I woke with a start, jolting upright only to instantly regret it. My head was killing me and my mouth tasted sleep-sour. Pressing a hand to my forehead, I squinted my eyes to see in the low light of the room.

God, my head. Wait a minute. This…this isn’t my office.

It was a nice room, with a big four banister bed and a window framed by two heavy velvet curtains, but it definitely wasn’t my crowded little cubicle. A rich, deep red rug covered the ground beneath me and an old silver mirror glinted on the wall above a beautifully carved writing desk.

Confused, and slightly woozy, I tried to think back on the events preceding all of this.

The last thing I remembered was sitting at my desk in the county archives, inputting digital records in the county’s dinosaur of a system. I was doodling a smiley face on a post-it while I waited for the files to load with the office’s crappy wifi, then I…

I…

I couldn’t remember.

A couple possibilities crossed my mind, though.

First, this could be the fabled breakroom I’d heard so much about but had yet to see. Could be I fainted or spontaneously developed narcolepsy and one of my coworkers dragged me in here to recover. I quickly dismissed that. At this point, I was pretty sure the office’s breakroom was a local legend and also, my youngest coworker was a sweet gal named Mindy. She was sixty and used a wheelchair, so fat chance she could move me an inch on her best day. I also had a hard time believing the office had the budget for a Victorian style bed.

Second, I’d been kidnapped. Then again, who would even want me? I was just some mid-twenties guy who worked a crappy job as a county clerk and drove a hunk of junk. Maybe I’d been taken for my organs, but lifting up my shirt, I didn’t see any sutures or-

I paused, letting my shirt drop and looked at my hands. Except, they weren’t my hands. Long brown fingers attached to pale, square palms. The hair on the back of my knuckles was fine and dark and a crescent-shaped scar marked the back of my left hand. I touched them together. Soft and uncalloused. Slightly clammy.

I pushed myself off the floor, wincing against the pain thudding behind my eyes, and stumbled over to mirror. My vision faded out for a second and I was afraid I was going to collapse. A stabilizing hand on the desk kept me from falling to my knees.

Staring back at me from the mirror was a stranger. Black curls framed a dark, sullen face. Another white scar split one of his heavy eyebrows which hung above a set of yellowish, greenish eyes. The stranger’s trembling mouth split open and a scream rang out.

It took me a moment to realize it was me that was making the sound.

God, I’m so screwed.

***

Okay, so it turns out I was slightly less screwed than I had originally thought.

After the shock of waking up as a completely different person had worn off, I went looking for information on what the hell was going on.

My inspection of the bedroom turned up a doorway disguised as a tapestry that opened into what seemed to be a bright little sitting room. There were some chairs and a table by a fireplace and a set of more doors. The first few I tried lead out onto dim hallways I was sure I’d lose myself in, and, in one case, a closet full of lacey robe-things. In a stroke of luck, the last door I checked revealed a dark, cramped study stuffed full of dusty old tomes and vellum scrolls. The man whose body I was currently inside of kept a stupidly comprehensive journal that I found lying on a desk taking up most of the small room’s floorspace. I hurried back to the sitting room with it so I could see a bit easier and sank into one of the several armchairs, and I did what I do best.

I read.

His name, or I guess my name, was Gilthur Bysmoran, the last of an unmemorable line of dukes to Bysmore, a far-flung territory to the west of the Holy Faustian Imperium. His family was founded by an accomplished imperial soldier who won the title in some great war that Gilthur seemed didn’t go into detail with, to my frustration. The land was poor, the news from the Imperium bleak and his bloodline had been in decline for the better part of a century. Other than that depressing news, I learned Gilthur was a shut-in, kind of an ass and had a weird thing for a serving girl named Clora.

I shivered as I skimmed over a particularly graphic description of what he dreamed of doing to the poor peasant girl and decided it would be best to rip that part out of the journal.  

I feel like I need to wash my eyes after reading that last part.

