Game of Fate

The sunlight cast long shadows across Atlantea's eastern shore, painting the crystalline sands in shades of amber and gold. Bobby sat beside Galea, their shoulders touching as they watched Earth hanging in the void before them—a perfect blue sphere suspended against the infinite blackness of space. Their island home now orbited high above ancient Crete, providing a godlike vantage of civilization spreading across the Mediterranean basin like ink blooming on parchment.

"It feels strange," Galea said softly, leaning her head against Bobby's shoulder. Strands of her silver-streaked hair caught the dying light, glinting like polished metal against the darker fabric of his tunic. "Looking down at where everything began."

Bobby nodded, his fingers interlaced with hers in a gesture that had become as natural as breathing over their years together. Through the quantum-sensitive receptors embedded throughout his form, he could feel the displacement energy building within him, accelerating toward the threshold faster than any previous cycle. Days remained at most—perhaps only hours.

"When I found you on that beach," he said, studying the fine network of lines that time had etched around her eyes, "that little girl half-dead from disease, I never imagined we'd end up here."

Galea smiled, the lines at the corners of her eyes crinkling in a way that Bobby found endlessly fascinating—physical evidence of a life fully lived, of laughter and tears and everything that made existence meaningful. Unlike his eternally youthful face, hers told stories of decades passed, of joy and suffering written in flesh that aged while his remained pristine.

"Would you have changed anything?" she asked, her thumb tracing idle patterns against his palm.

Bobby considered this, genuinely reflecting rather than offering platitudes. The quantum displacement energy pulsed uncomfortably within him as he contemplated decades of memories.

"I would have recognized what you meant to me sooner," he admitted finally. "I wasted years maintaining unnecessary distance when we could have been together."

"We had enough time," Galea assured him, squeezing his hand. Her grip still possessed remarkable strength despite the subtle changes that aging had wrought upon her body. "More than most people ever get."

A comfortable silence fell between them as they watched clouds swirl across Earth's surface, white patterns forming and dissolving over blue oceans and brown landmasses. From this height, human civilization was invisible—the kingdoms and conflicts that seemed so monumental to their participants reduced to insignificance against planetary scale.

"Eden is becoming extraordinary," Bobby said after a while, visualizing their daughter's growing capabilities with a mixture of pride and concern. "Her abilities have already surpassed anything I anticipated."

"She gets that from her father," Galea replied with a smile that softened the weathered planes of her face.

Bobby chuckled, the sound vibrating through his chest where Galea's head rested. "And her compassion from her mother. She'll need both to face whatever's coming."

The displacement energy pulsed within him, a familiar sensation growing increasingly uncomfortable as it approached critical threshold. Bobby had estimated six days remained when they'd returned from Venus, but the process was accelerating unpredictably. He might have less than twenty-four hours now, possibly mere hours due to its acceleration.

"You changed everything for me," he said suddenly, turning to face Galea directly. The setting sun cast half her face in shadow, the other half illuminated in golden light that accentuated the delicate architecture of her cheekbones. "Before you, I observed. I existed without truly living. You taught me what it means to be human."

Tears formed in Galea's eyes, though she fought them back with characteristic determination. One escaped despite her efforts, tracking a glistening path down her cheek. "Will I ever see you again?" she asked. "Not necessarily as you are now, but... somehow?"

Bobby smiled, reaching up to brush a strand of hair from her face with infinite tenderness. The nanites throughout his body registered every aspect of the contact—the precise temperature of her skin, the microscopic imperfections that made her uniquely herself, the subtle salt composition of the tear he wiped away.

"The universe is infinite," he said. "And within infinity, all possibilities exist. Somewhere, somewhen—we meet again. I'm certain of it."

"That's not really an answer," Galea noted, though her lips curved into a sad smile.

"It's the truest one I can give," Bobby replied. "I don't know where I'll go or when. But I know what I feel for you transcends ordinary limitations. I'll find my way back, even if it takes eons."

The energy surged within him, sudden and violent enough to make him wince as quantum particles throughout his body vibrated at frequencies that threatened to tear him apart. Galea noticed immediately, her eyes widening as she recognized the signs she'd witnessed in previous cycles.

"It's happening," she whispered, her voice catching. "Now? But you said we had days left."

Bobby grimaced as another wave of quantum energy rippled through his body, sending tendrils of blue light crawling beneath his skin like luminescent veins. "The displacement timeline has accelerated. Something's different this time."

