Chapter 1 – Awakening in a Strange Land
Cal's senses returned slowly, piece by piece, like fragments of a broken HUD screen flickering back to life. The pain was there—a deep, relentless throbbing in her ribs and skull. The Brute's gravity hammer had connected, of that she was sure, yet she was still breathing. That wasn't right.
Her eyes fluttered open. Instead of the cold, dim interior of a ship or the sterile brightness of a field hospital, she saw an endless expanse of blue sky, dotted with fluffy white clouds. Real sky. Real sunlight. The warmth on her face wasn't from artificial heating; it was genuine.
A breeze carried the scent of fresh earth and something else—something richer and wilder than the recycled air of a UNSC vessel. Birds chirped somewhere in the distance, their songs foreign but oddly soothing. The ringing in her ears finally subsided, allowing her to hear the rustle of leaves and the faint murmur of water flowing nearby.
She blinked rapidly, trying to process it all. This wasn't the mission zone. This wasn't the battlefield. Where the hell was she?
With effort, Cal pushed herself up, muscles screaming in protest. Her body still ached from the impact, but her armor was intact. That was impossible. A direct hit from a Brute's hammer should've cracked her Mjolnir plating at the very least.
Her HUD flickered erratically, struggling to establish a connection. Static. No UNSC signals. No Covenant chatter. No satellites to ping. The compass spun wildly before settling into something coherent, but the readings made no sense. She was supposed to be on Reach. This was not Reach.
Slowly, she took in her surroundings. Rolling green hills stretched toward the horizon, giving way to dense forests and distant mountains. A dirt road wound its way toward a small settlement nestled in the valley below. The buildings were primitive—stone walls, thatched roofs, wooden carts resting beside narrow streets. No power lines. No vehicles. No modern infrastructure of any kind.
Cal's grip instinctively tightened around her rifle. She took quick inventory.
SRS99C-S2 Sniper Rifle – Fully loaded.
M6G Magnum Sidearm – Check.
Combat Knife – Secure.
Frag Grenades – Intact.
Everything was where it should be, but none of it explained why she was here or when she was.
She forced herself onto her feet, boots sinking slightly into the damp soil. The armor's servos whirred softly, adjusting to her movement. Every part of her training screamed to remain unseen until she knew more. She crouched, scanning for hostiles, for anything resembling the Covenant or—at the very least—a recognizable sign of human technology.
Nothing.
Her breathing slowed as she tried to focus. What do we know? she asked herself. No Covenant. No UNSC signals. No immediate threats. Primitive settlement nearby. No clear indication of what planet we're on.
She had to investigate, but charging in blind wasn't an option. Her armor might make her look like an unstoppable force, but if this world's inhabitants weren't used to technology—especially something as advanced as Mjolnir Gen-3—she risked scaring them into hostility.
She checked her gauntlet's systems again. Navigation was unreliable, but motion tracking was at least functioning. No nearby movement aside from the natural world.
She moved cautiously, following the curve of the dirt road but staying just within the treeline for cover. As she drew closer to the village, details became clearer. People moved about, dressed in tunics and simple cloth garments, carrying baskets or leading animals through the streets. No energy weapons. No plasma burns. No visible defenses. They weren't soldiers. They were farmers, traders, and common folk.
Cal exhaled slowly. This isn't just another planet. This is another time.
The realization struck hard. Her mind whirred through possibilities—some experimental Forerunner tech, a malfunctioning slipspace anomaly, or even something beyond human understanding. But the reality remained: she was alone in a world that shouldn't exist, in an era that wasn't hers.
For now, survival took precedence. Information. Resources. Potential allies. If she was going to get back, she needed all three.
Steeling herself, Cal adjusted the grip on her rifle and stepped out of the treeline, heading toward the unknown.
The mission had changed.
Now, it was simply to endure.
Chapter 2 – The Realization
Cal kept to the treeline, crouched low as she observed the settlement through her sniper scope. Every instinct screamed at her to move with caution, to remain unseen until she understood what she was dealing with. Observe first. Engage later. That was the Spartan way.
She adjusted the magnification on her SRS99C-S2, zooming in on the villagers going about their lives. At first, nothing stood out. But as she continued to watch, details began to fall into place, each one sending a fresh wave of confusion through her mind.
The people spoke Spanish, but it was different. The words were recognizable, yet their pronunciation and structure were off. She had learned multiple languages as part of her Spartan training, but this dialect was something she'd only seen in old texts and history lessons. Archaic.
Their clothing was entirely pre-industrial. Rough wool and linen garments, stitched by hand. No synthetic fabrics. No mass-produced uniforms. Everything looked handmade and practical for survival rather than style.
No firearms. There were men patrolling the edges of the settlement, but instead of modern weapons, they carried swords, crossbows, and even crude matchlock guns. Old technology—primitive by her standards.
Her mind whirred as she pieced together the evidence. This wasn't just another lost colony. This wasn't an off-world human settlement that had regressed over time. No, this was something far more impossible.
Her HUD continued to flicker with errors. The internal date system displayed only garbled numbers. She tapped a few controls on her gauntlet, attempting to force a system reboot, but nothing changed. No satellites to connect to. No way to verify her location through standard means. She was entirely cut off from everything she knew.
And then, the realization struck her like a hammer to the chest.
She was in the past.
Not just decades or even centuries. She was in the year 1521.
She exhaled slowly, forcing herself to stay calm, but the weight of that realization settled deep into her bones. 1521. The age of empires. The age of war. And if she was in Europe, in Spain… then the ruler was likely Charles I—Carlos V, the Holy Roman Emperor.
Her fingers flexed around the grip of her rifle, her training battling against the sheer impossibility of it all. Time travel wasn't real. Not according to anything humanity had ever discovered. Even the Forerunners, with all their advanced technology, had never proven to manipulate time. Yet, here she was, standing in a world where the stars were nothing but distant, unreachable lights in the sky.
For the first time in years, true unease settled in her gut. A Spartan could handle anything—enemy ambushes, planetary invasions, being stranded in hostile territory. But this? This was beyond anything she had ever been prepared for.
She forced herself to think logically. What are the objectives?
Survival – Her armor and training would keep her alive, but she needed food, shelter, and information.
Avoid Detection – If she revealed herself, the consequences could be catastrophic. The people here would see her as a demon, a god, or worse—a threat.
Find a Way Home – That was the biggest problem. There was no slipspace, no UNSC, no technology advanced enough to send her back.
