The air was thick with the scent of sweat and steel. The camp was alive with activity — soldiers sharpening swords, repairing armor, preparing for the inevitable. The crackling of a nearby fire mingled with the hum of anxious voices, each man and woman steeling themselves for the battle that would come at dawn.
Jay stood off to the side, watching the soldiers. He felt like a ghost — out of place, adrift in a world that wasn't his own. His body ached from the sprint across the battlefield, his muscles unaccustomed to the strain of war. He had no weapon, no armor, and certainly no experience with combat. He was a man lost in time, trapped between the world he knew and the one he was thrust into.
But there was no escaping it.
"Come," Joan's voice rang out, cutting through the noise like a sword through the fog. She approached him, her armor gleaming in the firelight, her eyes hard with purpose. "If you intend to survive, you will need to learn. Now."
Jay's heart raced at her words. Survival. He had no choice. He nodded, swallowing his doubts. "I'm ready."
She didn't smile, didn't offer him any reassurance. She simply pointed to a wooden practice sword resting against a nearby barrel. "Pick it up."
Jay hesitated, then grabbed the sword. It was heavier than he expected, the weight unfamiliar in his hands. The hilt was rough, the blade dull — not the kind of weapon you'd find in a museum or on a treasure hunt. This was real. This was war.
Joan watched him closely, her gaze sharp and unwavering. "Hold it properly. Like you would your life."
Jay adjusted his grip, unsure of how to stand, how to move. The weight of the sword felt foreign in his hands, as though it didn't belong there. He knew nothing of combat, nothing of the art of war. He was a stranger in a stranger's skin.
Joan stepped forward, her movements fluid, like a dancer or a predator. "You have no training, no skill," she said. "But you have a body. And your body knows how to survive. I will teach you."
She lunged at him in a flash of motion, her sword cutting through the air with deadly precision. Jay barely had time to react. He raised the wooden sword, but it was like trying to stop a storm with a twig. Her strike hit him across the arm, the impact jarring his whole body.
He staggered back, his grip faltering. Pain bloomed in his side, and he gasped, trying to steady himself.
Joan didn't pause. She was on him again before he could recover, her sword coming down in a swift arc. "You are too slow," she growled. "You fight like a man already dead."
Jay barely managed to raise his sword in time to deflect the blow, the clash of wood against wood ringing in his ears. Sweat dripped down his face as he struggled to find his footing. Joan's movements were like lightning — fast, precise, and ruthless.
"You don't have time to think," she said, her voice cutting through his panic. "In battle, there are no thoughts. Only actions."
She struck again, and Jay barely dodged this time, feeling the swish of her sword as it passed dangerously close to his throat. He stumbled backward, his heart hammering in his chest.
Joan stopped, standing still for a moment, her sword lowered. "Again," she commanded, her voice cold but not unkind. "If you are to fight, you must do it with your body, not your mind. You will die if you hesitate."
Jay gritted his teeth. His arms were sore, his body already trembling with the exertion. But something in her tone — something in the fire of her eyes — pushed him forward. He couldn't let her see weakness. Not now. Not in front of the soldiers, not in front of her.
He raised his sword again, feeling the weight settle in his hands. He focused. This time, he didn't think. He just moved. His body responded, almost instinctively, as Joan's blade came at him once more.
The wooden swords clashed again, louder this time, and Jay felt a surge of adrenaline, something primal that pushed him past his doubts. Joan's strikes were fast and furious, but he managed to block a few, his own movements becoming quicker, sharper. Sweat poured down his back, his muscles screaming in protest, but he kept going.
Joan stepped back, observing him with an unreadable expression. "Better," she said simply. "But still weak."
Jay's breath came in ragged gasps as he tried to steady himself. He was covered in dirt, sweat, and blood — some of it his own. But there was something different now. The terror of being in this time, of being out of place, was fading. In its place was a quiet resolve. A fierce determination to live.
Joan nodded, as if she had seen this change in him before. "You're learning," she said. "Not enough to survive tomorrow, but enough to begin."
Jay wiped his brow, feeling the burn of exhaustion in every muscle. "I don't know how you do it," he muttered. "You fight like a demon."
Joan's lips curled into a faint smile, but it was a smile born from pain, from sacrifice. "I am no demon," she said softly. "I fight because I have no choice. And neither do you."
There was a long pause as she studied him, her gaze softening just a fraction. "You are a part of something bigger than yourself now. You will never return to the life you knew. But if you want to stay alive — if you want to see tomorrow — you will need to fight with all you have."
Jay nodded, the weight of her words settling on his shoulders. He wasn't sure if he was ready for this — to live in a world so full of bloodshed, so full of death. But he knew one thing: He had to keep moving forward. There was no going back.
And as he stood there, breathing heavily, his sword still in hand, he realized something else.
In this world, survival didn't just mean living through battle. It meant surviving the fire.
