simple heart, just grinned, a broad, uncomplicated display of triumph. “Right then, little squirts,” Ronan boomed, his voice echoing in the still morning air. “Time to meet your new village. And for us to collect some… well wishes.” Finn, holding the smallest child, a girl with hair like spun fire, nodded enthusiastically. “Aye, well wishes! For Bronwyn!” They strode down the winding path toward Old Man’s Rise, a cluster of ramshackle homes clinging to a rocky outcrop overlooking a scarred valley. Smoke curled lazily from stone chimneys, a handful of villagers already tending to their meager plots. Old Man Thistle, his face a map of sun-scorched wrinkles, squinted as the Stonefield men approached, leading three small figures. His jaw dropped, a half-chewed oat cake tumbling from his mouth. “Ronan Stonefield!” he croaked, wiping his chin. “What in the blazing ash are you up to now?” Ronan puffed out his chest, a self-satisfied smirk playing on his lips. “Just spreading the good news, Thistle! My Bronwyn, she’s taken a husband! And look at these fine grand-children to boot!” He gestured proudly to the trio, who stared back with wide, solemn eyes. Grumbling rose like smoke from a poorly tended fire. Word of Bronwyn’s jilted status had spread faster than a wildfire through dry kindling. They’d been expecting a spectacle of a different sort, not this brazen display. Old Elara, her hands on her hips, glared at the Stonefield patriarch. “And what do you want from us, Ronan? Another free meal at our expense?” Ronan waved a dismissive hand. “Hardly! We’re distributing red-dyed tubers, for good fortune and fertility! And in return, we’re merely collecting a small token of your blessings. For the celebrations, of course.” He held out a battered wooden bowl. “Celebrations?” Elara scoffed. “One wedding, perhaps, if your daughter can keep a man. But you’ll want money for *three* now?” Ronan hooked a thumb at Finn. “Tell her, son.” Finn, ever Ronan’s blunt instrument, hoisted the small girl higher. “For the bonding feast, the newling’s naming day, and his first moon-turn!” he declared, eyes wide and earnest. Elara’s mouth clamped shut. Her neighbors, who had gathered, stood speechless. A forced grin plastered on her face, she tossed a few worn copper chips into the bowl. Others followed suit, muttering curses under their breath. No one, not even the bravest, wanted to cross Ronan Stonefield, especially when he had the audacity of three small children as a shield. --- Bronwyn finally pushed herself upright, a dull throb in her temples. The air in the Stonefield hovel was thick with the scent of old ash and damp earth. No sign of Ronan or Finn. Or the unexpected additions to her family. Her stomach growled, a surprisingly fierce rumble. She hadn't eaten since… well, since her last life, it felt like. This body was clearly not accustomed to fasting. An engineer’s brain, even a bewildered one, recognized a critical system failing. Fuel was required. Pushing herself to her feet, she swayed slightly before finding her balance. The kitchen, if one could call it that, beckoned. Her memories of the original Bronwyn offered little comfort, hinting at a place of disarray. Stepping through the rough doorway, Bronwyn paused, her expression a mix of distaste and morbid fascination. The hearth was a blackened maw, choked with ash. Walls wept ancient damp, the rough-hewn timbers stained with centuries of grime. A single, cracked pot sat like a forlorn helmet amidst scattered tools. Baskets, woven from dried reeds, lay overturned, spilling their contents – shriveled root vegetables and half-eaten scraps, all coated in a fine layer of dust and what looked suspiciously like ancient mildew. A deep sigh escaped her. A problem to be solved, a system to be optimized. Her pragmatic core, usually focused on circuits and mechanisms, now turned to domestic chaos. She found a stiff brush made of animal bristles and a bucket of water from the rain barrel outside. An hour passed in a blur of scrubbing and sorting. The hearth was cleared, the floor swept, and the few usable vegetables salvaged. The air, while still earthy, no longer held that stale, cloying odor of neglect. Bronwyn rummaged through a lopsided cupboard. A small sack of coarse grain meal, a handful of precious white flour hidden in a tin, two small, lumpy tubers dug from the stony earth. And, surprisingly, a single, slightly bruised egg. The original Bronwyn had always eaten well, priority given to her over her father and brother. This meager hoard spoke volumes. She mixed a portion of the coarse meal with a sprinkle of white flour, a concession to her body’s sudden demands. Chopping some wild onions she'd found growing near the back wall, she fried them with the precious egg in a tiny dollop of lard she’d unearthed. For a side, she peeled the tubers, slicing them into a small pot of water for a simple broth. As an afterthought, she scooped out a smaller portion of the tubers for her own bowl, setting the rest aside. No point in making a habit of such extravagance for