Her mind raced through potential solutions, but none were promising. There were no answers here. No way back.
For the first time since she was a child, since she was taken and reforged into a Spartan, Cal felt something foreign press against her mind—uncertainty.
She was alone.
Completely, utterly alone.
The UNSC had protocols for being stranded on alien worlds, for surviving behind enemy lines. But there was no protocol for this.
Cal took a slow, steadying breath, pushing down the rising tide of emotion. She couldn't afford doubt. Doubt got people killed. Right now, she needed to focus on the immediate. Shelter. Food. Information. If she was going to survive in this world, she had to adapt.
Because there was no other choice.
Chapter 3 – A Life in the Shadows
Cal made her decision. There was no way home. No UNSC waiting for her. No fellow Spartans to regroup with. No war to fight—at least, not the war she had known.
She was alone in the 16th century. And if she couldn't return, then she would disappear.
No more war. No more missions. No more being a Spartan.
The idea should have unsettled her, but instead, it brought an eerie sense of peace. For the first time since she was conscripted as a child, she had no orders to follow. No commanding officers. No enemies with plasma weapons hunting her down. She had been forged into a weapon, but here, in this world, she was a ghost.
She traveled south, avoiding major roads and settlements, moving only under the cover of darkness. Eventually, she found what she needed—a long-abandoned farmstead, high in the mountains of Andalucía. The stone structure was little more than a ruin, but it was secluded, far from watchful eyes. It would do.
Hiding in Plain Sight
Disappearing meant more than just isolation. It meant becoming someone—or something—else.
She scavenged old rags and clothes from distant villages, taking what she needed from unattended drying lines. She wrapped herself in layers, covering the sleek, unnatural bulk of her armor beneath crude wool and linen. A heavy hood concealed her face, and when villagers caught glimpses of her, they saw only a hunched, misshapen figure. A beggar. A hermit. Perhaps even a cursed soul best left undisturbed.
She let their superstitions do the rest.
When whispers spread of a "wretched mountain spirit," she encouraged the rumors with careful manipulation. She left animal bones hanging in nearby trees. Scratched eerie markings into stones along the forest's edge. At night, she ensured the glow of her helmet's visor was glimpsed through the fog before vanishing into the darkness. Fear was a powerful tool—it ensured the villagers would keep their distance.
Survival and Preparation
Hiding was only part of the equation. She needed food, supplies, and security. A Spartan was trained to survive in any environment, and she used every skill she had to carve out a life in this unfamiliar world.
She started by making the crumbling farmhouse livable, reinforcing the roof with salvaged wood and stone, patching gaps with mud and dried grass. She dug a well for fresh water and constructed a primitive system for gathering rainwater.
Her supplies came from careful raids—sometimes stolen, sometimes bartered for. Over time, she built up a modest existence:
Livestock – A few goats, chickens, and a sturdy mule, either taken from unattended herds or discreetly traded for in distant markets.
A Garden – Root vegetables, herbs, and whatever wild plants she could cultivate.
A Weapons Cache – Her sniper rifle, sidearm, combat knife, and grenades, all buried beneath the barn in a waterproof container. She kept them hidden, but close enough should she ever need them.
The Hunter in the Wild
Meat was the hardest resource to acquire. She could not afford to rely solely on stolen livestock, so she turned to the wilderness.
The forests and mountains were rich with game—deer, wild boar, hares. She crafted bows and traps for small game, but when larger prey was needed, she turned to her rifle.
A gunshot was a risk. The sound carried far in the quiet of the wild. But Cal's precision ensured no one would ever find the kill site. One shot. One clean execution. Then she moved the body and concealed her tracks, harvesting what she needed before vanishing once more.
Over time, she became a phantom of the mountains.
Travelers spoke of strange sounds in the hills, of shadows moving where none should be. Some said a spirit guarded the land. Others whispered of a cursed soul exiled to the wilderness.
She let them believe whatever kept them away.
She was neither spirit nor exile. She was a Spartan.
And she would endure.
Chapter 4 – Second Chances
Months passed. The seasons shifted, the winds grew colder, and the mountain forests turned golden with the arrival of autumn. Cal lived in solitude, her mind slowly adjusting to a life without war, without orders.
For the first time in her existence, she had choices.
No superiors commanding her every move.
No looming battles on the horizon.
No need to constantly prove herself, to be faster, stronger, deadlier than the enemy.
And yet… the silence was not peace. It was something else.
The war had never truly left her.
She still dreamed of Reach—the smell of burning metal, the screams of civilians, the roar of Banshees in the sky. She dreamed of Spartan training, of the ODSTs who fought beside her and never made it back. And always, she dreamed of the Brute's hammer crashing down, the moment she should have died. She would wake in cold sweats, fingers wrapped tight around her combat knife, ready to fight ghosts that no longer existed.
This world did not demand a soldier.
It demanded a survivor.
And she could be that.
The Ghost in the Mountains
The village below whispered about the figure in the mountains.
Rumors spread of a ghostly presence—a wretched spirit, an exile, or perhaps something divine. Some believed it was a holy woman, cast out into the wilderness for a sin too great to name. Others feared it was a cursed soul, condemned by God to wander the peaks forever.
Cal let the myths grow. They kept people away. Fear was a useful tool, one she had wielded many times before.
But sometimes, she allowed the boundaries of her isolation to slip.
When travelers lost their way in the mountains, she watched from the shadows. If they were in danger—injured, starving, or lost in the cold—she would leave food, water, or blankets for them at night.
She never let herself be seen. The gifts were always found at the edge of a dying fire, just outside the glow of their torches. Some believed it was an act of God. Others whispered of the mountain spirit's mercy.
She did not care what they believed, only that they survived.
She was no hero here, but neither was she heartless.
Learning to Live
Cal spent months rebuilding the farmstead into a place of true self-sufficiency. Every day was a mission, a new objective to complete.
She expanded the garden, learning which plants thrived in the mountain soil. Root vegetables, herbs, and berries became her staples.
She refined her hunting techniques, using traps and bows instead of her rifle whenever possible to avoid drawing attention.
She crafted tools and reinforced her home, ensuring it could withstand the harsh winter ahead.
The Spartan in her found comfort in the structure of survival, in the necessity of planning ahead. It was not so different from preparing for a long campaign. She had spent her entire life adapting to harsh conditions, and this was no different—only the enemy had changed.
Winter. Hunger. Isolation.
These were her new opponents.
And she would outlast them all.
