The cold hit him like a blade, slicing through the air as Jay Ryan stumbled from darkness into blinding light. He gasped, his lungs struggling to fill with air that tasted of blood, iron, and ash. His heart raced, pounding harder than it ever had before, as the world around him began to take shape.
The ground beneath his feet was rough, uneven stone, slick with the grime of war. The sky above was a bruised gray, thick with smoke. From the distance came the sound of clashing steel — a cacophony of screams, war cries, and the ever-present thud of bodies falling.
The air reeked of death.
Jay's eyes snapped open. His head throbbed. His limbs felt like lead. His hands, trembling, touched the cold earth beneath him. Where the hell am I?
He had been in the ruins — the cathedral, the altar, the relic. The sword. The inscription.
And then... nothing.
Now, he was here. In the middle of a battlefield.
"What in God's name…"
The question left his lips, but the moment he spoke, a man in tattered armor turned toward him with wild eyes. His face was smeared with mud, and his expression was wild with fear.
"English!" the man shouted, pointing at Jay, who instinctively reached for his own sword—except, there was nothing there. His fingers grasped empty air, his pulse hammering against his temples. "You're with the English! Traitor!"
"Wait! I'm not—" Jay barely had time to react before the man lunged at him, a dagger in his hand, slick with blood.
Instinct kicked in. Jay sidestepped, but not fast enough. The dagger grazed his arm, leaving a sharp, fiery pain in its wake.
"Fool!" the man hissed, his voice thick with rage. "You don't belong here!"
But Jay wasn't alone. From behind, a powerful figure appeared — a woman, her armor glinting even in the dim light, moving with the grace of a warrior born. Her long, dark hair flowed behind her like a banner of war. She pulled a sword from the scabbard at her side, its edge gleaming as if forged by the hands of gods.
In one swift motion, she crossed the distance, knocking the man aside like a ragdoll. His body crumpled to the ground with a sickening thud.
The woman's eyes — sharp, piercing — turned to Jay. Her gaze was that of someone who had seen too much, witnessed the brutality of a world where blood and honor were the only currencies that mattered.
"You're no spy," she said, her voice low but commanding. Her French accent was thick, but Jay understood every word. "Not an Englishman. Who are you?"
Jay's heart skipped a beat. He had heard of her — in history books, whispered legends, and myths. The Maid of Orléans. Joan of Arc. But seeing her in the flesh was another thing entirely. She was younger than he had imagined — a girl, really, no older than twenty, but the weight of the world was heavy on her shoulders.
"I…" Jay struggled to speak, his throat dry. "I'm lost."
Her eyes narrowed. "Lost?" She took a step closer, her sword still in hand, though the point was lowered now. "You've crossed into a world of war, not some illusion."
"I… I don't know how I got here."
The look she gave him was one of suspicion, but there was also something else — something softer, like a flicker of recognition. As if she were searching for something in him, something ancient. Something she couldn't place.
Before he could say more, another cry rang out — a shrill, panicked scream. The battlefield was closing in around them. French soldiers were rallying, charging forward, cutting down English invaders. The stench of sweat and blood hung thick in the air.
"We need to move," Joan said, gripping Jay's arm with surprising strength. Her fingers were like iron. "Follow me, and stay close."
Jay had no choice but to follow. There was no time to question how he got here — no time to wonder if he had lost his mind. The flames of war surrounded them, and survival was all that mattered. He could barely keep up as they darted through the chaos, dodging arrows and the clash of swords.
The sound of hooves echoed through the dirt and smoke, and Joan led him toward a group of soldiers who were hoisting wounded men onto makeshift stretchers.
"Over here!" one of them shouted as Joan approached. "We need your help, Jeanne."
Jay's chest tightened at the mention of her name. This was real. She was real. And everything about her screamed of the weight of destiny. The world she inhabited — a world where battlefields were the stage of history and blood was spilled for causes far greater than any one person.
"Help them," Joan said, her voice unwavering. "You want to survive, you fight."
Jay swallowed hard. He hadn't trained for this — he didn't belong here.
But Joan's cold, determined gaze bore into him. Her soldiers needed him. And there was something in her eyes — a challenge. She was used to making men fight. To lead. To die for something greater than themselves.
And in that moment, Jay knew: He wasn't just a lost soul in the wrong time. He was part of something much larger — something far darker.
The flames of war would consume them all. But first, they would burn together.