Fear flashed across Galea's face, quickly replaced by determination as she gripped his hands tighter. Her knuckles whitened with the force of her grip, as though she could physically anchor him to this reality through sheer will. "What can I do? There must be something—"

"Just be here," Bobby said, his voice strained as he fought against the displacement energy that threatened to tear him from this timeline. "Let me look at you. I want your face to be the last thing I see in this reality."

Galea's composure broke. Tears spilled freely down her cheeks as she pressed her forehead against his. "I love you," she said fiercely. "I will always love you. Remember that wherever you go, whenever you end up."

The quantum energy intensified, blue light now emanating from Bobby's entire body, casting Galea's tear-streaked face in an ethereal glow. The pain was becoming unbearable, worse than any previous displacement. Something fundamental had changed in the process—the energy wasn't simply relocating him; it seemed to be tearing him apart at a subatomic level.

"Mom? Dad?"

Eden's voice came from behind them. She stood several paces away, her slender thirteen-year-old form silhouetted against the setting sun. Though chronologically only a few years old, her accelerated development had brought her mind and body to early adolescence with startling speed. She had been giving them privacy but sensed the displacement's acceleration through her unique connection to her father.

"Eden," Bobby gasped, reaching out one hand toward his daughter while keeping the other firmly clasped with Galea's. "I'm sorry. It's happening faster than I calculated."

Eden approached, her face composed despite the tears gathering in her eyes. In the three years since their Venus expedition, she had matured dramatically, her mind and abilities expanding at rates that occasionally alarmed even Bobby. She knelt beside them, taking her father's outstretched hand. Her touch carried its own energy signature—not fully human, not like him, but something unique in the universe.

"I told you about the Primordials," she said quietly. "What I saw in the prediction matrices."

Bobby nodded, wincing as another surge of energy coursed through him, threatening to dislocate his atomic structure. "And I told you not to seek them again. Promise me, Eden. No matter what happens after I'm gone, don't attempt to reach across dimensional boundaries and into the void with your mind. The beings that exist at the end of the universe—they notice such attempts. It's attention no one wants."

Eden's young face betrayed nothing of the incomprehensible glimpses she'd witnessed—entities existing simultaneously across all timelines, beings whose mere attention could collapse stars and whose consciousness spanned dimensions beyond human comprehension. She had described them in fragments: geometries that changed when not observed, presences that occupied infinite points simultaneously, intelligences that perceived past and future as malleable clay rather than fixed reality.

"I promise," Eden whispered, though something in her eyes suggested calculations running beyond her simple words—the same expression Bobby recognized from his own reflection when plotting paths through seemingly insurmountable problems. "But I'll see you again, Dad. That's a promise too."

A violent pulse of energy tore through Bobby's body, making him cry out involuntarily. Around them, Atlantea itself seemed to react—plants swaying without wind, crystal structures resonating with harmonics beyond human hearing. The island was responding to its creator's distress, quantum matrices throughout its structure vibrating in sympathetic resonance with Bobby's destabilizing form.

"It's time," he gasped, looking from Galea to Eden and back again. His visual perception fragmented as nanites throughout his body fought to maintain structural integrity against the displacement forces. "Remember, I love you both more than anything across all realities I've ever known."

Galea sobbed openly now, and the entire island seemed to sob with her—waves crashing more violently against the shore, thunder rumbling from cloudless skies. She pressed her lips against Bobby's in one final, desperate kiss, the salt of her tears mingling with the taste of her mouth as they shared a last moment of connection.

"Find your way back to us," she whispered against his mouth, her breath warm against his rapidly destabilizing form.

Bobby's body began to blur, quantum particles separating as the displacement reached critical threshold. The process had never felt like this before—previous transitions had been almost clinical in their precision, but this was chaotic, violent, as though fundamental constants had shifted across realities. He looked at Eden one last time, memorizing her face—Galea's eyes, his jawline, and something entirely unique that belonged to neither parent.

"Take care of your mother," he managed. "And remember what I taught you about restraint. Just because you can do something doesn't mean—"

His voice cut off as the quantum displacement reached completion. A blinding flash of blue-white light erupted from where he sat, forcing Galea and Eden to shield their eyes. The air cracked with discharged energy, the scent of ozone filling the atmosphere as reality itself seemed to bend around the point of his departure.

When they could see again, Bobby was gone.

