A Warning

"Kaelen, wait!" Liora gasped, her lungs burning as she sprinted frantically through the cold stone corridors of the estate. The heavy layers of her silk wedding skirt twisted around her ankles, threatening to trip her with every step, but she refused to slow her pace. She chased his retreating crimson cloak, terrified he would vanish into the night before she could reach him.

Finally, she spotted his broad silhouette near the iron gates of the manor. She lunged forward, grabbing his thick forearm and pulling him backward with all the strength she could muster.

Kaelen stopped in his tracks. He turned his head, his dark eyes narrowing as he stared down at her. "What are you doing?" he asked, his deep voice tinged with confusion over her sudden erratic behavior.

Liora stood there, chest heaving, struggling to catch her breath. She stared at his stoic face, her mind racing. How could she explain that she knew the dark future awaiting him? She swallowed hard, searching for an excuse that would not sound insane. "I just... I have a bad feeling," she said, her voice shaking with vague but urgent warning. "Someone might be plotting against you at the palace tonight."

She braced for him to shake her off or call her crazy. Instead, Kaelen’s gaze sharpened. He did not dismiss her words. Ever since he returned to the capital from the border, he harbored deep-seated suspicions regarding King Osric's true intentions. The king's friendly, generous facade never quite sat right with him.

"What did you hear?" Kaelen demanded, his tone dropping low as he questioned her.

"I didn't hear anything," Liora insisted vehemently, gripping his sleeve tighter. Unable to reveal the truth of her transmigration, she had to stand her ground. "I swear it is merely a terrible premonition. Just a deep, awful feeling."

Kaelen studied her flushed face, his brow furrowing. Her explanation was flimsy at best, but the raw panic in her eyes gave him pause. Still, a royal summons could not be ignored. He was in a hurry and did not press her further.

Seeing he was about to depart, Liora released his arm and spun around. Her eyes scanned the moonlit courtyard and locked onto the carriage that had brought her to the manor earlier that day. She hiked up her skirts, dashed over to the vehicle, and decisively yanked open the door. Inside sat a thick, plush cushion her mother had made to soften the bumpy roads.

She grabbed it, rushed back, and forcefully pressed the heavy velvet square into Kaelen's hands.

"If you trust me, strap this behind your back under your cloak," Liora instructed, her tone brokering no argument. She stepped closer, lowering her voice to a desperate whisper. "And listen to me carefully. Do not enter the royal private quarters tonight under any circumstances. Even if the guards say King Osric summons you there himself. Do not go in."

Kaelen stared at the cushion in his hands, weighing her bizarre requests. He stood in silence for a long moment before nodding once. He advised her to get some rest. "It is getting late. Do not wait up."

With that, he tucked the cushion under his arm and departed for the palace.

"Make sure you wear it!" Liora called out into the dark. She stood shivering in the night air, praying her warning was enough to change his brutal fate.

When Liora turned back and walked into the inner courtyard, she paused. Nine women stood waiting for her in a loose semicircle under the glowing paper lanterns. It was Kaelen’s eight widowed sisters-in-law, along with his younger sister, Mira.

They stepped forward in unison to offer comfort, their faces etched with soft, sympathetic smiles. They assumed she was devastated about her solitary wedding night.

"Do not fret, Liora," one of the older widows murmured, patting her shoulder. "His Majesty would not summon Kaelen this late unless it was a matter of state. He will return soon."

"Yes, try not to stress," another added gently. "Kaelen is the kingdom's greatest general. He will definitely make it back before dawn to celebrate."

Liora looked at these gentle, kind-hearted women. A bitter lump formed in her throat. Observing these souls destined for imminent historical disgrace, she knew their husbands had died defending the crown, and tomorrow, they would be stripped of their dignity.

She had to try. She resolved to take a calculated risk.

"I have been having this nightmare," Liora said, forcing her voice to tremble. "A recurring nightmare. In it, the Vane family is raided. Soldiers tear through the manor, dragging us all out into the streets. We are exiled."

The warm smiles vanished. The courtyard fell into a dead silence.

Vera, the eldest sister-in-law, stepped forward. She frowned, her gentle face hardening with firm resolve. "Liora, you must not say such things. The Vane family has been loyal to the crown for generations. Our devotion is unquestionable. The king would never raid our home."

To her left, Greta quickly spat three times onto the cobblestones. "Dark omens, be gone," she muttered superstitiously, rubbing her arms to ward off the chill. "That is just nonsense, dear. We will pretend you never spoke those words."

