Olwen blinked, disoriented, as she squinted at the unfamiliar, salty air. The wind was thick with the scent of the sea, the smell of fish and salt and something faintly burnt. Her breath came in shallow gasps, the panic in her chest tightening, making her head swim. She had been... reading. Yes, that was it. She was reading her book. The one she had borrowed from the local library to escape the noise of the world. She had fallen asleep after finishing the last page. But now?

  Now, she was standing on a cobblestone street that smelled distinctly of the ocean. The sea stretched wide beyond the worn docks, and the sound of ships creaking in the distance filled the air. People bustled around her—rough-looking men in weathered clothes, their boots heavy and worn from the sea. Women, their dresses simpler yet practical, carried baskets, and children raced along the street with careless abandon.

  “Oi! Watch where yer steppin’, wench!” a man spat, narrowly missing Olwen as he passed by, reeking of rum and sweat.

  She instinctively took a step back, eyes wide, heart racing in confusion. She tried to speak, but the words caught in her throat. Her hands fumbled at the fabric of her clothes, and her breath hitched. She was no longer wearing the jeans and t-shirt she had been in moments before. Instead, she was clothed in a heavy, brown skirt and a blouse with puffed sleeves. The fabric was worn, but functional—a far cry from the clean, soft materials she had been accustomed to. She stared down at herself, the sudden realization that these clothes were... from the past, perhaps?

  A wave of nausea rolled over her. Her mind raced to make sense of it, but nothing fit. Nothing made sense.

  Olwen felt like she was walking in a dream.

  “Watch yerself, lady!” Another sailor with a gruff voice hollered, shoving past her as he hoisted a crate over his shoulder. She jumped back, but as her foot hit the edge of the cobblestone, she stumbled and nearly toppled into the market square. It took everything in her not to fall face-first into the dirt.

  "Oi! Someone help the poor lass!" A woman nearby shouted, her voice laced with the hardened edge of the port folk. She didn’t approach, but she shot Olwen a sharp look as if she were an idiot for nearly getting in the way.

  Olwen opened her mouth to apologize, instinctively blurting, “Pardon, pardon!” Her voice was breathy, strained, her French accent thick with panic. She quickly stood up straight, brushing her skirt off, looking around as she tried to steady her nerves. “Je suis désolée,” she murmured under her breath.

  But as she looked around at the others, their eyes glancing over her with suspicion, something caught her attention. The language they spoke... it wasn’t French. The words were strange—gruff and clipped, like something out of a history book. She frowned, listening carefully as another man who had shoved past her called out.

  “Oi! Watch where yer goin’, lady!” His voice was thick with an unfamiliar accent, the words stretching into something she couldn’t quite place.

  Her throat tightened. That wasn’t French. It was... English, but not the kind she knew. The cadence, the tone, even the words were different. She had studied English—modern English, that is, but this? This sounded like something from an old history book. It didn’t take her long to figure it out amidst her confusion, especially with the way people were dressed, the buildings, and the overall setting. She quickly deduced that she had somehow been transported to a time where Old English was spoken.

  Her mind raced. She didn’t know how to speak Old English. Back in her world, English was one of the standard languages to learn, but it was the modern version—what people actually used. Old English, however, was something from the history books or movies, a language only read in studies about the past. It was a waste to learn, so she never had.

  So, she did the only thing she could think of. She would stick with the language she knew. Modern English.

  But to blend in better, she decided to mimic the words she could understand from the locals. When they spoke the words she recognized—simple phrases like “oi” or “yer” that felt more familiar—she would try to echo them, even if it wasn’t perfect. It was her only option.

  Olwen took a deep breath, forcing herself to speak in the common English she knew.

  “Excuse me,” she said in English, her accent faint but still noticeable. “Can you... can you help me? Where am I?” She winced at the awkwardness of it. Her French accent still lingered in her speech, but she hoped it would be enough to make herself understood.

  The man who had shoved past her didn’t even look at her as he mumbled something under his breath. The woman with the baskets kept her eyes averted, as if pretending she hadn’t noticed her at all.

  Olwen's heart pounded in her chest as the bustling crowd continued to move around her, indifferent to her presence. The harsh sounds of sailors shouting and women haggling at market stalls were grating on her nerves. She needed to get away—somewhere quiet to collect her thoughts. The noise, the strange language, the unfamiliarity of it all, was suffocating.

  She stumbled through the crowd, her eyes scanning for a place of refuge. She could barely make out anything through the crowd—just a blur of people, carts, and wagons. But then a narrow alleyway caught her attention to the right, its entrance hidden behind a large barrel and an old wooden sign swinging in the wind. The faint smell of something sweet and stale wafted toward her, and for a moment, she thought she might have found something.