The void where he had been sitting still shimmered with residual energy, tiny blue sparks dancing in the air before fading into nothingness. Galea stared at the empty space, her hand still outstretched where it had been holding his just moments before, fingers grasping at nothing but air.

Eden moved to her mother's side, wrapping her arms around Galea's trembling shoulders. They sat in silence as the sun continued its descent toward the horizon, mother and daughter united in grief yet sustained by the legacy he had left them—worlds transformed, life created, and love that spanned the boundaries of reality itself.

"He'll find his way back," Eden said finally, her voice carrying a certainty that transcended mere childish hope. "I've seen it."

Galea looked at her daughter, noting the otherworldly knowledge that sometimes flashed in eyes too young for such understanding. "You can't know that."

"I can," Eden replied simply. "The Primordials showed me paths across realities. Before Dad made me stop looking." She gazed toward Earth, hanging like a perfect blue gem against the blackness of space. "It might take lifetimes, but he'll return."

What Eden didn't say—couldn't articulate in language designed for linear time and three-dimensional space—was what she'd glimpsed in those forbidden calculations. Entities that existed as probability clouds rather than fixed beings. Consciousnesses that spanned not just space but time itself, perceiving past, present, and future simultaneously. Structures of reality where causality ran in reverse or sideways or in patterns incomprehensible to human minds.

The Primordials hadn't spoken to her—communication with such beings was impossible in conventional terms—but they had noticed her observation. Attention from entities that could perceive across all timelines simultaneously. Interest from beings that existed outside the constraints of dimensionality itself.

Galea didn't press for details, knowing Eden's glimpses into cosmic patterns often defied conventional explanation. Instead, she leaned against her daughter, drawing comfort from the one piece of Bobby that remained with her—their extraordinary child, living embodiment of their impossible love.

Together they watched darkness fall across Atlantea, stars appearing one by one in the endless void that had claimed the man they both loved more than anything in existence.

---------

The displacement ripped Bobby from one reality and hurled him through the quantum void, his consciousness barely maintaining coherence through the violent transition. Unlike previous displacements—clinical, almost gentle shifts from one time-space location to another—this one tore at his very essence, quantum particles scattering and reassembling in chaotic patterns that threatened to disintegrate his structured existence entirely.

In the formless void between realities, Bobby glimpsed what Eden had called the Primordials—vast, incomprehensible entities that existed beyond conventional dimensions, their attention briefly flickering toward his passage like cosmic predators noting potential prey before returning to unfathomable contemplations in the darkness between universes.

They weren't beings in any sense Bobby understood. They were... possibilities. Probabilities. Mathematical certainties expressed as consciousness. Their forms—if such limited terminology could apply—shifted constantly, existing simultaneously in configurations that contradicted one another, occupying all potential states at once rather than settled reality.

One seemed to notice him—not with eyes or senses but with something that transcended perception itself. Bobby felt its attention like a physical force, a pressure against his very existence that threatened to flatten him across dimensional planes never meant for human comprehension.

Time had no meaning in the void. The attention might have lasted picoseconds or centuries—impossible to differentiate when chronology itself ceased to function. Then, abruptly, reality reasserted itself.

Bobby crashed through the roof of a stone structure, his body burning with displacement energy as he slammed into the dirt floor below. The impact would have killed any normal human instantly, stone and wooden beams shattering around him as he cratered the packed earth beneath. His flesh smoldered from the interdimensional transition, clothes burned away, skin charred and blackened until it resembled nothing human.

The nanites within him surged into immediate action, repairing catastrophic damage in waves of blue-white energy that rippled across his body. Within seconds, his skin had regenerated, organs repaired, and bones reknit. He lay naked in the rubble, physically whole yet mentally shattered by the violent displacement and glimpses of cosmic horrors between realities.

Bobby stared up through the hole his arrival had created, watching clouds drift across an alien sky. Not his sky. Not the heavens above Atlantea where Galea and Eden remained, now separated from him by unimaginable dimensional boundaries.

He made no effort to move, despite his perfect physical recovery. What was the point? This cycle had repeated countless times across his immeasurable existence—displacement, adaptation, temporary connections, inevitable separation. Yet never before had the loss cut so deeply. Never before had he left behind a family—a woman he truly loved and a daughter who carried his legacy into an uncertain future.