The days blurred together in a haze of exhaustion and pain. Jay's body felt like it was being torn apart, each muscle screaming in protest as Joan pushed him further than he ever thought possible. The sword drills were relentless. The sparring, brutal. He was bruised, bloodied, and battered, but each morning, he found himself back on his feet, sword in hand, facing Joan once more.
It was a routine now — a grueling cycle of fighting, failing, and trying again. Every morning, before dawn, they would meet at the edge of the camp, where the fires from the night before still smoldered. There, Joan would test him again, her movements precise and unforgiving.
Jay's progress was slow, but with every strike, every parry, he could feel himself getting closer to something he couldn't quite name — a raw, animalistic instinct that seemed to awaken deep within him.
One morning, as the first light of dawn painted the sky a deep crimson, Jay stood at the training ground, his sword held loosely at his side. His muscles ached, his hands were raw from the repeated strikes, but he refused to show it. Joan stood opposite him, her posture calm and composed, her face unreadable.
She studied him for a moment, her eyes flicking over his form. "You've learned to block, to strike. But you're still too rigid," she said, her voice as sharp as the blade in her hand. "You fight like a man who fears his own strength."
Jay gritted his teeth. He had been trying his best. But in her eyes, it never seemed enough. "I'm doing everything I can," he replied, his voice rough from exhaustion.
Joan didn't answer immediately. Instead, she stepped forward, closing the distance between them in one fluid motion. The tip of her sword brushed against his chest, cold steel against his skin. "Everything is not enough," she said quietly. "Not in war. Not in life."
Jay felt a shiver run down his spine, though he couldn't tell if it was from fear or something else — something that stirred deep inside him whenever she was near. Her intensity was overwhelming, like the fury of a storm.
She pulled back, her eyes locking with his. "You will never fight with fear if you want to survive. The sword is an extension of your will. You must wield it as if your very soul is bound to its edge."
Jay's throat tightened. "How do I do that?" His voice was almost a whisper, unsure.
Joan's lips curved into a faint smile — a smile that was more like a challenge than reassurance. "You trust your instincts, Jay. Your heart. When you stop thinking and start feeling, that is when you become a true warrior."
He swallowed hard, trying to make sense of her words. In the heat of battle, there would be no time for hesitation, no time for fear. He couldn't be the man he had been — the man who questioned everything. He had to become something else.
Joan stepped back, motioning for him to take his stance. "Again."
Jay raised his sword, the wooden blade feeling heavier in his hands than ever before. This time, he didn't think. He didn't focus on what Joan might do next, didn't second-guess his every move. He just felt. The rhythm of the fight, the steady thrum of his heart, the pulse of energy that surged through his body.
Joan moved first, her blade cutting the air with terrifying speed. This time, Jay was ready. His arms moved before his brain could even catch up. His sword met hers with a resounding crack. His stance was more fluid, more natural. He wasn't thinking. He was reacting.
The two swords clashed again, and for the first time, Jay didn't flinch. He pushed against her, stepping into her strike, his movements smoother. With every exchange, his body felt more alive, more connected to the sword in his hand. His strikes were stronger, faster. Joan was still a step ahead, but now he could almost keep up.
She stepped back, a spark of approval in her eyes. "Better."
Jay took a deep breath, his chest rising and falling with the effort. He was dripping with sweat, his muscles screaming in protest, but there was something else now. A sense of power. Of purpose.
"I feel it," he said, his voice rough. "I'm starting to understand."
Joan nodded, her gaze softening just a fraction. "Good. But understanding is only the beginning. You're still not prepared. Tomorrow, we face a raid. You'll fight alongside the men. And I'll be watching."
Jay's heart skipped a beat. A raid. He had heard the whispers among the soldiers — talk of an English advance, of an attack that could break their forces. His first real test. He wasn't ready for it. Not yet.
But Joan's eyes were unwavering. She was giving him no choice. "You will fight. And if you fail, you will die. If you hesitate, you will die."
Her words were harsh, but there was something else in them — a deep understanding, a recognition that survival in this world was never guaranteed. She didn't want him to die. Not if he could help it.
Jay nodded, his throat tight. "I won't fail."
Joan's gaze softened for a brief moment, but it was gone in an instant, replaced by the same iron determination. "Good. Then let's prepare."
The camp was alive with the sound of soldiers gathering their weapons, readying their armor. The tension in the air was palpable. Every soldier knew that tomorrow would be a day of blood and death. The English were coming, and they wouldn't stop until they had claimed Orléans for themselves.
Jay's hands shook as he tightened the straps on his makeshift armor. He wasn't ready for this. But Joan believed he could do it. And in this world, that was all that mattered.
As the last light of day faded, he found himself standing beside her once more, the weight of his sword heavier than it had ever been. "What if I fail?" he asked, the question hanging in the air like a dark cloud.
Joan turned to him, her eyes fierce. "You will fight until you die. Or until you win. There is no other choice."