A Voice in the Dark
One night, as she watched the village from a distant ridge, she heard something unexpected.
Singing.
A lone voice carried through the valley below, raw and unpolished but full of quiet strength. The words were old Spanish, but their meaning was clear even to her. A song of hardship, of survival, of waiting for a future that may never come.
Cal stood in the cold, listening longer than she should have.
Even in solitude, some part of her still longed for connection.
But she was a ghost. And ghosts did not belong among the living.
Turning away, she disappeared into the darkness once more.
Chapter 5 – A Warrior's Rest
The fire crackled softly, sending tendrils of warm light flickering against the rough stone walls of her cabin. Shadows danced along the wooden beams overhead, and outside, the cold night wind whispered through the trees.
Cal sat cross-legged near the hearth, her helmet resting in her lap. Her gloved fingers traced the battle-worn edges, the familiar grooves and scuffs that told the story of every mission, every survival, every loss. The visor reflected the fire's glow—a golden hue cast over the hardened shell that had once been her entire identity.
Her last true connection to the past.
She had once believed her only purpose was war. That she had been created for nothing else. Spartans were weapons, trained to fight, to kill, to win at all costs. She had lived by that doctrine.
But here? Here, she was something else. Not a soldier. Not a warrior. Just a woman trying to survive in a world that had never been meant for her.
Maybe this was her second chance.
She exhaled, slow and deep, setting the helmet aside.
The weight of the war—the weight of her war—was something she had carried for so long that she had never considered what it would be like to put it down. And yet, in this quiet place, in the highlands of 1521 Spain, she had found something she had never known before.
Peace.
A Life Unwritten
Her days had become simple. Work. Hunt. Maintain the farmstead. Watch the village below from a distance. The structure of survival gave her a sense of stability, something to focus on beyond the past.
She learned to sew, to repair her scavenged clothing rather than rely on stolen goods. She learned the rhythms of the land—the seasons, the migration of game, the subtle shifts in weather that foretold storms or droughts.
She kept to herself, unseen but never ignorant of the world around her. She listened to whispered conversations in village markets, piecing together the history of a time that had once been nothing more than pages in a textbook.
King Charles ruled Spain, though his empire stretched far beyond its borders. Wars raged in lands she would never see, alliances were made and broken, but none of it touched her here.
She was outside of history. A ghost in the mountains.
And for now, she preferred it that way.
The Weight of Memories
But the past did not fade so easily.
Some nights, she dreamt of battle. Of plasma fire scorching the air. Of cries over the radio, of dying soldiers whose names she had never learned. She woke with her heart pounding, reaching for weapons that were no longer needed.
Other nights, she dreamt of her Spartan team.
Of laughter shared in quiet moments between missions. Of the feeling of absolute trust in those who fought beside her.
She wondered if they had survived. If they had searched for her. If, in some distant time, her name was listed as MIA or KIA, just another casualty of war.
She would never know.
She let out a breath, rubbing a hand over her face. You are here now. Focus on that.
But even as she told herself this, she knew—some part of her would always be haunted.
Acceptance
Time moved forward, and she moved with it.
The loneliness never left entirely, but she learned to live with it. The ache of the past became less sharp, less all-consuming.
She found joy in small things. The way the frost glistened on the trees in the morning light. The satisfaction of a well-tended crop. The quiet hum of the wind through the valley.
For the first time in her life, she had no orders to follow. No mission to complete.
And for the first time in her life, that was enough.
Chapter 6 – The Cost of Survival
Cal-141 sat on the uneven wooden floor of her isolated farmstead, her breathing slow and controlled, each inhale measured against the persistent, gnawing pain in her ribs. The fire in the hearth cast flickering shadows on the walls, but no warmth could reach the deep ache in her bones. She had felt pain before—Spartan training had hardened her to it—but this? This was different.
The Brute Chieftain's gravity hammer had nearly shattered her entire left side—ribs, hip, shoulder, all pulsing with a relentless throb beneath her armor. The memory of impact was seared into her mind. The moment of weightlessness before she was flung through the air. The sound of breaking bones, the shockwave rattling through her skull.
That had been months ago.
She should have been dead.
If she had been back in UNSC space, medics would have treated her with biofoam, performed advanced surgery, given her a full rehabilitation program. But here? In 1521, there were no doctors who could set fractures with precision, no medpacks stocked with nanomedicine, no AI-assisted recovery systems.
Just time. Time and pain.
She exhaled, tilting her head back against the wall. Her armor remained intact, and that confused her. MJOLNIR systems should have taken more damage. A hit like that should have shattered its kinetic dampeners, wrecked the servos, at least left visible cracks in the plating. But when she had first checked it upon waking, everything was… fine. As if whatever had brought her to this time had reset the armor but left her body broken.
"Figures," she muttered under her breath, her voice rasping against the silence. "Armor gets a second chance. I don't."
A Battle with Time
The injury slowed her down. She had learned to move with it, to brace herself against the stiffness and adapt her combat stance. But every step carried a reminder of the fight she had barely survived.
She had tried crude medieval remedies—poultices of crushed herbs, bindings made from torn linen, even heated stones pressed against the deep ache in her ribs. Nothing truly helped, but it was all she had. Pain was a companion now, one she carried alongside hunger and isolation.
She had forced herself to work through it.
She reinforced the farmhouse, pushing through the pain to stack stone and hammer beams into place.
She continued hunting, using more traps and bows, relying less on the power her armor could provide.
She trained, practicing slow, controlled movements to keep her combat reflexes sharp, even when her body screamed in protest.
But she knew the truth.
She wasn't healing properly.
The UNSC had made Spartans stronger, faster, more resilient—but they were not immune to time. Without proper treatment, her body was recovering at a fraction of the speed it should have. And if she ever had to fight again, truly fight, she wasn't sure if she would win.
That was a dangerous realization.
Isolation's Price
She had stayed hidden for months now. The village below knew nothing of the woman in the mountains, only the legend of the ghost that watched them from afar. But Cal knew that sooner or later, someone would come too close. Someone would see more than they should. And if she was not at her full strength when that happened…
She clenched her fists.
She needed to do something. But what?
Going into a village, seeking help, was out of the question. Even the most advanced healers of this time would be useless to her, and worse—they would see too much. A woman with unnatural strength, wounds that should have killed her, armor unlike anything in existence.
They would fear her. Call her a demon. A monster. A sign from God or the devil.
She wasn't ready to risk that.
So she did what she had always done. She endured.