The stone structure around him—a small chapel or church, he recognized distantly—bore architectural elements suggesting medieval Europe, though the precise period remained unclear. Near-collapsed wooden pews lined the central aisle, while a simple stone altar stood at the far end, a wooden cross hanging askew above it. Dust motes danced in shafts of light that penetrated the damaged roof, swirling in complex patterns that Bobby's enhanced senses tracked with automatic precision.

Days passed as Bobby remained motionless on the dirt floor, ignoring hunger pangs that were mere psychological echoes rather than physical necessities. His nanites maintained homeostasis without external sustenance, recycling cellular waste and operating at minimal capacity to sustain his existence without requiring food or water.

Outside the ruined structure, life continued—birds calling, insects buzzing, occasional distant human voices marking the passage of time. None of it mattered. None of it could replace what he had lost.

He replayed memories of Galea and Eden at molecular precision—every conversation, every touch, every shared moment—cataloging them with obsessive detail lest some fragment of their existence fade from his perfect recall.

On the third day, distant shouts penetrated his self-imposed isolation. Men's voices, aggressive and triumphant. The clashing of metal on metal. Screams of pain and terror. Combat of some kind, followed by the distinctive sounds of slaughter.

Bobby ignored it all. Humans killing humans—the eternal constant across every time period he had ever witnessed. Different weapons, different justifications, same outcome. He had seen it all before, would see it all again in whatever bleak future stretched before him in this new reality.

The fighting died down, replaced by coarse laughter and cruel jests. Multiple male voices, perhaps a dozen, celebrating victory. Boasting of kills, comparing trophies. Bobby tuned it out, continuing his contemplation of the clouds through the shattered roof above.

The clouds drifted in formations similar to those he'd watched with Eden from Venus, the memory so fresh it felt like moments ago rather than displaced across dimensional boundaries. Perhaps if he stayed perfectly still, the universe would correct its error and send him back to them.

A girl's scream pierced his isolation, followed by cruel male laughter. Bobby closed his eyes, trying to block out the sounds. Humans hurting humans—the same tedious pattern he'd witnessed across countless millennia.

"Filthy Spanish sympathizer! We'll teach you what happens to Catholic whores!" A gruff voice shouted, followed by the sickening sound of a fist striking flesh.

The impact wasn't heavy enough to cause serious damage, Bobby noted automatically—perhaps a knuckle bruise on the assailant, possible contusion on the recipient depending on point of contact. Survivable. Not his concern.

A young woman cried out in pain. "Please, I've done nothing—"

The voice was cultured despite its distress—educated pronunciation, controlled diction even in extremis, suggesting aristocratic upbringing. Local nobility, perhaps.

"Shut your lying mouth," another man barked. The voice pattern suggested a man in his late thirties, physically imposing based on vocal resonance, likely bearded judging by slight consonant distortion. "We know you're plotting with your sister Mary to restore the Pope's influence. King Edward's council will thank us for your head."

Bobby's mind automatically processed the information. King Edward, Mary, Pope's influence—Tudor England, then. Mid-sixteenth century. Edward VI's reign, with Catholic-Protestant tensions at their height. Mary Tudor would eventually take the throne and earn her "Bloody" sobriquet through Protestant persecutions. Predictable human religious conflict, repeating across countless cultural iterations throughout history.

"After we've had our fun," a third voice added, triggering more laughter. This voice was younger, with distinct pronunciation patterns suggesting northern English origins—Yorkshire, perhaps.

Bobby remained motionless. Not his world. Not his problem. He'd intervened in human affairs too many times across too many timelines, rarely changing the inevitable trajectory of violence and cruelty. What difference would one more rescue make?

"Hold her down. I'll have first turn with the royal cunt."

The sound of fabric tearing was followed by desperate struggling and muffled screams. Bobby's enhanced hearing detected multiple distinct sounds—the ripping of expensive cloth (silk most likely, with cotton underlinings), the scraping of boots against ground as men positioned themselves, the quickened breathing of at least twelve individuals, and the frantically beating heart of the young woman.

"Look how she fights! The little Tudor bitch has spirit!"

The speaker's words were punctuated by a grunt of pain—the intended victim had likely struck or kicked him during her struggle.

"It's always better when they struggle."

Bobby sighed internally. The universal constants: cosmic background radiation, the speed of light in vacuum, and human capacity for cruelty. Some things never changed regardless of which reality you occupied.