As I watched the horny scribblings of a lonely virgin duke burn in the sitting room’s fireplace, I thought more about my situation.

So, I’d woken up as a completely different person in a completely different world. I had suspected that last part already, what with the medieval-style village I could see from the bedroom window, but Gilthur’s journal confirmed it. I’d spent most of my adult life reading books, both fictional and historical, and nowhere in any of them was there any mention of a Holy Faustian Imperium. The name was too stupidly fantastical to be a real thing. Knowing that, what was my next step? What was the plan? In the short term, survival. In the long term…I’d focus on that later.

Did people in this world believe in witches or demons? It seemed more like some isekai nerd’s wet dream from what I could see, so if my situation was somehow discovered people might think I was possessed and react badly. I’d read more than enough on the Witch Trials and the Inquisition to know that the uneducated masses could be a very dangerous thing, especially when motivated by superstition.

However, the fact that Gilthur was a self-confessed shut in made things a lot easier on me. I wouldn’t have to play the part of ‘Duke Bysmore’ too strictly to convince people I was him. All I had to do was keep on avoiding people as usual and nobody should suspect any funny business on my end. That played perfectly into my immediate survival.

Other than that, I planned on gathering more information. While Gilthur wrote exhaustively on his life in the castle, there really wasn’t much else but bits and scraps of anything more. I’d start reading through everything in the study, then see if there was a library in some other part of the castle. Maybe the town?

I shook my head. Books were expensive and rare things even just a couple hundred years before my time, and even then not everyone was guaranteed to read. There might be a few academics or amateur scholars in the village down in the valley below I could convince to let me nose through their personal collections.

First thing’s first, though.

The study.

***

A servant knocked at the door a couple hours later. I startled from where I’d slouched in the armchair, sending the papers and scrolls that had piled up around me cascading to the floor. After reading through Gilthur’s journal a second time to make sure I hadn’t missed anything, I started taking his records from the study into the sitting room. I was way too claustrophobic to spend more than a few minutes in that narrow little room and there was a lot of reading to do.

“Y-yes?” I called nervously before clearing my throat. “What is it?”

One of the doors opened a crack.

“Your Grace, I’ve brought your supper,” came a quiet voice from the other side.

I turned to the window with a raised eyebrow. The sun was still hours from setting.

So early? I usually eat dinner right before bed. Oh well, can’t be helped.

“Of course. Ehem, please, come in,” I said, readying myself for my first interaction with a person of this world.

Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

There was a pause before the door swung open fully and a pretty girl with pale blonde hair entered with a silver tray. She hardly reacted to the mess I’d made of the place expect to efficiently push a few books to the side of the fantasy version of a coffee table before setting the tray in front of me. With a practiced move, she lifted the covering and I had to actively try not to puke.

Sitting there on fine china and a bed of wilted lettuce was a whole roasted piglet, hooves and all. The chef even left the tail on the damn thing.

The girl stood back politely as I lifted a shaky to my mouth and willed my stomach to settle.

“Is there something wrong, Your Grace?” she asked.

I must not have been able to fully hide the look of sheer disgust on my face when I turned to her because she took a few halting steps backwards.

“N-no, not at all. What an-“ my eyes flicked over to the piglet before meeting her blue eyes again, “-um, interesting evening repast. Verily, a marvel of cuisine. My compliments to the chef, of course.”

 Her brow wrinkled in confusion and I had a mini panic attack. Was my dialogue too flowery? I was trying to pull pointers from every fantasy book and movie I’d consumed in the past ten years but maybe I was laying it on too thick.

Wait, Gilthur was an asshole, so maybe being rude would be more in line with his character?

Honestly, I tried imagining being mean to the girl and drew a blank. That just wasn’t me. It would probably come off even more stilted and awkward than my fake duke act. The best option in this scenario, I decided, was just to shut up and ignore her. That way I could keep from doing any more damage than I already had and maybe even shore up my appearance as the aloof nobleman.

