The castle was suffocatingly silent.

In the early morning's dim, cold light, Michael paced the stone corridor outside Theodora's chamber. His footsteps echoed against the ancient walls, each creak of the wooden floorboards a stark reminder of the oppressive stillness. The chill seeped through his clothes, settling into his bones, and he pulled his cloak tighter around himself. He was far from the comforts of his 21st-century life—a life that now felt like a distant dream. Here, death lurked like a shadow in every corner.

He paused at the heavy oak door, pressing his ear against the rough wood. Muffled whispers, a stifled cry, the clatter of metal against metal—each sound tightened the knot in his stomach. Hours earlier, the midwife had barred him from entering, her eyes reflecting a mixture of respect and unwavering firmness

Now, he waited, helpless.

The silence was unbearable. He clenched his fists, nails digging into his palms until the pain grounded him. His hands—rough and calloused, a warrior's hands—trembled slightly. The absurdity of his situation gnawed at him. How had it come to this? A man armed with centuries of advanced knowledge, rendered powerless by the brutal realities of medieval life. They lacked even the most basic medical understanding that could save lives. He knew about antiseptics, germ theory, and procedures that could prevent complications. He had ordered the midwives and attendants to sterilize their hands, boil water, and cleanse the linens and instruments—simple measures that could be implemented even in this time. They had complied, albeit with puzzled expressions and whispered doubts about his peculiar directives. Yet, he was forced to stand idle as Theodora was taken away, her face pale, eyes wide with fear. Despite his efforts, he couldn't shake the foreboding that settled in his gut.

A faint creak jolted him from his thoughts. He turned sharply as the door inched open. One of the midwives stepped out, her face drawn and ashen, eyes red-rimmed from tears. The corridor seemed to close in around him, the silence heavy and foreboding.

"Despot..." she whispered, her voice barely audible. "Theodora has passed, and... the child did not survive."

The corridor tilted, and Michael felt as if the ground had vanished beneath him for a moment. He stared at her, uncomprehending.

"No," he said, shaking his head slowly. "No, that can't be."

"I'm so sorry," she whispered.

The midwife's gaze fell to the floor, a solitary tear tracing down her cheek. "It was God's will, my despot. She is at peace now."

"God's will." The phrase ignited a firestorm of anger and despair within him. A bitter taste filled his mouth as he struggled to contain the surge of emotion. How could they accept this so passively? With all his knowledge and precautions, he could not prevent this tragedy. Theodora was dead. Their child was dead. And he was expected to accept it as a divine decree?

He pushed past the midwife, the weight of grief propelling him into the chamber—the scent of beeswax candles and lingering traces of herbal remedies hung in the air. The room was dimly lit, shadows dancing along the stone walls.

His gaze fell upon Theodora. She lay upon the bed, her face serene, almost as if she were merely sleeping. Dark strands of hair framed her delicate features, spilling over the pillow like a raven's wing. Her hands were clasped gently over her chest, fingers entwined. Beside her, swathed in linen, was the still form of their daughter.

Michael’s gaze fell on the small, swaddled form beside Theodora. Their daughter. A life that had never truly begun.

The child had represented more than just hope for him—it had been a symbol of their future, the bridge between his modern knowledge and this medieval world. With Theodora, he had allowed himself to imagine a future for their family, where their child would grow up in a world he had helped transform, a world where such tragedies were not inevitable. He had seen a future where their daughter might never know the hardships of this time—the suffering, the early deaths, the fear of illness and war.

But now, that future had been stolen from him. From them both.

He reached out and gently touched the linen-wrapped child. So small. So fragile. How had he been so powerless to save them? He had thought he could change everything. But he couldn’t save the two lives that mattered most.

A soft sob escaped him as he approached. The world blurred, his vision clouded by tears he hadn't realized were forming. He reached out, his fingers brushing against Theodora's. Her skin was cold, the warmth of life extinguished.

As Michael knelt beside Theodora’s still form, memories surged, sharp and relentless. It wasn’t just her death that haunted him—it was the quiet moments, the ones that had drawn them closer over the last year.