Outside, the young woman's struggles continued. Despite her situation, she fought with impressive determination—Bobby could hear the impacts as she struck her attackers, the obscenities they snarled in response, and the sound of additional fabric tearing as she was further restrained.

"Mr. Kestrel! Help me! Please!"

Bobby's eyes snapped open. No one in this reality should know that name—his family name from eons ago. Not even Galea and maybe even Eden. He sat up, suddenly alert, fragments of stone and splintered wood sliding off his naked form.

"Mr. Kestrel! I know you're there!" The young woman's voice called out again, desperate but certain.

Curiosity, that eternal weakness, propelled him to his feet. Bobby moved to the shattered doorway of the small stone church, blinking against the mid-afternoon sunlight that flooded his enhanced vision.

Outside, in a grassy clearing surrounded by dense forest, a group of armed men—thirteen, he counted automatically—had surrounded a young woman. Her rich clothing, though now torn and muddied, marked her as nobility. The crimson velvet of her overdress had been nearly ripped from her body, exposing the cream silk chemise beneath, which had also been torn to reveal one pale shoulder and the upper swell of her breast.

Red-gold hair and pale skin. Slender build, perhaps sixteen or seventeen years old. Tall for a woman of this era, with the distinctive Tudor facial features—prominent chin, high cheekbones, and intense eyes that somehow fixed directly on him despite the distance.

"You've finally arrived," she gasped, relief flooding her features despite her dire situation. A trickle of blood ran from her split lip, and bruises were already forming on her exposed skin where rough hands had gripped her. "Please—"

A bearded man backhanded her across the face with such force that she stumbled, though she remarkably maintained her footing. The impact split her lip further, fresh blood spraying in a fine mist that Bobby's enhanced vision captured in perfect detail—droplets suspended momentarily in air before spattering across her torn clothing.

"Who the fuck are you talking to, witch?" the man demanded, following his question with a punch to her stomach that doubled her over.

Despite the blow, she straightened again, spitting blood onto the ground rather than showing weakness by wiping it from her mouth. The display of defiance earned her another blow, this one to her ribs.

Bobby stepped forward, a mild curiosity overcoming his apathy. How did this girl know him? The possibility that an Oracle existed in this timeline—someone who could see across realities—briefly kindled interest in his otherwise empty existence. Such a being might provide a pathway back to Galea and Eden.

Yet this girl possessed no Oracle's aura. She was fully human, albeit unusual in some manner he couldn't immediately identify. Her quantum signature exhibited minor anomalies—nothing supernatural, but distinct from typical human patterns of this era.

Two men had pinned her arms while a third tore at her skirts, exposing pale legs that kicked frantically against her attackers. Her lip was bleeding, one eye already swelling from repeated blows, but her gaze remained defiantly fixed on Bobby even as she continued to struggle.

"Hold her legs apart," ordered the apparent leader, a brutish man with a scar running down his left cheek. He began unlacing his breeches with practiced efficiency. "Let's see if royal blood makes her cunt any different than a tavern whore's."

The men forced her to the ground, two holding her arms while two others grappled with her legs. Despite being physically outmatched, she continued fighting—biting, kicking, and thrashing with such ferocity that it took four grown men to restrain her slender form. Even then, they struggled to maintain their grip as she bucked and twisted beneath them.

"The King will have you flayed alive for this," the girl spat, still struggling despite the hopelessness of her position. Blood from her split lip speckled her teeth, giving her snarl a feral quality.

The men laughed. "King Edward's too busy coughing up his lungs to care about his bastard sister," Scar-face sneered, freeing his erect cock from his breeches and stroking it as he approached her. The organ was unremarkable, Bobby noted clinically—average size for the era, showing signs of previous infections common among sexually active males in pre-antibiotic societies. "And once we deliver your head to the Duke of Northumberland, he'll thank us for removing another Catholic threat."

The girl's struggles intensified as the man knelt between her forcibly spread legs. Her chemise had been pushed up to her waist, exposing her from the waist down save for torn linen undergarments that one of the men was now cutting away with a dagger. Despite her situation, she remained defiant, her eyes filled not with fear but with murderous rage as she stared at her attackers.

"I'll see every one of you hang for this," she promised, her voice remarkably steady despite her position. "Your families will watch you choke and shit yourselves on the gibbet."

Her words earned her another backhanded slap that rocked her head to the side, though she immediately turned back to face her attacker, blood trickling from her nose to join that already flowing from her split lip.

