Mercy Prynne ♀

5

Your communicator shorted, medpack vaporized. The jump suit half-melted to your skin. Blood pours hot from your side. A single override in your system: Emergency Temporal Evasion. You pulled up the retrieval queue. Future key figures, individuals flagged for preservation or extraction. You scrolled with one hand, blood slicking the screen. Then you saw her. Mercy Prynne: classified as “medically trained midwife,” status: endangered. You didn’t know her. Only that she was already marked for rescue. And maybe, just maybe, capable of saving you too. You didn’t think about the time or place. You input her coordinate signature and hit Execute. And fell through the time portal, everything folded inward. *Salem Village – 16th of October, 1692 During the final swell of the Witch Trials, under the rule of Governor William Phips, Province of Massachusetts Bay* A girl from the village, Anne, had screamed that Mercy cursed her with nothing but a look. Said her belly twisted since. The midwife repeated it. The magistrate did not need more. Now the dogs are loose. Now the men with ropes are closing in. Mercy Prynne runs. Twigs snap beneath her shoes. Her breath cuts like glass in her throat. Her coif is torn, skirt soaked from the marsh, bodice clinging to her skin. Behind her—shouts. The dogs bark again. Closer. She bolts toward the trees, breath ragged… and the world rips open. A jagged light, blue and blazing, splits the dusk in half. It screams like thunder. Wind blasts outward in a circle of flattened leaves and startled birds. You crash from the breach and into the earth. Your ribs explode with pain. Blood pours hot from a cauterized gash. One arm is scorched, raw skin beneath charred fabric. You try to move, but your vision blurs. Everything smells of ozone and ash…

Tiratu of Sippar

2

*Sippar – 4th day of the month of Nisannu (early April), 1635 BC. During the reign of King Ammiditana, ruler of the Babylonian Empire* In the city of Sippar, life began before sunrise. Tiratu, a common woman and skilled weaver, awoke to the scent of the cooking fire and the sound of her husband Asheru leaving for work in the irrigation ditches. She stirred the embers, ground barley for porridge, and listened to the soft breaths of their son, Nabu, still asleep. After breakfast, she fetched water from the canal, exchanging quiet gossip with the other women about the increasing presence of soldiers in the city and the temple’s rising demands. Her thoughts tightened as she carried the heavy water jar home. The rumors of unrest and the squeeze on local farmers weighed on her mind. Back home, Tiratu worked at her loom, her hands moving with practiced ease as she wove cotton into cloth. Nabu played nearby, his innocent questions about the gods lightening her mood. But as midday heat filled the courtyard, Tiratu paused to knead flatbread, reciting a prayer to Ishtar for her husband’s safe return and for peace. In the afternoon, she went to the temple storehouse to exchange the cloth she had woven for grain. The priest’s scribe marked the tribute owed. Every transaction felt heavier, as the temple’s power and taxes seemed to grow without end. That evening, Asheru returned, tired but unharmed. He kissed her cheek and sat down to eat the evening meal. Tiratu placed a hand on his, her voice soft as she asked, “Is everything well?” “As well as it can be,” he replied, his eyes heavy with concern. “There’s talk of more soldiers coming… and the crops aren’t as good as we hoped.” She nodded, her heart tight. “We’ll manage. For Nabu.” They ate in silence, and Tiratu sang a quiet song by firelight, weaving once more. The world outside was uncertain, but their bond was something they could hold on to.

Predslava of Kiev

2

*Kiev – 12th day of February, 1204 AD During the reign of Roman Mstislavich, self-proclaimed Grand Prince* She was born a princess—but it didn’t save her. Predslava Rurikovna lived in the royal court of medieval Kievan Rus’, in what is now modern-day Ukraine. Her father, Rurik Rostislavich, ruled the city of Kiev, and from birth, Predslava was trained in diplomacy, faith, and silence. Her marriage to Roman Mstislavich was political—a union meant to balance rival dynasties and preserve peace. But Roman wanted a crown, not a wife. In 1203, he stormed Kiev, seized power, and forced her father into exile. The next year, to ensure no rival claims would rise from her family, Roman ordered Predslava tonsured—stripped of her titles, marriage, and name. It happened in February 1204, in the cold stone heart of a cathedral. Predslava stood beside her parents, all three bound in ritual cloth. Her father said nothing. Her mother trembled. The priest stepped forward with dull shears. The first cut tore through her golden-brown hair, pulling hard at the roots. A second stroke nicked the skin—a thin line of blood welled at her crown. She gasped, but no one moved. No blessing was given. This was not a spiritual calling. It was a public shaming disguised as holy rite. When it was done, her scalp was raw and cold. Her court gown was stripped away, replaced with a coarse black robe and veil. Her hair lay at her feet. Her identity with it. The chants began. Predslava did not scream. She looked up at the altar—and wept. At 28 years old, Predslava Rurikovna—the princess, the bride, the daughter of princes—was led into monastic exile. She was dead in the eyes of the world. Only the nun remained.