In the beginning, their marriage had been necessary, a union born out of political alliance rather than love, even as Michael and not Constantine. But over time, things had changed. In the last year, they had bonded in ways he hadn’t anticipated. With her sharp wit and fierce loyalty, Theodora had become his confidante, his partner. She had understood him in ways few others could, and her support was constant in the chaos surrounding them.

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He thought of the nights they would sit together in the gardens long after the rest of the castle had fallen silent. She had always been curious about him, questioning the oddness in his ideas, the way he spoke of the future as if it were something tangible, already written.

There were moments—brief, fleeting—when he had thought about telling her the truth. About the 21st century, about who he really was, and how he had come to be here. He had wondered, countless times, if she would believe him, if she could understand the weight of the knowledge he carried. But he had held back every time, fearing how it might change things. Would she still have loved him if she knew?

Now, that chance was gone forever. He had kept his secret, and she had died, never knowing the man she had truly loved. The thought gnawed at him, twisting the knife of grief even deeper.

"I'm so sorry," he whispered, his voice breaking. Memories flooded his mind—the way she laughed, the warmth of her smile, the hope they had shared for their future—moments that now felt like lifetimes ago.

A faint rustle sounded behind him. He turned to see a priest standing solemnly at the doorway, clad in dark robes, a silver cross gleaming against his chest. His eyes held a sorrowful understanding.

"She is with God now, Despot," the priest said softly, stepping into the room. "Her suffering has ended. She has found eternal peace."

Michael's jaw tightened. The urge to shout, to scream at the injustice, welled up within him. Peace? What peace was there in a world that stole away the innocent? But he knew his words would fall on deaf ears. In this time, faith was an unassailable fortress against reason.

"Yes," he managed to utter, his voice hollow. "God's will."

The priest approached, placing a gentle hand on Michael's shoulder. "We must find solace in His plan. Through our trials, we are brought closer to the divine."

Michael nodded mechanically, the priest's words washing over him without meaning. His gaze drifted back to Theodora. I failed you.

After offering a quiet prayer, the priest withdrew, leaving Michael alone with his grief. The door closed with a soft click, the finality of the sound echoing in the silent chamber.

He sank to his knees beside the bed, the cold stone floor biting through his clothes. The weight of his isolation pressed down upon him. He was still a stranger in this world, burdened with knowledge that set him apart yet rendered him powerless in the face of such loss.

He thought of his grandmother's stories—the legends of Byzantium, the fall of empires, the myths of the Marmaromenos Vasilias, the Marble Emperor destined to awaken and restore glory. He had cherished those tales, the way they bridged his modern life with the echoes of the past. But now, they felt like cruel mockeries.

A memory surfaced—Theodora laughing in the garden, the sunlight catching in her hair as she playfully scolded him for his clumsy attempts at handling a medieval sword. "You may have the mind of a scholar, but you wield a blade like a farmer swatting flies," she had teased. Her eyes had sparkled with mirth, a shared moment of joy amidst the uncertainty of their lives.

The recollection tore at him. He clenched his fists, nails biting into his palms. Why couldn't I save you? He had been so focused on grand plans—introducing printing presses, revolutionizing warfare, and altering history. He even tried implementing simple medical practices to safeguard those he cared about. But despite his efforts, he had overlooked the fragility of life in this era. Theodora had been his anchor, his connection to this time, and now she was gone.

He stood slowly, the numbness giving way to a cold resolve. Moving to the window, he pushed open the shutters. The crisp morning air rushed in, carrying the scents of dew-laden grass and distant woodsmoke. The horizon was tinged with dawn's first shades, pink and gold strokes piercing the darkness.

A sob escaped him. "I should have told you," he whispered. "I should have told you everything."

Wiping his eyes, he moved back to the bed. Resolve hardened within him. If he couldn't save them, he would honor them by changing this world—by dragging it into a future where such tragedies were preventable.

He leaned over, and kissed Theodora's forehead. "I promise you," he said softly, "I will make a difference."

As he left the chamber, the first light of dawn broke over the horizon. The castle was beginning to stir, unaware of the storm brewing within him.