Feeling that the servant was still watching me, I forced myself to pick up the fork and knife resting on the tray and cut a miniscule bit of meat off the animal. I brought the fork to my mouth, chewed, and forced myself to swallow.

Bleh! So bland.

It was dry as a bone and didn’t have so much as salt to season it. As far as first impressions for this new world’s cuisine went, this was abysmal. Presentation? Traumatizing. Execution? Damn near inedible. If this is what nobles ate, I pitied the poor bastards down in the valley.

Mechanically chewing another bite, I peeked out of the corner of my eye to see the servant still standing there.

Is she just going to watch me eat the whole time? That’s kinda creepy. Oh, wait, aren’t lords and ladies supposed to dismiss their servants or something? I think I saw that in a period piece once.

Realizing my mistake, I felt bad about leaving her hanging, then remembered the Duke was supposed to be rude. Still, she definitely had better things to do than watch me choke down a whole piglet.

I thumped my chest as a bit of pork lodged in my throat and went to send her off.

“Yes, a fine meal. Thank you…peasant. You may leave,” I said and shooed her in the direction of the door.

She remained for a moment longer, frozen and blinking at me, then bolted out of the room.

I felt a twinge of regret.

Maybe the whole ‘peasant’ thing was a step too far, I thought, and resolved to be nicer next time.

***

Clora was having a confusing day.

The past few weeks at Castle Bysmoran had been hells. Her parents sent her here from the village to earn a wage after her little sister caught the gut fever. After last year’s poor harvest and the Duke raising taxes yet again, they had no money to pay a healer to treat little Isel.

She’d made up her mind to do her best in her position no matter what she thought of the Duke. There were mutterings in the village, there always were, but if working under the infamous Duke could help Isel then she would do whatever she had to.

It was worse than she originally thought.

The gloomy castle was perched above the valley, hugging the craggy face of Mount Dirmbold. Despite how close it looked from the village, it took her nearly two full days travel taking winding switchback pathways and climbing sheer rock faces with her bare hands. By the time she arrived at the castle gates, she was filthy and covered with cuts and bruises. The nice dress Mama had made for her was torn to shreds. The only thing the Duke had done to welcome her that first day, after looking her over with scorn, was to offer an insult.

“Wash yourself, wench. I do not tolerate beasts in my demesne,” he’d sneered at her.

The disdain in his eyes changed the following day when he saw her freshly bathed, though she greatly preferred his disdain to the loathsome desire he now directed towards her. He started following her around as she did her chores, watching her from a distance. Prowling through the dark corridors after her, like the beast he’d claimed she was.

She knew that look. Men had been giving her that look ever since she was a girl, no matter that her parents had tried to shield her from them.

It made her skin crawl.

The other servants noticed it too, but where she had hoped for sympathy, perhaps a kind word, she received only derision. Older women, who’d been with House Bysmoran since the Duke had been a babe and harbored unwholesome designs on His Grace or, more specifically, his title. The manservant, who tried to convince her to be grateful that a man such as the Duke would ever show interest in village scum such as herself. The Duke’s drunkard of a household priest, who told her whatever happened was the plan of the Divine and to submit herself to His Will.

None of her letters home spoke of this.

Mostly, she tried to keep things focused on Isel and her condition, the one thing she had to hold onto. The money she was sending back had secured the assistance of a Healer from Rittersberg and Isel was showing signs of recovery. What extra was left over had helped cut the debt Papa owed Alderman Jorgis in half. If Mama and Papa asked, she was having a wonderful time and the Duke was a much better man than village gossip made him out to be, he didn’t even have horns! Lying to her parents made her feel ill, but it was better than them knowing the truth. That their beloved eldest daughter had resigned herself to her fate.

She’d known it was going to happen, and soon. That one night, after the servants had turned in and the lights were low, the Duke would come to her room. Maybe he’d even summon her to his chambers, make her delivery herself willingly unto him as one last insult.

And she would let it happen. For Isel, for her parents. She would let it happen.