She pushed through the pain, forced herself to move, to work, to survive. She had survived Reach. She had survived the Covenant. She had survived a slipspace rift that had no right to exist.
She would survive this, too.
Even if it meant living every day in pain.
Even if it meant fighting battles where there was no enemy.
Even if it meant accepting that this, perhaps, was all she had left.
Chapter 7 – The Spartan's Code
The pain wasn't going to heal overnight. She had accepted that.
It had been months since she had woken up in this world, and her injuries still burned deep in her bones. If she were back with the UNSC, a medic would have patched her up within hours—biofoam injections, skeletal reinforcement, painkillers strong enough to keep her moving. An AI would have monitored her vitals, ensuring that she recovered with efficiency.
But she had none of that here.
No ODST squadmates to patch her up. No sterile operating rooms. Just time, pain, and the crude medical knowledge of a world centuries behind her own.
She had to make do with what she had.
Pain Management
Pain was a constant companion, dull and heavy, flaring into sharp agony whenever she moved too quickly. There were no stimulants. No morphine. No advanced medicine.
Wild Herbs – She scoured the mountains for plants with pain-relieving properties, grinding them into crude pastes that dulled the edge of her suffering.
Alcohol – A stolen bottle of local wine served as a weak antiseptic when she needed to clean wounds or dull the worst of the pain. It burned like hell, but it worked.
Discipline – Pain was the mind's way of warning the body, but Spartans were trained to push beyond it. She had fought with broken bones before. This was no different.
Splinting and Bracing
She had done her best to assess the damage. Her ribs were fractured—possibly broken in multiple places. There was nothing she could do about internal damage, but she could stabilize the rest.
Fabric Bracing – She tore strips from old cloaks she had stolen in past raids, wrapping them tightly around her torso, pressing her ribs into place as best as she could.
Limited Motion – Too much movement would worsen the injury, but too little would lead to weakness. She had to strike a balance—move just enough to stay sharp, but not enough to break herself further.
Diet and Recovery
A Spartan's body was a machine—fuel mattered. If she wanted to heal, she needed protein, nutrients, hydration. The medieval diet of bread and weak ale wasn't going to cut it.
Hunting – She hunted in short bursts, avoiding prolonged chases that could strain her ribs. She used her sniper rifle only when necessary—its loud echo was a risk.
Protein-Rich Meals – Wild boar, deer, and whatever small game she could catch became her staple diet.
Foraging – She identified edible plants, roots, and berries, supplementing her meals with whatever she could safely consume.
Water – Clean water from the mountain streams was a necessity, helping her stay hydrated and prevent infection.
Armor Maintenance
Her MJOLNIR Mark IV armor was both a blessing and a curse. It was built to withstand the worst the Covenant could throw at it, yet it wasn't immune to time. Without proper maintenance, it would eventually fail her.
Diagnostics – She spent hours running system checks, ensuring power cores remained stable and servo functions were optimal.
Bio-Monitor Alerts – The internal medical systems constantly flagged her injuries, warning her of worsening conditions—but without UNSC medical support, all it could do was remind her of what she already knew.
Structural Integrity – Despite the Brute Chieftain's hammer nearly destroying her, her armor remained intact. The anomaly of that fact still lingered in her mind.
Physical Therapy
Resting too long was a death sentence. A Spartan who couldn't move was a Spartan who was already dead. Even when every motion sent white-hot pain lancing through her body, she forced herself to move.
Walking – Each morning, she made herself walk the perimeter of her land. Slow, controlled steps. Pushing through the stiffness.
Knife Drills – Muscle memory was everything. Even with her ribs screaming in protest, she practiced slow, precise movements, ensuring that if she ever needed to fight, she wouldn't hesitate.
Weapons Handling – She reloaded her sniper rifle, disassembled her pistol, kept her hands busy. The act of maintaining her weapons was as much therapy as it was necessity.
She couldn't afford to be weak—not in this world.
She was still a Spartan.
And Spartans endured.
Chapter 8 – The Monster in the Mountains
One night, trouble came to her doorstep.
For months, she had been careful. Avoiding villages. Avoiding roads. Keeping her existence to whispers in the wind. A ghost. A shadow. But the mountains were never truly empty, and isolation was never absolute.
Bandits still roamed the highlands. And even the most forgotten places could not stay hidden forever.
She heard them before she saw them.
Five men. Their voices were low, speaking hushed Spanish, their tones laced with greed. They moved in staggered steps, cautious but confident, creeping toward her farmstead like wolves closing in on wounded prey.
They thought they had found an easy target.
They were wrong.
The Kill
Cal exhaled slowly, forcing her body into motion. Pain pulsed with every breath, her ribs still fragile, but she ignored it. It had been too long since she'd fought something that could bleed. Since she'd felt the weight of combat in her hands.
She reached for her M6G Magnum, fingers curling around the familiar grip. Heavy. Reliable. A weapon that had once been standard issue but now felt like an artifact of another life.
Through the gaps in the wooden walls, she caught glimpses of the intruders. Poorly armed. Knives, clubs, a rusted musket slung over one man's back. Not soldiers. Just scavengers looking for an easy score.
They were about to learn the truth the hard way.
The first bandit stepped onto her porch.
Cal moved.
Silent as death, she erupted from the darkness, her right arm driving a combat knife deep into his throat. The steel bit flesh, cutting off his scream before it could fully form. Blood sprayed against the wooden planks. He crumpled without a sound.
The others reacted—too slow.
Shouts of alarm. The scrape of metal as weapons were drawn. Panic.
But Cal had already drawn her Magnum.
One shot. A 12.7mm round punched through the chest of the second bandit. He staggered, his musket falling from limp fingers before he collapsed.
Another shot. The third went down hard, his knee shattered. He screamed—until she ended it with a quick thrust of her knife to the base of his skull.
The last two ran.
She let them go.
Fear was a weapon, just like any other. Let them spread the rumors. Let them tell stories of the monster in the mountains, the demon that killed without mercy. If it kept others away, it was worth it.
The Cost of Violence
The battle had lasted seconds, but her body felt every moment of it.
Leaning against the wooden wall, she pressed a hand to her side. Warm, wet. Her wounds had reopened. Blood dripped beneath her armor, staining the rough fabric of her stolen tunic. She forced herself to stand.
Pain was just another enemy to conquer.
She dragged the bodies away before dawn, burying them beneath the cold mountain soil. By morning, there would be no sign of what had happened here—except for the two survivors who would carry the story down to the villages below.