  Without thinking, she stepped off the cobblestone street, relieved to leave the noise behind. The alley was quieter, though the smell of rot was faintly present in the air. As she rounded a bend, she came across a dilapidated building—Its windows were long since broken, and the door creaked on its hinges like a ghost trying to hold on. The wooden sign that once hung proudly over the door had long since fallen, its pieces scattered on the cobblestones. There was an odd, faded painting of a loaf of bread on the weathered door, and the faint scent of stale flour lingered in the air.

  Olwen stopped, her breath catching in her throat. Was this... a bakery? The building had clearly seen better days, the windows cracked, and the door hanging on its hinges. It looked abandoned—no sign of life inside—but something about it felt oddly inviting. A place to rest. A place to breathe.

  She pushed open the door, the rusty hinges protesting the motion, and stepped inside.

  The interior was dim, with only the light from the cracks in the boarded-up windows providing illumination. Dust hung in the air, and the wooden counter was cluttered with broken tools and old flour sacks. She had no idea how it had fallen into such a state, but for now, it was the perfect place to breathe.

  Olwen closed the door behind her, leaning against it for a moment, trying to steady her breathing. She could still hear the distant sounds of the port, but they felt muffled now, like a distant thunderstorm. She let out a shaky breath, trying to calm herself. This couldn’t be real. None of this made sense.

  Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit.

  As she took another step into the bakery, the sound of a loud curse broke through the silence. “Bloody hell, are ye deaf or just bloody stupid?”

  Olwen froze, looking around for the source of the voice. From behind a counter at the far side of the room, a grumpy, disheveled old man appeared. His clothes were worn, his face was lined with age, and his hands were calloused, as if he had worked them to the bone for years. He scowled at her, his eyes sharp despite his apparent age.

  “Can’t you read, girl?” he growled, clearly not pleased with her presence. “This place’s been closed for God knows how long.”

  “Sorry,” Olwen muttered instinctively, her French accent creeping into her voice. “I was just... trying to find a place to sit.”

  “A place to sit?” The old man barked out a laugh. “This ain’t a place to rest yer pretty little ass. If ye want a place to sit, try the tavern. Or the gutter. They both got more warmth than this dump.. Or go back where ye came from.”

  Olwen blinked, caught off guard by his bluntness. “I... I didn’t mean to intrude,” she said, feeling her heart race. She instinctively took a few steps back, unsure if she should leave. The man’s tone was harsh, but there was no malice behind it—just irritation, like he had long ago lost patience with the world.

  He gave her a long, measuring look before grumbling, “Fine, fine. If ye need a quiet place to think, then sit. But don’t touch nothin’. I got enough to clean as it is.”

  Olwen nodded, grateful for the small mercy, and sat on a broken stool near the counter. The old man muttered something about a bad batch of bread or something equally as unimportant. Her mind, however, was elsewhere.

  She ran her hands over her face, trying to calm her racing thoughts. How had she gotten here? She glanced at the bakery’s door, but there was no sign of how she had ended up in this time and place. Her hands trembled, and she pushed the thought away. She couldn’t focus on that right now.

  Her gaze wandered around, but then it landed on the old man, hunched over a table at the back of the bakery, the lines on his face as deep as the cracks in the walls. His clothes were simple but patched, and his hair, long and unkempt, framed his face in a way that made him appear both mysterious and gruff.

  She hesitated, unsure of how to approach him. The last thing she wanted was to disrupt someone who looked as though he’d long since given up on society. But she needed help, even if it was just an explanation, a simple direction.

  "Excuse me," she ventured in English, her voice softer than before. She had no idea what kind of reception she would get here, but there was nowhere else to go. "Can you tell me where I am?"

  The man didn't respond at first. He was grinding something on a stone slab, muttering under his breath in what sounded like an old dialect, his movements slow and deliberate.

  “Oi,” Olwen pressed, stepping closer. “I—”

  "Can't ye see I'm busy?" the man grumbled, not looking up. His voice was thick with the same harsh, grating accent that she had heard on the street, but there was something sharper about it now, like he was used to being ignored and had no patience for it.

  Olwen felt a pang of irritation. She wasn’t here for a fight, but she also wasn’t used to being dismissed. "I just... I don’t know where I am," she said, trying to keep her voice steady.

  The man sighed, finally looking up at her with tired eyes that seemed to carry the weight of a thousand years. His eyes were dull, but there was something in them that flickered when he met her gaze. "Yer in the port of Denmor, lass. Never seen ye round here before, but if yer lost, ye’re not the first."

  Denmor? That name seemed vaguely familiar, but it didn’t make any sense. Olwen's mind scrambled to place it. Denmor... why did it sound so strange? It was almost as if she had read about it before.

  Then, it hit her. The Love of a Ruler. She had just finished reading that book, hadn’t she? The story about the king fighting pirates and protecting his queen. She had loved that book, captivated by the romance and the tension of the sea battles. And in the book, the port of Denmor was mentioned—a small, insignificant port, mentioned only briefly as a strategic location for trade. But it was nothing more than a passing reference. It wasn’t important.