herself, especially not when others would soon be depending on her. Sat on a small, wobbly stool by the now-clean hearth, Bronwyn savored the humble meal. The warmth of the broth, the savory bite of the egg and onion. It wasn’t much, but it was *food*. Real food, prepared with her own hands. A faint sense of accomplishment, a small victory in a life suddenly overflowing with bewildering defeat. A muffled thud, deep and resonant, echoed from the back of the hovel. Bronwyn stiffened, her senses suddenly on high alert. It sounded like something heavy had fallen. Not the Stonefields, she reasoned; their return would be heralded by shouting and laughter. Something else, then. Something in the room where Ronan and Finn had stashed their… acquisition. Her bowl clattered softly as she set it down. Curiosity, tempered by caution, pulled her forward. She moved through the narrow corridor, her hand instinctively going to a heavy iron poker leaning by the doorframe. Not that it would do much against a trained warrior, but it was better than nothing. The door to the back room hung ajar. Through the gap, she saw him. A hulking figure, prone on the packed earth floor, a dark mass of fine spun cloth. He lay still, but the thud had clearly come from him. He must have rolled off the makeshift bed Ronan had likely prepared. Bronwyn pushed the door open, stepping into the dim space. Dust motes danced in the slivers of light filtering through a tiny, grimy window. A faint metallic tang, almost like iron, hung in the air. She approached cautiously, poker held loosely at her side. He was big. Tall and broad-shouldered, even in repose. Fine spun cloth, dark as midnight, hinted at status. Not the roughspun of a commoner. A thick leather band obscured his face, but it lay askew, revealing the strong line of a jaw, dusted with dark stubble. Bronwyn knelt beside him, a flicker of professional curiosity overriding her personal distress. She’d always been good at assessing damage. His breathing was shallow, ragged. A deeper inspection revealed a dark stain spreading across the dark fabric of his leg. Not his blood, she realized, but someone else's. And a lot of it. His hands, she noted, were not soft. Calluses scored his palms, thick as river stones, speaking of years gripping a weapon, perhaps a hammer or the hilt of a blade. A warrior, then. A high-born one, by the look of his gear. Someone Ronan would be proud to bring home. And someone, she mused wryly, who might not be in a position to escape easily. “Well, good morrow, husband,” Bronwyn muttered, half to herself. “Looks like you’ve had a tumble.” She reached out, a practical hand seeking to check the extent of the bloodstain. If it was a deep wound, she might need to fashion a proper bandage. Her fingers brushed the fabric of his dark breeches. The man twitched. His eyes snapped open. A stormy grey, suddenly alive with a fierce, primal rage. For a split second, Bronwyn was frozen, caught in the sudden intensity of his gaze. A blur of movement. A hand like iron shot towards her throat, startlingly fast even for an injured man. Bronwyn reacted on instinct. Her chubby arm, surprisingly strong, met his wrist, deflecting the attack with a sharp crack. Her unexpected combat training from a past life, a forgotten memory of self-defense classes, flared to life. She twisted, leveraging her weight, trying to pin his arm. He roared, a guttural sound, and strained against her. But something held him back. His left arm, she realized, was bound tightly to his side with thick rope. His legs, too, were lashed together, securing him firmly to the stout timbers of the bed frame. Ronan, bless his devious heart, had been thorough. Bronwyn’s unexpected burst of strength had merely highlighted his predicament. “Who... what are you doing?” His voice was a raw growl, strained and hoarse. Bronwyn, sitting heavily on his right arm, effectively pinning him, sighed. “What does it look like? You fell off the bed. I was checking your injuries. You were unconscious. And, uh, bleeding.” His chest heaved. Dark eyes narrowed, scanning her face, then sweeping down to his own bound limbs. “My garments were… disturbed.” His voice was laced with a dangerous edge. Bronwyn shrugged, a practical, no-nonsense gesture. “Had to see where the damage was. It wasn’t exactly a neat package, was it? Looks like you’ve been through a skirmish. Lots of blood on your breeches.” “That’s not my blood!” he spat, his eyes blazing. “Oh.” Bronwyn blinked, a flicker of surprise in her own gaze. “Well, I know that *now*. But I didn’t then, did I?” She paused, considering. “And frankly, with the state you were in, you weren’t exactly in a position to explain, were you?” The man stared, speechless, his face a mask of furious indignation. His right arm, still pinned beneath Bronwyn, flexed futilely. A tremor ran through him, a mixture of pain and sheer, unadulterated outrage. Bronwyn, for her part, just looked exasperated. This was going to be a long day. This was going to be a very, *very* long marriage.

Unpackaged Goods