Cal sat on her porch, watching the sun rise over the distant hills. The air smelled of pine and damp earth.
This was her world now.
And she would survive it. Just as she always had.
Chapter 9 – A Priest and a Ghost
The rumors had spread like wildfire.
In the remote mountains of Andalucía, whispers spoke of a lone, towering woman draped in tattered rags, her face hidden beneath layers of cloth. Some claimed she was a cursed spirit, wandering the hills in exile for sins unknown. Others murmured that she was a noblewoman in hiding, escaping a fate worse than death. But the most alarming stories spoke of her unnatural strength, her mastery of weapons unseen by mortal men, and the eerie silence in which she moved.
The villagers feared her. The bandits who had survived her wrath warned others away.
And so, the Church sent a man to investigate.
The Priest's Journey
Father Esteban was an aging priest, his hair long since turned white, his frame thin but steady. He had served God for over five decades, tending to the people of the land, offering prayers for the lost and blessings for the found. He had seen much in his years—war, famine, the cruelty of men—but what he sought in the mountains was something else entirely.
His orders were clear. Find the woman. See if she was a threat, a lost soul, or something far worse.
He carried little on his journey. A small satchel with a Bible, a loaf of bread, and a simple wooden cross. No weapons. No soldiers. Only faith and wisdom.
The climb was grueling. The mountain paths were steep, the air thin, but Father Esteban pressed on, his walking stick tapping softly against the rocky trail.
When he finally arrived at the farmstead, what he found was not the hovel of a beggar, nor the ruins of a fugitive's hideout.
It was orderly.
The crops were neatly planted, arranged with precision and care. The house—though modest—was sturdier than any peasant's dwelling. Tools were sharpened and placed methodically by the door. A well had been dug, its structure reinforced far beyond the skill of the common folk.
This was not the home of a desperate woman fleeing for her life.
This was a fortress built for survival.
The Meeting
Cal-141 watched him from a distance, hidden behind the shadows of the barn. Her sniper rifle rested beneath a bundle of hay, ready.
She had been expecting soldiers. Inquisition agents. Perhaps even a mob of frightened villagers with torches and crude weapons.
But instead, they had sent… this man.
She studied him, her sharp eyes taking in the details. His gait was strong despite his age. His hands were calloused—not from war, but from labor. And there was no fear in his posture, only curiosity.
Finally, she stepped forward.
Father Esteban turned as she approached, and for a long moment, he simply looked at her.
Her rags hid her armor, but nothing could disguise her height, her stance, the silent confidence in which she carried herself. She was unlike any peasant, any noblewoman, any soldier he had ever met.
He clasped his hands before him.
Father Esteban: "You live alone, child?"
Cal: "I do."
Father Esteban: "And why is that?"
Cal: "Because I wish to be left alone."
A pause. The priest tilted his head, studying her. He had met warriors before—men hardened by war, their souls weighed down by things they dared not speak of. And though she did not carry the weapons of this world, she carried that same burden.
Father Esteban: "A woman does not survive alone in the mountains without help. There are whispers that you are not of this world."
Cal stiffened.
She had expected hostility. Perhaps even righteous fury. But this man was not accusing her. He was not speaking in fear.
She said nothing at first. How could she answer?
To tell the truth would be madness.
To lie would be dangerous.
Instead, she settled on something in between.
Cal: "I am simply a traveler. Wounded. Lost. I wish no harm."
Father Esteban nodded slowly. He did not press further. He did not demand answers.
Finally, he reached into his satchel and pulled out a small wooden cross. He placed it gently on the nearby table, murmuring a quiet prayer.
Father Esteban: "I will speak for you, should anyone ask. But be warned, child… The world does not take kindly to mysteries."
He turned to leave. But before he did, he looked at her one last time, his expression unreadable.
Father Esteban: "You may not be of this world, but I do not believe you are lost."
And with that, he was gone.
A Warning and a Choice
Cal stood in silence long after the priest had disappeared down the mountain path.
The wooden cross remained on her table, untouched.
She had not prayed since she was a child. Since before she was taken. Since before she became something else entirely.
And yet, she did not throw it away.
The old man's warning lingered in her mind.
She had stayed hidden for so long. But the world was beginning to notice her.
And she wasn't sure if that was a good thing… or the beginning of something worse.
Chapter 10 – A Noble's Demand
Father Esteban's report did not go unnoticed.
Word of the mysterious woman in the mountains reached Don Rodrigo de Alarcón, a powerful noble overseeing vast territories of Andalucía. He was a man of discipline, hardened by years of war and politics, and he tolerated no unknown variables within his domain.
He had ruled these lands for decades. He knew its people, its dangers, its secrets.
But a lone woman, strong beyond measure and swift beyond reason? That was not something he could ignore.
And so, he rode into the mountains.
The Arrival
Rodrigo traveled with ten armed men, seasoned fighters who had served in his campaigns. They expected to find a squatter—perhaps a runaway servant, a disgraced noblewoman in exile, or an outlaw hiding from the Crown's justice.
What they found was something else entirely.
When they arrived at the farmstead, they saw a woman standing before the simple dwelling. She was tall, wrapped in heavy rags that concealed her form, her face hidden beneath layers of cloth. Yet her posture was not that of a peasant, nor of a woman fearing for her life.
She stood still, waiting.
Watching.
Don Rodrigo: "Woman, you reside on my land without permission. Give me your name."
Cal: "I am no one of consequence."
Rodrigo's brow furrowed. He had expected deference. Fear. Instead, he was met with indifference.
Don Rodrigo: (Scowling) "I decide what is of consequence."
At his signal, his men spread out, forming a loose circle around her. Their hands hovered near their weapons, but none dared to draw steel just yet.
Don Rodrigo: "I hear you are strong beyond measure. Swift beyond reason. Show me your face, and tell me the truth of your origins."
Cal said nothing. She had no interest in provoking a fight, but she knew submission would not satisfy this man.
Rodrigo watched her for a long moment, his sharp eyes searching for hesitation.
Then, with measured steps, he dismounted his horse and walked toward her.
Don Rodrigo: "Then I shall remove your hood myself."
The Ghost Moves
As his hand reached for her, Cal moved.
One moment, she stood before him. The next, she was gone.
She didn't run. She didn't jump. She simply shifted, too fast for the eye to follow, stepping just beyond his reach with a grace and precision no human should have possessed.
His hand met empty air.
The men gasped. One even made the sign of the cross.
