Chapter 2: Court Life and Magic

Charmaine sat on the edge of her bed in a modest chamber tucked away in a quiet corner of the castle. She traced the faded embroidery of her quilt, her mind spinning with thoughts she couldn't seem to escape. It had been weeks since her arrival, and she still felt like a fish out of water—or perhaps a fish tossed onto land, gasping for understanding. Her life was over. Well, the life she knew. 

She was dressed like everyone else but clearly, she did not look like everybody else. The hoodie had been replaced with a heavy, ill-fitting dress of pale blue, cinched tightly at her waist by a leather belt that felt like a vice. Her soft and round body felt completely unnatural in this garment. She was painfully aware of how the fabric pulled taut around her chest and arms, and she flushed with embarrassment under the gazes of dozens of strangers in medieval finery. So, she took back her hoodie and put it on top of her clothes. At least the hoodie could hide her.

Her newfound abilities, as unimpressive as they were, had been discovered almost by accident. A court mage had asked her to focus her energy on a wilted flower in the courtyard. To everyone's dismay, it hadn't bloomed into something dazzling or magical. Instead, it had slowly regained its color, its petals unfurling just enough to show life, then turning into a gourd. Later, when a young squire fell ill from a fever, Charmaine managed to soothe his pain and bring his temperature down with a faint glow of light from her palms.

Richard's expression had been one of thinly veiled disappointment. The court's whispered conversations soon followed. "The hero grows cabbages."

"She couldn't even mend a broken bone without fainting," another courtier complained.

"Why did the gods curse us with her?" That was the question they all asked.

Charmaine had smiled politely as they spoke about her as though she weren't there. Every comment stung like a needle against her skin, yet she carried on. She always had. Back in her old life, she'd endured cruel comments about her weight, her plain appearance, and her lack of ambition. The situation had not changed, but now the stakes were higher and the ridicule was delivered with medieval accents.

The truth was, she wanted to make something of herself here. She tried planting an herb garden in a patch of unused soil near the kitchens. She offered her meager healing abilities to anyone willing to accept them. She even attempted to join the court's combat training sessions but had been laughed off the field when her attempt to wield a sword ended with her face first in the dirt.

The court avoided her whenever possible. Lords and ladies turned their backs as she approached, their snickers like daggers. The servants were kind but distant, bowing their heads in pity. Even the guards seemed unsure whether to address her as "Lady Charmaine" or just "the Hero."

One court mage, however, had been different.

Marx wasn't much older than her, though his graying hair and tired eyes suggested a life of study and hardship. His robes were perpetually wrinkled, and he always seemed to be carrying too many books. Yet he was the only one who treated her as a person rather than a disappointment.

"It must be difficult," he said one evening as they sat in the library. Marx had been the first to invite her there, offering her a brief escape from the relentless murmurs of the court. He leaned back in his chair, fingers steepled, studying her.

Charmaine shrugged. "You mean being a walking failure?"

"I wouldn't say that," he replied gently. "You didn't ask to be summoned. And you didn't promise to be what they expected. The fault isn't yours."

His words were kind, but they didn't erase the heavy weight on her chest. She glanced down at her hands—hands that could coax a vine to grow but couldn't hold a sword or wield fire like the heroes in every story she'd ever read.

Marx leaned forward, his voice softer now. "Tell me about your world. What was it like? What did you love about it?"

She was surprised by the question. No one had asked about her old life before. She hesitated, then spoke slowly. "It wasn't perfect. I didn't have much, but... I had TV. Books. A warm bed. A job that paid the bills. And pizza. I miss pizza so much."

Marx chuckled, a deep, genuine sound that made her smile despite herself. "Pizza. I'll have to figure out what that is."

For the first time in weeks, Charmaine felt something like hope. It was small and fragile, but it was there. Marx didn't see her as a failed hero or a disappointment. He saw her. Their time together was spent walking in the garden or library. Marx also sent her fruits to eat.

She found him so sweet. She even longed for time alone with him. His smile brightened her day.

One day, they were together in the library. "I want to be useful," she admitted quietly. "Even if I can't be what they wanted. I need to figure out a way to matter here."

Marx nodded, his expression thoughtful. "Is it important to you?"

She smiled. "It is important to you so I'd like to make it important to me."

He kissed her hand. "Then we'll start with what you're good at. Plants, healing… and maybe pizza."

Charmaine laughed, a sound that echoed in the quiet library. It was the first time she'd laughed since waking in this strange, unforgiving world. And for now, it was enough.