Elias felt the familiar, unsettling pull of time travel, and before he could even gather his bearings, he found himself standing in a small, damp, and shadowed stone cell. His heart raced—not from fear, but from the weight of what he was about to do.

He looked down at himself. Jeans, t-shirt, jacket—nothing about him screamed "historical figure in need of an interview." But then again, he didn’t care. He wasn’t here to impress anyone. He wasn’t here to make small talk or explain himself. He was here to ask a question—one question. And nothing, not even his unconventional attire, was going to get in the way of that.

The cell was cold, the air thick with the smell of mildew, but Elias barely noticed. He had no time for details; he had a mission, and it involved getting answers.

The woman sitting in the corner of the cell didn’t notice him at first, her focus turned inward, her eyes distant. Then, as if sensing his presence, her gaze flicked up, landing on him with a sharpness that startled him.

She studied him, her eyes narrowing. She didn’t say anything at first—just took in his clothes, the plainness of them, the unfit for the time. He could feel the judgment in her gaze.

Elias didn’t flinch. “Yeah, I know, I’m not exactly in period-appropriate gear,” he said, almost dismissively, his voice cutting through the silence like a knife. “But I’m not here to talk about my wardrobe. Let’s cut to the chase.”

Joan of Arc stood slowly, her chains clinking as she rose. Her face, so often painted in history as the martyr, was now real, and Elias couldn’t ignore the gravity of her presence. But he wasn’t here for reverence. He didn’t have the time to fawn over someone who would soon be executed.

“You speak like you have no fear,” she said, her voice steady, a mix of curiosity and wariness. “What is your purpose here, stranger?”

“Purpose,” Elias repeated, eyes narrowing. “Yeah, that’s what I’m trying to figure out. But you’re the one who’s got the answers.” He stepped closer, not bothering to hide his impatience. “You’re about to die. You're chained up in this cell, probably feeling like you’ve done everything right, that you’re some kind of martyr. But tell me—why? Why are you so sure you’ve got the truth? Why throw your life away for this... this war, this faith?”

Joan's eyes flashed, but she didn’t hesitate. “Because I was chosen. God spoke to me. I did what He asked.”

Elias’s lips twisted into a half-smile. “God, huh? I’m no expert, but I’ve heard that one before. People say a lot of things in the name of God. But you—” he gestured to her, “—you seem different. What makes you so sure? You’ve fought battles, faced betrayal. And now you're here, about to die.”

Joan’s gaze never wavered. “I know my purpose,” she said simply. “God’s will is clear to me. I will not die in vain.”

Elias crossed his arms, leaning against the bars of her cell. “Yeah, but what does that mean? What’s it like, knowing exactly what you're meant to do? You’re not some random soldier—you're Joan of Arc. You’re... supposed to be the chosen one, right?” He laughed, but it was bitter. “What happens when everything you’ve fought for falls apart? What happens when you lose everything? I mean, isn’t that what’s happening now?”

Joan’s eyes softened, but her resolve remained as solid as ever. “I fight because I was chosen. The world may not understand it, but I do. I will not regret my choices.”

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Elias’s voice dropped, barely above a whisper. “What if you could? What if you could take it all back? Stop it before it started? Would you?”

Joan stood silent for a moment, her gaze unwavering as she met his eyes. “I would do it all again. No regret.”

Elias didn’t know what to say to that. He wasn’t sure what he expected from her—maybe doubt, maybe a crack in the armor. But she was resolute, unshakeable. And he was left standing there, struggling to make sense of it all.

He’d come here searching for answers about purpose, about life, about how people could go through so much and still hold onto what they believed in. And all he had were more questions, more confusion.

He ran a hand through his hair, half-laughing at the absurdity of it. “Right. No second thoughts. No doubt.” His voice dropped, almost to himself, “Must be nice.”

Joan’s eyes softened for a brief moment, but her expression remained firm. “Perhaps you do not understand now, but you will find your purpose too. Do not waste your time searching aimlessly.”

Elias nodded slowly, taking in her words. Was he really just... wasting time? Running from the truth? He wasn’t sure yet. But this conversation, this moment—he’d have to keep it with him. Maybe it would all make sense eventually. Maybe it wouldn’t.

Either way, he wasn’t leaving until he had the answers he needed.

“Alright, Joan,” he said, stepping back toward the door. “Thanks for the chat. I’ll let you get back to your... martyrdom. Good luck with that whole burning-at-the-stake thing. I’ll be here, figuring out my own mess.”

She didn’t reply. She didn’t need to.

As he left the cell, the weight of her unwavering faith hung heavy in the air. Maybe he didn’t get the answers he was looking for, but he knew one thing for sure: She was something different. Something unyielding.

Elias’s feet barely made a sound as he walked away from the cell. His thoughts, however, were anything but quiet. He replayed the conversation in his head, turning it over, trying to make sense of it all.

Joan of Arc—there was something about her. Something undeniably strong. She was so certain, so sure of her purpose, even though it was leading her straight into the flames. He couldn’t help but admire that, but at the same time, he couldn’t understand it. How could anyone have that kind of conviction? How could anyone be so unshakable in the face of death?

He had his own questions—questions that burned inside of him, questions about life, about choices, about meaning. But here she was, a woman on the brink of execution, still standing tall, still unwavering. She had no doubt in her mind that she was doing the right thing, that she was fulfilling some higher calling.

Elias, on the other hand… He was lost. His life had become a series of fragmented memories, questions with no answers. He wasn’t sure what he was searching for anymore. Not after losing her.

He rubbed the back of his neck, trying to shake off the heaviness that was settling in his chest. The pain of it all—losing her—had followed him through every moment, even when he was standing here in the past, speaking to people who had long since passed away. He had no answers. No direction.

But Joan? She had a mission. She had a purpose. She had something that Elias, in his gut, knew he was still searching for.

He stopped walking for a moment and looked back toward the cell. Through the bars, he could still see her standing there, her head held high, her resolve unbroken. Maybe, just maybe, he could learn something from that.

The door creaked as it swung open, and a sudden rush of wind tugged at his jacket. The air around him began to shift, the present moment slipping away like sand through his fingers.

Elias clenched his jaw, fighting the pull of time. He wasn’t ready to leave. Not yet. Not when everything still felt so… unfinished. But it was the only thing he could do—keep moving, keep searching.

With a final glance back toward Joan’s prison, Elias sighed and stepped forward. The familiar sensation of time traveling gripped him again, pulling him toward the next moment, the next place.

There was still so much to uncover, so much he didn’t understand.

He had no idea what he’d find next. But maybe, just maybe, he could find some answers. He had to keep looking.