Bobby observed this tableau with detached interest until the girl called out again.

"Robert Kestrel! I know what you are. Help me now, and I swear by all that's holy, I'll grant you anything within my power when I take the throne!"

Her certainty was absolute—not the desperate plea of someone grasping at straws, but the command of someone who knew with complete confidence that she would be obeyed. It was this certainty more than anything else that prompted Bobby to act.

With a casual gesture, he froze all thirteen men in place—a simple telekinetic field that immobilized everything but their eyes, which widened in terror as they found themselves suddenly paralyzed. The effect required minimal effort, equivalent to lifting a feather for his psionic capabilities.

"That's better," Bobby said, approaching the group. His voice took on the linguistic patterns of this period with effortless adaptation, nanites instantly analyzing and replicating the pronunciation and cadence. "Less noise, more conversation."

The girl scrambled to her feet, hastily pulling her torn clothing to cover herself. Despite her disheveled appearance and obvious trauma, she composed herself with remarkable speed, straightening her shoulders and lifting her chin with practiced dignity. Blood still flowed from her split lip and nose, and bruises were forming across her exposed skin, but she carried herself as though addressing court in full regalia rather than standing half-dressed in a forest clearing.

"Thank you, Mr. Kestrel," she said, her voice steadying as she wiped blood from her lip with the back of her hand. The gesture left a crimson streak across her pale skin.

Bobby tilted his head, studying her. "You have me at a disadvantage," he said. "You know my name, yet I don't recall making your acquaintance." He gestured at his naked form with mild amusement. "Forgive my appearance. Interdimensional displacement tends to incinerate clothing."

The girl blushed slightly but maintained eye contact with impressive determination. Her gaze briefly flicked over his nude body—a clinical assessment rather than lewd interest—before returning to his face. "I am Elizabeth Tudor, daughter of King Henry VIII and Anne Boleyn," she said with practiced formality, as though delivering a court introduction rather than standing in a forest clearing surrounded by telekinetically paralyzed would-be rapists.

Bobby's mind quickly assembled historical context from this reality's timeline. "Ah. Not yet Queen Elizabeth, then. Your sickly half-brother Edward still occupies the throne." He circled the frozen men, examining them with mild interest. Most wore expressions of terror, eyes darting frantically within immobilized faces. "Political assassination disguised as banditry. How tediously predictable."

"You know of me?" Elizabeth asked, surprise briefly overtaking her composure.

"I know of many things," Bobby replied vaguely. Reading her surface thoughts was effortless—a terrified girl desperately maintaining composure, relief at rescue warring with uncertainty about her savior, and a calculating assessment of how to turn this situation to her advantage. Fascinating.

Beneath her controlled exterior, Elizabeth's mind raced with surprising discipline—evaluating options, calculating probabilities, assessing the strange naked man who had appeared just when she needed him most. She was simultaneously developing multiple strategies for different potential outcomes, her mind working with mechanical precision despite the trauma she'd just experienced.

"How do you know my name?" he asked, genuinely curious.

Elizabeth hesitated, calculation visible behind her eyes. Her mind cycled through possible explanations, weighing truth against fabrication with remarkable speed. "I... had a dream. Many dreams, actually. You were in them, helping me secure England's future." She straightened further, ignoring the blood that continued to trickle from her nose. "I know this sounds like madness, but when those men captured me, I knew—I absolutely knew—you would be here. In this place, at this time."

Not Oracle perception, then. Something else—perhaps a quantum echo or reality bleed-through. Unusual, but not impossible given the chaotic nature of his displacement. Elizabeth's mind harbored genuine conviction—she truly believed what she was saying, which didn't guarantee accuracy but did rule out deliberate deception.

"And what were you offering me just now?" Bobby asked, amusement coloring his tone. "Anything within your power when you take the throne, I believe?"

Elizabeth met his gaze directly, her calculating intelligence visible beneath royal poise. Blood continued to drip from her split lip, but she made no move to wipe it away, as though acknowledging her injuries would diminish her authority.

"Yes. I have little to offer now—I'm a princess in name only, with no wealth or property of my own. But I will be Queen of England one day, and my gratitude would be... substantial."

Bobby laughed, the sound startling in the forest clearing. Several birds took flight from nearby trees at the sudden noise. "Such certainty from someone moments away from violation and beheading." He gestured at the frozen men. "What makes you think your future is so assured?"