Rodrigo staggered back, eyes wide in shock. He had fought in wars. He had faced knights trained from birth in the art of combat. But never—not once—had he seen someone move like that.
For the first time in years, a shiver ran down his spine.
Don Rodrigo (whispering, in awe): "What in God's name...?"
Cal's voice was calm, but firm.
Cal: "I will not be handled like an animal."
Silence hung between them.
The Noble's Decision
Rodrigo was no fool.
The way she moved—it was not witchcraft, nor was it the raw, unrefined strength of an untrained brute. It was precision. It was mastery.
This woman was not just strong. She was trained.
And yet… she bore no banners, no crest, no allegiance to any lord or king. She was a warrior without a past.
Rodrigo narrowed his eyes.
Don Rodrigo: "If you are no witch, then you are something else entirely."
A long pause. Then, almost to himself, he murmured:
Don Rodrigo: "And now I must decide what to do with you."
He did not draw his sword. He did not order his men to attack.
Instead, he turned away.
Without another word, he mounted his horse. His men followed, uneasy glances cast over their shoulders as they retreated down the mountain path.
That night, Rodrigo sat in his study, ink staining his fingers as he penned a letter. His report was sent to the Governor of Andalucía.
The Church had sent a priest.
Rodrigo had sent his men.
But soon, the Crown would come.
And then, Cal-141 would no longer be a ghost in the mountains.
She would be a target.
Chapter 11 – The Emperor's Warning
The letter from Don Rodrigo de Alarcón arrived at the Governor's court in Seville at dawn, carried by a courier who had ridden through the night. The Governor of Andalusia, Luis de Valverde, read the report once. Then again.
It unsettled him.
A woman, powerful and untamed, dwelling in the remote mountains? A lone figure, with strength beyond reason and weapons unknown to man? This was no ordinary case.
The Governor was a cautious man, one who did not act rashly. He summoned Don Rodrigo to his court, interrogating him personally. The noble swore by his honor that everything in his letter was true. The woman was not a mere outlaw, nor a common brigand. She was something else entirely.
And that was enough for the Governor to escalate the matter.
The reports reached the Inquisition within a fortnight.
The Inquisition Moves
Six inquisitors were dispatched, traveling with a small detachment of soldiers. Their mission was clear—assess the threat, identify the woman, and bring her before the Church if necessary.
They expected a witch.
They expected a heretic.
They expected a fraud.
But what they found shattered their faith.
The Confrontation
They arrived at the farmstead at dusk, the sky painted in hues of gold and crimson.
Cal-141 was outside, splitting firewood, when she heard the horses approach. Her hands stilled. She had been expecting them.
Six men in black robes, their garments embroidered with the insignia of the Inquisition, rode at the front. Behind them, a dozen soldiers in chainmail and padded gambesons, armed with longswords and crossbows, formed a tight formation.
Cal stood slowly, setting the axe aside. Her movements were measured. Calm.
The lead inquisitor, Brother Estéban, dismounted first. He was a wiry man, his face pale, his eyes sharp and filled with unwavering belief. He stared at the veiled woman before him and felt a twinge of unease.
This was not what he had expected.
Inquisitor Estéban: "By the Holy Mother… what creature is this?"
Cal exhaled through her nose, leveling her gaze at him.
Cal: "I am just a woman who wishes to be left alone."
The other inquisitors muttered amongst themselves. The soldiers, though trained for battle, shifted uneasily. There was something unnatural about the way she stood, the way she observed them without fear. As if she had already measured the odds and found them lacking.
Brother Estéban swallowed hard and straightened his back.
Inquisitor Estéban: "You are accused of sorcery. Of wielding unholy power. You must come with us."
Cal: "No."
A single word.
Flat. Absolute.
The inquisitor's lips pressed into a thin line. His fingers curled around the wooden cross hanging from his neck. Defiance was expected. Resistance was not.
Inquisitor Estéban: "You misunderstand. This is not a request."
He nodded, and the soldiers stepped forward.
They moved cautiously, weapons drawn, advancing in practiced formation. They had subdued heretics before. They had dragged witches from their hiding places, stripped them of their false power, and brought them to trial.
But this was different.
A Mistake
The first soldier reached for her.
A heartbeat later, he was on the ground, his sword wrenched from his grip, his arm bent at an unnatural angle.
Before the others could react, Cal moved.
She sidestepped the second soldier, swept his legs out from beneath him, and drove an elbow into his chest as he fell. A third swung his sword—too slow. She caught his wrist, twisted, and the blade clattered to the ground.
In the span of three seconds, she had disarmed half their number.
The remaining soldiers stumbled back, eyes wide with disbelief.
The inquisitors were pale as ghosts.
Brother Estéban, breathing hard, made a snap decision.
Inquisitor Estéban: "Fall back! FALL BACK!"
They did not flee like men, but neither did they stay to fight. The woman had not even drawn a weapon, and she had broken them like children.
This was not a battle they could win.
A Warning Reaches the Emperor
When they returned to Seville, their report was carried by royal couriers to King Charles V himself, Emperor of the Holy Roman Empire and ruler of Spain.
The letter contained no embellishments. No exaggerations.
The woman in the mountains was real. She possessed strength beyond human measure. And she had no allegiance to the Crown, the Church, or any known force.
A ruler could not afford to ignore such an anomaly.
And so, the Emperor sent word to his advisors.
A simple command.
"Find her."
Chapter 12 – The Emperor's Judgment
The halls of the Royal Court of Spain were heavy with the scent of burning incense and freshly polished wood. Golden light streamed through high stained-glass windows, casting intricate patterns across the vast chamber.
At the heart of it all, seated upon an ornate throne, was Charles V, Emperor of the Holy Roman Empire, King of Spain, Lord of vast lands across Europe and the New World.
Before him, his council stood in uneasy silence.
A letter lay open in his hands, its contents troubling yet intriguing. It spoke of a woman of unnatural strength, of weapons unknown, of a ghost living in the Andalusian mountains. A figure who had defied both noble authority and the Inquisition, yet had killed no man without reason.
The Emperor's gaze flickered across the chamber as his advisors read the reports aloud.
"A woman of unnatural beauty, strength, and skill. A liar of sickness, yet a keeper of weapons beyond our understanding. A ghost in the mountains, yet a farmer who wishes no war."
The murmurs in the court rose like a tide.
Some of his men, hardened by war and conquest, scoffed. A myth, a hoax. Some runaway noble with delusions of grandeur.
