Whit Joveson was going through a midlife existential crisis. Was it possible to have a midlife existential crisis when you were only…thirteen? Twelve? Maybe.

It had started out as a normal day, really. Wake up, eat a hurried breakfast, avoid the Band for the rest of the day, and stick to the library like a ghost. Except it hadn't gone like that. He'd messed up badly, and Daggler had been quick to bring down punishment. He had been forcing himself to stand up in the small room he'd been left in, when all had gone black.

He had assumed, in the few short moments of consciousness prior to this, that he was blacking out from blood loss.

But no.

He had gotten into this.

"Who are you?" he finally voiced, staring up at the doe who stared back at him with an equally startled expression.

"...what."

Whit inched back a little. He had taken it upon himself to memorize everyone's face in the palace, possibly with their name along with it, and yet this doe was completely unfamiliar to him. The room had changed as well - he could see a map, marked with black lines, and a few chairs and an old table.

"Whit?"

Whit crossed his arms, looking away. "None of your business," he said, knowing full well that anyone could recognize him. He looked exactly like his mother, he was told.

"How…in the world?!" the doe finally shouted, throwing her hands in the air. She looked very stressed, maybe Whit should leave– "Whit, how old are you?" she finally demanded."

"...thirteen."

She cursed under her breath, turning quickly towards the open doors. "Helmer!" she called, peering into the hallway. "I need some help here!"

Whit simply stared, racking his mind for a face to that oh-so-familiar name. Helmer. Wasn't that…wasn't he the Lord Captain that was often threatening the Joveson pranksters if they ever touched his sword again? Hadn't he vanished - fled during the afterterrors, disappearing off of Morbin's radar? Why would he be here, in First Warren's palace?
"What's going on, miss?" he finally ventured, stepping forward slightly.

The doe turned back to him, furrowing her brow. "I'm not sure," she finally said. "Oh!" she straightened slightly. "I'm Emma, by the way."

"Oh."

Emma was not a familiar name to him.

She squinted down at him for a few seconds, just as a black buck - accompanied by a confused gold-gray buck - appeared, hand on his sword. His eyes darted down to Whit, who was still wary and caught off guard by this whole situation.

"Is that…"

"Are you a Longtreader?" Whit demanded, finally recognizing the gold-gray buck. He hadn't seen Garten in a while, but the general looks about the Longtreaders always stuck with the young prince. He narrowed his eyes at the buck.

"...Yes."

This was horrible, awful even. Whit fought down a few poison-loaded insults and shut his mouth, warily scanning the area for any Black Band members. You never knew where they could be lurking, waiting for the slightest mess up so they could swoop in like hawks.

"Is that…" Helmer cleared his throat. "Is that Prince Whitbie?"

"Yes," Emma said, hands on her hips. She stared down at Whit with confusion written all over her face. "But how?"

"It doesn't matter how," Helmer interrupted, moving forward slightly. Whit responded by moving backwards, warily crossing his arms. The whole situation confused him. Who were these people? Why was Helmer here? It didn't make any sense.

"What's going on?" Whit finally voiced.

Emma took a deep breath. "Whit, I think you time travelled."

"What?!" Three voices rose up all in tandem.

"Like in the books–like in the wild stories?" demanded the Longtreader, stepping forward, eyes wide. "That's impossible, Emma–"

"How else would you explain it?" Emma asked wearily, gesturing towards the prince. "The Whit I know is an adult. He isn't thirteen."

"Excuse me–" Whit tried to cut through their conversation.

"Well, what happened to our Whit?" the Longtreader asked, staring with wide eyes at Whit. "Is he in the past, like a reverse situation?"

"I'm not sure," Emma breathed out. "But we should get Whit up to speed on what's happened around here."

Helmer glanced down at Whit. "Well," he said gruffly. "First Warren is free. I guess we should start there."

"What?!" Whit hissed out, his eyes widening. "You–you freed First Warren? When?!"

"Just a few days ago, actually," Emma chuckled a little, suddenly looking much more tired. "I'm Emma Joveson, Whit. I'm your…" she squinted, staring into the distance. "Younger? Older? …I'm your sister, anyways."

Whit furrowed his brow. "...Oh," he whispered, trying to get over the overload of information. He turned to Helmer, allowing himself a tiny spark of hope. "Is Daggler dead?"

Helmer nodded slowly. "Dead by my hand."

Whit let a small smile appear on his face, remembering the pain that Daggler and his band put the others through. "And…" he suddenly felt very nervous. "And Winslow? Is he still alive?"

A look of disgust crossed across Helmer's face, giving Whit a strong sense of apprehension. Any previous trust he may have been easing towards vanished. As much as sibling rivalries went, they were just jokes and Whit would never bring himself to truly hate his siblings…unless…

"What happened to him?" Whit gritted out in a low voice.

Emma cleared her throat. "I think it's best if you see him yourself."