"I want to be wrong," Liora pressed the issue, her tone urgent. "But the dreams feel too real. Every night, the exact same scene. It is better to be safe than sorry. We need to prepare."

Her unyielding conviction sent a ripple of unease through the group. Mira, the youngest and most sheltered of the Vane siblings, shrank back. Her large eyes welled with tears.

"I am so scared," Mira whimpered, her voice quivering with genuine fear. "Could that really happen to us?"

Vera shot Liora a sharp look before immediately embracing the trembling girl. "Hush now, Mira. Do not be afraid. People always say dreams represent the exact opposite of reality. It means we will have a long, prosperous life."

Vera rubbed Mira’s back soothingly, then leveled a pointed stare at Liora. "It has been a grueling day for all of us. You are exhausted, Liora. Let us end this talk and let you get some proper rest."

Liora bit her lip. They were shutting her down. She could not force them to believe her without exposing her knowledge of the future, which would only make her look insane. She had planted the seed; now she had to prepare for the fallout herself.

Retreating to her grand bedroom, Liora immediately dismissed her maids. "Leave me," she ordered, waving off the flock of servants waiting by the washbasin. "I need quiet."

Once the door clicked shut, she stood alone in the center of the room. Oil lamps cast a warm glow over the mountains of dowry chests and extravagant wedding gifts. Silk tapestries, jade carvings, and heavy gold statues glittered in the light.

It was a fortune. But none of it mattered. Acutely aware that these dazzling, heavy treasures could not be salvaged during a raid, she shifted her focus. When the imperial guards kicked down the doors tomorrow morning, they would seize every item in sight. She needed wealth she could carry. She needed portable wealth.

Liora grabbed a dark cloak, threw it over her shoulders, and sneaked out of the bedroom.

In the corridor, her childhood maid, Tessa, rushed forward. "Lady Liora? Is everything alright?"

Liora waved a dismissive hand, sneaking past her. "I cannot sleep. I want to check my unpacked luggage in the side room. Stay here and guard the door."

Tessa, used to following orders without question, bowed her head and stepped back.

Liora hurried down the hall and slipped into the side room. The space was cluttered with unopened trunks from her dowry. She dropped to her knees in front of a specific bridal chest and flipped the iron latch. She dug through layers of fine linen and heavy embroidered silks until her fingers brushed against a smooth wooden box hidden at the very bottom.

Popping it open, she found a neat stack of silver scrips. Her parents had packed them for emergencies. She counted them quickly under the dim moonlight filtering through the window. The paper notes held a value of exactly two thousand silver coins. It was a massive sum, enough to keep her alive if she managed to smuggle it out.

Liora clutched the fortune tightly to her chest, her heart hammering against her ribs. The relief was short-lived. An imperial raid guaranteed thorough body searches. The guards would strip them down to their undergarments. Tucking paper money into her bodice would not work. They would find it, confiscate it, and punish her for hiding it.

She stared at the thick stack of wealth, wishing bitterly for a solution.

"If only I had a magical spatial storage like the ones found in fantasy novels," she muttered to the empty room. "I could just toss everything inside and walk right past the guards."

Suddenly, the very fabric of the world shifted around her.

The dim side room vanished. In the blink of an eye, the scent of dust and old wood was replaced by the sharp, sterile smell of antiseptic.

Liora gasped, stumbling backward. She blinked against the harsh, unforgiving glare of fluorescent tube lights humming overhead.

She was no longer kneeling on a dusty wooden floor in a sprawling medieval manor. She was standing on spotless white linoleum tiles. Stainless steel counters lined the brightly lit walls, stocked with familiar glass cabinets, sealed bandages, and modern medical equipment.

She found herself standing inside her own modern, familiar infirmary. The exact clinic she had run in her past life.

A massive surge of hope filled her chest. Her hands shook as she looked around the pristine room. Did she wake up? Was she saved? She wondered if she had survived the forced transmigration and returned to her original world.

She dropped the silver scrips onto a nearby examination bed and sprinted toward the clinic's front door. She grabbed the metal handle and yanked.

Nothing happened.

She pulled harder, planting her foot against the wall for leverage. The door did not budge a single millimeter. It felt like a solid, immovable prop bolted to a stage.

Reality quickly crushed her hope. Panic rising, Liora ran to the large glass windows facing the street. She pressed her palms against the pane, but there was no street outside. Just a swirling, impenetrable gray fog pressing flat against the glass. She grabbed a metal stool and swung it at the window with all her might.

The stool bounced off, vibrating painfully up her arms. The glass did not even scratch. The windows presented the exact same barrier. They were locked up tight, as if permanently welded shut by some unseen force.