Others whispered of witchcraft, of demons, of omens sent by God or the Devil.
But Charles remained silent. Thinking. Calculating.
Finally, his voice cut through the noise like a blade.
Charles V: "And what does the priest say?"
An advisor, an older man with a careful expression, stepped forward. "Father Esteban claims she is no danger. That the Inquisition approached her wrongly."
Charles tapped his fingers against the armrest of his throne.
That, in itself, was interesting. The Inquisition was rarely known to admit mistakes, yet this priest had spoken in her defense.
Charles V: "Then tell me, men of my court—what should be done with a woman who asks only to be left alone?"
The silence that followed was long and heavy.
The Debate of Kings
The first to speak was Duke Álvaro de la Serna, a veteran of the Reconquista, a man who had spent his life hunting down Moors and heretics alike.
Duke Álvaro: "A woman who can best armed men, who moves faster than the eye can track, is no mere woman. If she is a demon, then she must be burned. If she is a warrior, then she must be brought to heel."
A second voice rose in opposition. Don Hernando de Velasco, a younger noble, one with ties to the expanding Spanish colonies in the Americas.
Don Hernando: "Burning such a woman would be a waste. If she is strong, then she should serve. Bring her to court. Make her a weapon of the Crown."
A murmur of agreement rippled through the hall.
A weapon. A tool.
Charles listened, his expression unreadable. Then, finally, he turned his gaze to Don Rodrigo de Alarcón, the nobleman who had first encountered her.
Charles V: "You have seen her with your own eyes, Don Rodrigo. Would she bow?"
Rodrigo hesitated, then shook his head.
Don Rodrigo: "No, Majesty. She is no soldier awaiting orders, nor a creature bound by chains. She is... something else."
That answer interested Charles more than any other.
A Decision Made
He leaned forward, steepling his fingers. A witch? No. A liar? Unlikely. A warrior? Most certainly.
What would he do with her?
To burn her would be to destroy something rare. Something powerful.
To force her into service would be foolish. A wild beast, if caged, would only bite its master.
And so, the Emperor made a decision that startled his court.
Charles V: "Leave her."
The murmurs ceased. Shocked silence fell over the chamber.
Duke Álvaro: "Majesty?"
Charles V: "She has made no move against us. She has asked for nothing. She has broken no laws but those of fear and misunderstanding." His gaze swept the room. "If she is a threat, then she will show her hand in time. If she is not, then we have gained nothing by pursuing her."
The room remained tense, but none dared openly challenge him.
Charles V: "Watch her. Let the Church whisper, let the nobles fear, let the people wonder. But do not engage. She will make her own fate."
The decree was final.
The Emperor had spoken.
The Ripples of Power
Messengers carried his words back across Spain, through noble estates and cathedrals, through the streets of Seville and the mountains of Andalucía.
The Inquisition withdrew.
The nobles hesitated.
The soldiers turned their eyes elsewhere.
And in the mountains, Cal-141 remained a ghost.
Unhunted.
For now.
Chapter 12 – The Emperor's Summons
The Halls of Power, Valladolid, Spain – 1521
The royal court of His Most Catholic Majesty, Emperor Charles V, was a place of power, intrigue, and judgment. The great hall of the Alcázar of Valladolid was austere yet imposing, its high stone walls adorned with banners bearing the heraldry of the Holy Roman Empire and the Spanish kingdoms. The polished marble floor reflected the glow of candlelight from the great chandeliers above, illuminating the assembled court.
Nobles, military officers, priests, and inquisitors had gathered for a session of state affairs. At the center of it all sat the Emperor himself.
Charles V, ruler of an empire upon which the sun never set, sat upon a high-backed throne, dressed in his usual black—an austere yet elegant choice, reflecting both his piety and his severe nature. At just twenty-one years old, he already bore the hardened expression of a man who had seen war, politics, and the burdens of empire.
Today, however, his expression was unreadable.
Because today, a most unusual report had reached his ears.
The Report That Stirred the Court
The Emperor's chief steward, Don Francisco de los Cobos, had been briefed before presenting the matter in court. The information came from multiple sources—a noble lord, a bishop, the Inquisition, and the Governor of Andalusia.
As Don Francisco stepped forward, the gathered court fell silent.
Don Francisco: "Your Majesty, there is an unusual matter in the mountains of Andalucía. Reports have surfaced of a woman—an exceptionally tall woman of great beauty and strange presence—living alone in the wilderness. She has been there for months, perhaps longer. At first, she was thought to be a simple beggar, but this is false. She is no ordinary woman."
Murmurs spread through the court like wildfire.
The Emperor leaned forward slightly. He had heard countless reports of bandits, false prophets, and rogues claiming noble blood—but something about this was different.
Charles V: "Continue."
Don Francisco nodded and continued.
Don Francisco: "Your Majesty, the local authorities attempted to investigate her. A priest visited her, then a nobleman, then the friars, then the governor himself. All found the same things: she is unlike any woman in Spain. She is taller than any man, surpassing even knights in height, yet she is alone. She carries weapons that are unlike any muskets or swords known to us. Her farmstead is well-kept, almost unnaturally so, with no servants, no help, no known past."
The steward hesitated before delivering the next part.
Don Francisco: "Your Majesty, the Inquisition was sent to interrogate her."
That drew a reaction. The Inquisition was not sent lightly.
Don Francisco: "She refused to come with them. She did not fight them, nor threaten them. She merely asked to be left alone."
A murmur of confusion swept through the court.
Don Francisco: "She did not resist. She did not run. She merely stood her ground and sent them away."
A soft laugh escaped from the Emperor's cousin, Ferdinand of Austria, who sat nearby.
Ferdinand: (smirking) "And the Inquisitors obeyed?"
Don Francisco: "Yes, Your Highness. They were… unnerved."
The murmuring turned into outright whispering.
Charles' First Judgment
Charles V rested his chin upon his gloved hand, his expression contemplative.
He had ruled over men for years, crushed rebellions, led armies against the French and the Turks, fought heretics, and dealt with the demands of the Pope. He had met queens, princesses, courtesans, and noblewomen of all stations.
But never had he heard of a woman living entirely alone, bearing arms, maintaining a farmstead, and remaining untouched by the world of men.
It defied every expectation.
Charles V: "She asks for solitude, and yet her very existence invites curiosity."
His voice was measured but thoughtful. His courtiers leaned in, sensing he was considering his next move carefully.