When she’d received instructions this morning from Ms. Hemler, the housekeeper, to take the Duke his supper after evening bell she was sure it was going to happen. The place seemed even darker, after learning that, full of shadows. The entire day she had lagged in her duties, slowly working her way through the abandoned ballroom and the set of silverware that hadn’t seen use since before she was born. Her mind was elsewhere, trying to escape the reality of her situation.

When the hour was at hand, she’d stolen away from her tasks and made her way to the castle’s chapel, a narrow building wedged in between the main keep and Dirmbold’s rough granite skin. The place was abandoned except for the priest, slumped over a splintery pew, but he was too deep in his ale induced sleep to notice the whisp of a young woman breeze past him.

Clora, who some called the prettiest girl in all of Dirmholt, prayed, for herself and for her family. She prayed hard. She’d never been a religious person, but she hoped if there was a God out there, that they would give her strength and watch over her little sister.

Breathing out the seven blessed words, she made the mark of the sun on her forehead and snuck back out. The pit that had been forming in her stomach for weeks was still there, but she felt better. Just a little.

Cook Rhasgil was angry with her when she finally made it to the kitchens, ten past evening bell.

“There’s the little strumpet. An’ where’ve you been, then? Lazing about I ‘spose?” the fat man bellowed. She winced at the volume of his voice but the sole other occupant of the kitchens, Rhasgil’s apprentice, went about his business as if nothing had happened. He was probably used to it.

“No, Cook, I was-“

Rhasgil spat to the side, cutting her off with a flick of his meaty hand.

“Never mind all that, food’s likely to turn to ice while you make your excuses. Now, take it to His Grace before I hear a word about it. And be quick about it!”

She muttered her apologies and darted out of the door with the Duke’s supper. The long walk to His Grace’s quarters on the top floor of the keep felt like a funeral march, her legs woodenly trudging up the steps. When she arrived, she took a deep breath and straightened her back. She’d face her future with steel in her spine, like her Papa had taught her. She refused to cower in fear, though revulsion writhed in her like a snake.

She knocked, and when she spoke she made sure her voice was clear and strong. If her knees shook a little, no one had to know.

Inside his chambers, the Duke was poring over teetering stacks of books and loose papers. It wasn’t anything new to her. His eccentricities were a feature of the castle, just like Cook’s poor temper and Ms. Hemler’s wart. She took measured steps to the table and went about setting down his dinner, then drew back.

On the outside, she was tranquility itself. On the inside, her mind raced.

Would he want to do it before his supper, or after? Am I to sit and wait on him like a dog its master?

She couldn’t decide which option she would prefer, and as the storm in her mind continued to rage the Duke turned to her. There was no stopping the involuntary steps she took back as their eyes met. She expected that same hungry look, the fiendish heat with which he’d watched her these many weeks, but instead…

What?

The Duke’s face was pinched as he scooted as far back in his chair as he could to get from the beautiful suckling piglet Cook had prepared. To be perfectly honest, it seemed like he was about to be sick.

Then he opened his mouth to speak and pure nonsense fell out. She didn’t even know what a repast was.

She was doubtful, though. No matter how absurd his language was it could all be a game, some strange kind of tactic to lull her into a false sense of security. But he just seemed so different. His eyes were vaguely panicked, his face polite if a bit green around the gills. There were no more sneers, no more possessive looks.

She spoke on instinct but didn’t hear his response. The dread that’d been building up for weeks fell flat, her thoughts a blank haze of confusion. The world around her didn’t register until she realized the Duke was speaking to her and another to digest what he’d said.

I can…leave?

Despite his lack of advances, it was the last thing she anticipated. The thing she’d prayed for. Once she managed to get her legs moving once more, she was halfway to the servant’s quarters before she stopped to catch her breath in a little alcove.

What the hells just happened? She asked herself. While she might not know, she resolved to light a candle in the chapel and offer a little mulled wine on the altar, just in case.

Clora was having a confusing day, but it ended much better than she expected.