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The chaos of the battlefield was relentless. The sounds of steel crashing against steel, the screams of the wounded and dying, filled the air like the song of war. The sky, once a pale blue, was now thick with the smoke of burning villages and the acrid scent of blood. The earth beneath Jay's boots felt like it was alive — trembling with the fury of combat, soaked with the sacrifices of men who would never be remembered.
Joan's grip on his arm was firm, unwavering as she led him through the madness. The men around them moved like shadows, their faces hardened by years of conflict, their eyes hollowed out by the horrors they had seen. The world was one of darkness, of survival, of strength. There was no room for weakness here.
They reached the makeshift command post where soldiers were tending to the wounded. The air was thick with the scent of burning flesh and herbal poultices, a scent that clung to Jay's skin like a second layer of armor. Joan didn't hesitate. She moved through the men like a queen amongst soldiers, her presence commanding and absolute.
"Get the healer," she ordered in a voice that brooked no argument.
One of the soldiers nodded and rushed off, leaving Jay standing by a stretcher. The young man lying on it was barely conscious, his face pale and slick with sweat, blood seeping from a gash along his side.
Joan knelt beside him, her brow furrowing as she examined the wound with a practiced eye. She didn't flinch, didn't show any sign of fear. Her hands, stained with the blood of enemies and comrades alike, worked swiftly, pressing cloths to the wound and murmuring words of comfort.
"Stay with me," she said softly to the soldier. "You will survive this."
Jay watched her with growing awe. It was as if she was made of something more than flesh and bone. The way she moved, the confidence with which she commanded — she wasn't just a leader. She was a force of nature. And yet, in the midst of it all, there was an undeniable sadness in her eyes — a weight that Jay could only begin to understand.
A man approached, his face gaunt and weary, a small wooden box in his hands. He was the healer — old, perhaps even older than the wars he tended to. His hands shook as he opened the box, pulling out a vial of clear liquid. Joan looked at it, then up at him.
"What news from the front?" she asked, her voice clipped.
The healer didn't answer immediately. His eyes darted around the camp, avoiding her gaze. "They've pushed further," he muttered. "But there are rumors… rumors of a trap."
Joan's expression didn't change, but there was a tension in her shoulders. "A trap?" she repeated, her voice darkening. "Tell me more."
The healer nodded. "The English are waiting. They have reinforcements coming. We can't hold this ground much longer."
A cold silence fell over the group. The soldier on the stretcher groaned, his eyes fluttering open for a brief moment before he slipped into unconsciousness again. Joan's face was a mask, her jaw clenched tight. But Jay could see it — the edge of fear. It was the first crack in the steel that surrounded her. The realization that even she wasn't invincible.
"We'll hold," she said, her voice firm, but Jay could hear the uncertainty lurking just beneath the surface. "We must hold."
She stood, turning to face the camp with a fire in her eyes that seemed to burn hotter than the fires around them. Her soldiers were watching her — waiting for orders, for guidance. And she, in turn, seemed to draw strength from them.
Jay's heart raced. His mind was still reeling, trying to understand how he had ended up here. He had been standing in a crumbling cathedral, in the ruins of his world. And now… now, he was a stranger in a nightmare, caught between the living and the dead, between a history he couldn't change and a woman whose fate was sealed in the flames of war.
"You fight," Joan's voice cut through the air, sharp and unyielding. "For France. For freedom. For your families. For life."
She looked at him, her gaze piercing, as if she were reading his soul. "If you've come to survive, then fight. If you've come to die, then leave."
Jay's chest tightened. She was right — there was no time for hesitation, no time for weakness. He had no weapon, no training, no place in this world. But the eyes of a thousand soldiers were on him now. And somewhere in the depths of his blood, there was a pull — a connection to her that he couldn't ignore.
He swallowed hard, the words catching in his throat. "I'll fight," he said, though it felt like a lie. He had no choice but to fight, didn't he? To survive, to honor the woman who had somehow, impossibly, brought him here.
Joan didn't smile. She didn't offer him comfort. She simply nodded, her expression unreadable.
"Then come," she said. "We march at dawn. And the English will learn why you do not underestimate the French."
With that, she turned and walked away, her soldiers parting like a river before her. Jay stood there for a moment, watching her retreating figure, feeling the weight of the decision pressing down on him.
In this world, nothing was certain. The blood of saints and warriors ran through the same veins. And as the first light of dawn began to creep over the horizon, Jay knew one thing for sure:
The flames of war had burned through history, and now they were burning through him.