Charles V: "This woman has no master, no husband, no past we can trace. She appears from nowhere, lives in a land where women do not live alone, and she repels all attempts to bring her under the authority of either Church or Crown."
He tapped his fingers on the gilded armrest of his throne.
Charles V: "A woman who does not need men, yet lives untouched by them? I have never seen such a thing."
The Advisors React
His trusted advisors spoke freely.
Don Francisco de los Cobos (Chief Steward): "Majesty, she could be an asset if she is what the reports claim. If she has no alliances, she may be willing to serve."
The Bishop of Valladolid: "A woman who refuses the Church's authority is dangerous. If she is not of noble birth, then she should be examined by the Holy Office."
Ferdinand of Austria: "You speak as if she is some sorceress. She is merely a woman. A strange woman, but a woman nonetheless."
The Grand Inquisitor: "Your Majesty, the fact that the Inquisition failed to bring her in is already cause for concern. If she is unnatural in appearance, if she bears weapons unknown to us, then she must be examined."
Charles Weighs His Decision
Charles stood slowly, the court falling silent.
His voice was low but firm.
Charles V: "This woman has defied expectations at every turn. She has not begged for favor, nor has she claimed nobility. She has lied to keep the world at bay, but she has not fought against it."
He descended the steps of his throne, walking slowly across the hall.
Charles V: "If she had fought the Inquisition, I would already have ordered her capture. If she had made demands, I would have dismissed them. If she had sought power, I would have ensured she never gained it. But instead… she asks for nothing. And that is the most dangerous thing of all."
A hush fell over the court.
Charles V: "Men seek power. Women seek security. Nobles seek wealth. Yet she seeks nothing. A woman with no desires is a woman with no chains."
He turned back to his advisors.
Charles V: "She does not seek me, yet she has drawn my attention. For this reason, I will summon her to court. Let her speak for herself."
Gasps and murmurs swept through the room.
An imperial summons?
Charles V: "She will come under royal protection. She is to be escorted, not as a prisoner, but as a guest of the Crown."
With that, the fate of the mysterious woman in the mountains was sealed.
Soon, she would stand before an Emperor.
Chapter 13 – The Ghost and the Emperor
Alcázar of Madrid, 1521
The grand hall of the Alcázar of Madrid was suffocating with the weight of tradition. Stone pillars lined the chamber, torches flickered against golden tapestries, and the air was thick with the scent of incense and politics.
The assembled nobles, clergymen, and military officers stood in rigid formation, adorned in silks, furs, and gilded embroidery—symbols of their wealth and power. They were not merely spectators.
They were here for a spectacle.
And at the center of it stood a ghost.
A woman, draped in tattered rags and armored steel, a contradiction of poverty and power. Her golden eyes burned coldly, framed by a cascade of long, white hair that seemed almost spectral beneath the candlelight.
She was tall—unnaturally so—and the weight of her presence alone disturbed the court more than a thousand foreign diplomats ever could.
She was an anomaly, a threat, an insult—and yet she stood unbent before the most powerful men in Spain.
The Court's Reaction
The murmurs of discontent grew into open disdain.
"What manner of creature is this?" a noblewoman whispered behind her fan.
"She dresses like a beggar and yet wears armor like a warlord!" one of the officers scoffed.
"Does she think herself above decorum?" another noble spat.
Then, Cardinal Francisco Jiménez de Cisneros stepped forward. Dressed in crimson robes, his voice was laced with contempt.
Cardinal Cisneros: "This is an insult to His Majesty! A woman who refuses to dress as a woman, who stands before her king in filth and steel!"
His words were met with nods of approval from the gathered court.
Yet the figure before them remained silent. Her face was impassive as she scanned the room—calculating, assessing, not out of fear, but from habit.
Then, from the raised throne, Charles V spoke.
Charles' Command
His voice cut through the court like a blade—cold and sharp.
Charles V: "Silence."
Immediately, the hall fell into uneasy stillness.
The Emperor leaned forward slightly, studying the woman before him.
She was tall, armored, and unmoved by the weight of courtly scrutiny.
There was no fear in her gaze.
Only calculated patience.
Charles V: "Leave us. All of you."
A ripple of shock spread through the court.
"Your Majesty—!" the Cardinal started, but Charles silenced him with a raised hand.
Charles V: "I will speak to her alone."
There was hesitation—no one wanted to leave their Emperor alone with a figure so unknown, so dangerous.
Yet, one by one, the nobles obeyed.
The grand hall emptied, leaving only two figures standing beneath the banners of Spain.
The Private Audience
The heavy doors closed with finality, the echoes of the court's exit fading into silence.
For a long moment, neither of them spoke.
Charles remained seated on his throne, studying her. He had seen warriors before, had led men into battle, had stood before kings and queens who thought themselves above mortal men.
Yet she was none of those things.
She was something else entirely.
Finally, she spoke.
Cal's Story
Cal: "You want to know who I am."
Cal: "You want to understand why I stand before you in rags and armor, why I do not bow, why I do not flinch beneath your court's scrutiny."
She took a step forward, her boots heavy against the marble floor.
Cal: "Then listen."
Cal: "I was taken from my home at six years old. Conscription, they called it. Forced into a war before I knew what war was."
Cal: "I was experimented on. Augmented. My body broken and rebuilt to become a soldier beyond human limits."
Charles said nothing, but his fingers curled slightly against the armrest of his throne.
Cal: "I have fought wars across galaxies, led men into battles against creatures that would devour this world without hesitation."
Cal: "I have killed more enemies than your kingdom has subjects. I have waded through fire and blood, watched planets burn, and walked away because my mission was not yet complete."
She paused, her golden eyes locking onto his.
Cal: "And yet, I was killed. Or at least, I should have been."
Cal: "A Brute Chieftain—a warlord larger than any beast in your empire—struck me down. His hammer shattered my bones, caved in my ribs, and crushed the life from my lungs."
Cal: "And then, I woke up here."
Silence settled between them.
Charles exhaled slowly, his mind racing.
She should not exist.
A soldier from another world. A warrior who had already died once. A being who should have been a legend, not a reality standing before him.
And yet—she was real.
Charles' Decision
Charles V: "You speak of war as if it is your only purpose."
His voice was measured.
Charles V: "And yet you stand before me, wounded and alone. You wish to be left to your solitude, yet fate has brought you before my throne."
He stood now, descending the steps of his throne, closing the space between them.
Charles V: "I will not waste this gift."
She narrowed her eyes.
Cal: "What gift?"
He smirked.
Charles V: "You."