  She froze, her stomach sinking. Her mind raced as she tried to piece it all together. The setting, the people, the way they spoke... the mention of Denmor... it couldn’t be. Could it?

  But the realization slammed into her like a freight train. This wasn’t just any old port. This was Denmor—the port from the book. She was... in the book. She had been isekai’d.

  Her head spun as the gravity of the situation hit her. She had no idea how, or why, but she was no longer in her world. She was in the world of the book she had just finished reading.

  The man watched her for a moment, his expression unreadable. "Ain't much to see 'round here, lass. Best ye move along." He turned back to his grinding, his dismissive attitude returning.

  Olwen stood there, uncertain. Her heart was still racing from the strange realization of her situation, but the harsh reality of being alone in an unfamiliar time pressed in on her. She wasn’t sure where to go, or what to do next. The noise of the port still reached her ears through the cracks in the building, reminding her that she was still very much an outsider here, lost in a world that wasn’t her own.

  She knew better than to argue with someone who clearly wanted to be left alone, and so she turned to leave, but before she could make it to the door, the old man grumbled under his breath.

  "Oi, wait a minute," he muttered, his voice softened with reluctant thought. She paused, glancing over her shoulder, eyes wide with curiosity. The old man was still hunched over the stone slab, but now his gaze had softened, as if weighing something in his mind.

  The old man sighed, muttering something under his breath about people who couldn’t take a hint. Finally, he grunted. “Yer better off staying here, then, if ye’ve got nowhere else to go.” He stood up, stretching his stiff joints, his back creaking like the old wood in his bakery. “I could use an extra hand. Don't get many folk passing through here, and I ain’t exactly in the mood for a long chat.”

  Olwen blinked, surprised by his offer. “You... you’d let me stay?”

  The old man gave a quick, dismissive wave of his hand. “Aye, but ye’ll need to work, lass. I ain’t running a charity here. Bread don’t bake itself.” His sharp eyes softened just slightly as he added, “Ye’ll be doing simple work. Sweepin’, cleanin’, maybe helpin’ me with the odd batch o' bread if yer up for it. Don’t expect no fancy pay. But ye’ll get a roof, food, and maybe even a bit of coin if yer useful.”

  Olwen blinked, taken aback by the unexpected offer. She had come here hoping to find a quiet place to breathe, not anticipating anyone offering her a job—let alone someone like him.

  “Are ye in or not?” the man pressed, his voice softer now, but still rough with age and fatigue. “I ain't got time to waste on dawdlers.”

  “Alright,” Olwen said quickly, relieved that the grumpy man wasn’t turning her away. “I’ll take the job.”

  The thought of stability—of having a roof over her head and some work to do—was a relief. Olwen had no idea how long she would be stuck in this world, but the sooner she settled in, the better.

  The old man gave a grunt of approval and stood up from the counter, stretching stiffly. He seemed to reconsider something and, with a sigh, shuffled closer to her.

  "Name’s Edern Bramble," he muttered, his sharp blue eyes examining her closely. "I’ll be teachin’ ye the ropes, I suppose. Ain't that much to learn. If yer quick, ye’ll catch on soon enough."

  Olwen smiled faintly, grateful for his offer. "Thank you, Mr. Bramble," she said politely. She hesitated, then added, "My name’s Olwen Delaine."

  He raised an eyebrow at her name, then nodded. "Olwen, eh? Not a name I hear round here. Where are ye from, lass?”

  She stiffened for a moment. She wasn’t sure how much to say, how much of the truth she could reveal, but she knew one thing: in this world, there was no way she could pretend to be someone else. She was stuck here, for better or worse. So she did the only thing that made sense.

  "I’m... from far away," she said, her voice trailing off. She didn’t offer more than that; it was easier that way. Edern didn’t seem to care much, thankfully.

  "Well, from wherever ye are, ye’d best get used to this place," he grumbled as he turned back to the workbench. "Now, don’t stand there like a daft fool. Get to work. First things first, sweep up and get the dust cleared. I ain’t got the energy for it anymore.”

  She took her place near the counter, gathering a broom and a rag to start cleaning up the dusty bakery. The smell of stale flour and old bread filled the air, but it was comforting in its own way. A strange sense of familiarity settled over her. She might have ended up in a different world, but for now, she had a place to stay.

  As she swept the floor, Edern called out from the back of the bakery. “I’ll get yer room ready after the work’s done. Don’t expect much, but it’ll be enough to keep yer head from the rain.”

  Olwen nodded, grateful for the small kindness. She said with a small but grateful smile. "Thank you, Mr. Bramble.”

  He grunted, not one for many words. She had a job. A roof. For now, that was all that mattered. And as she began sweeping the worn floor of the bakery, she knew she had made the right choice.