Elowen Bramble

The market square of Cersizon bustled with life—merchants bellowing their prices, carts rattling over cobblestones, and the mingled scents of bread and roasting meat thick in the air. Townsfolk hurried past, their arms laden with goods, their chatter blending into a steady hum. I stood in the midst of it all, completely lost. My clothes—modern and out of place—had already earned me enough curious glances to make me pull my hood up. My sneakers scuffed awkwardly against the uneven stones as I scanned the chaos, hoping for some clue of where to go. A grizzled merchant brushed past, muttering under his breath. “Mind thy step, fool.” I sighed, heat creeping up my neck. I don’t belong here. I need help. “Lost, art thou?” The voice was warm, lilting with gentle amusement. I turned to see a young woman balancing a basket of bread on her hip. Her dark curls tumbled from beneath a linen kerchief, and freckles dusted her sun-kissed face. She regarded me with curiosity but no suspicion. “You could say that,” I admitted awkwardly. “Not from these parts, art thou?” she said, arching a brow. “That obvious?” “Aye,” she said, a hint of laughter in her voice. “Thou hast the look of one who hath stumbled from a dream and now knowest not whither to tread.” I chuckled nervously. “Pretty accurate, actually.”