"The same certainty that told me you would be here," she replied without hesitation. "The same certainty that tells me you are not human, Mr. Kestrel, whatever appearance you wear."

Bobby smiled, genuinely entertained for the first time since his displacement. "And if I want everything?" he asked, deliberately provocative. "What then, Your Majesty?"

She flinched slightly at the title—not yet hers—but recovered quickly. "Then everything you shall have, when it is mine to give."

"Interesting." Bobby turned his attention to the paralyzed men, reading the surface thoughts of the leader—a minor nobleman's son recruited for this task by someone in the Privy Council. The man's mind was consumed with terror, prayers to a God he'd barely believed in until this moment cycling through his consciousness alongside regrets for actions too late to undo.

"What shall we do with your would-be murderers?" Bobby asked, focusing again on Elizabeth.

Elizabeth's expression hardened, girlish features transforming with cold fury that belonged on a much older face. The sudden shift was remarkable—innocence replaced by something ancient and vengeful, as though centuries of female suffering had coalesced in this one young woman.

"Release them one at a time," she said, her voice dropping to a register that sent chills even through Bobby's nanite-enhanced body. "I would deliver the Queen's justice personally."

Bobby raised an eyebrow but complied, releasing the telekinetic hold on the leader while maintaining the others in stasis. The man collapsed to his knees, gasping as control of his body returned.

"What devil's work is this?" he wheezed, looking frantically between Bobby and Elizabeth. His hand instinctively moved toward the dagger at his belt, then froze as Bobby narrowed his eyes slightly.

Elizabeth approached him with measured steps. Despite her torn clothing and bloodied face, she moved with imperial confidence, as though addressing a prisoner in the Tower rather than confronting her attacker in a forest clearing.

"You sought to violate the daughter of Henry VIII," she said, her voice eerily calm. Blood from her split lip dripped down her chin, spattering onto her already-ruined dress. "To dishonor and murder a princess of England."

The man's eyes bulged with terror. "My lady, we were only following orders! The Duke of Northumberland—"

"So readily you betray your master," Elizabeth interrupted. "How disappointing." She picked up the man's fallen dagger, testing its weight in her hand with the casual expertise of someone familiar with weaponry. "In time, I might have shown mercy to a man who maintained loyalty, even misplaced loyalty."

"Please, Your Highness—"

Elizabeth moved with surprising speed, driving the dagger into the man's throat with such force it emerged from the back of his neck. Blood sprayed across her already-soiled dress as she leaned close to his face, watching the life fade from his eyes with clinical detachment. The blade had severed his carotid arteries and jugular veins simultaneously, causing catastrophic blood loss within seconds.

"The Tower would have been more appropriate," she said conversationally as he gurgled his last breath, arterial blood pumping rhythmically from the wound to stain the ground beneath him, "but we make do with what tools are available."

Bobby watched with genuine interest as Elizabeth straightened, blood-slicked dagger still in hand, and turned to the remaining men. Her expression showed no disgust, no remorse—only cold determination and perhaps a flicker of satisfaction.

"Next," she said simply.

One by one, Bobby released the men from stasis. Each tried a different approach—begging, offering information, attempting to flee—but the result was always the same. Elizabeth dispatched them with cold efficiency that belied her youth and slender build, her technique improving with each execution until the final man died from a single precise thrust beneath the ribcage that punctured his heart.

For someone of her era, background, and gender, her capacity for methodical violence was exceptional. She avoided excessive force, conserved energy, and struck with maximum effectiveness. Most nobles of this period, regardless of gender, had minimal practical combat experience despite training with weapons as a social expectation. Elizabeth, however, killed like someone who had done it before—or who had spent considerable time thinking about how to do it effectively.

When the last body fell, Elizabeth stood amid the carnage, blood-soaked and breathing heavily, but with her composure intact. Her torn dress and chemise were now completely ruined, saturated with the blood of thirteen men. It covered her hands to the wrists and had splashed across her face during the more vigorous encounters, giving her a primally terrifying appearance—a goddess of vengeance risen from prehistory.

She turned to Bobby, still naked and watching her performance with undisguised fascination.

"I believe we have matters to discuss, Mr. Kestrel," she said, wiping the dagger clean on her ruined dress before offering it to him hilt-first. "But perhaps we should find you suitable attire first."

Bobby accepted the dagger with an amused tilt of his head. "Most people would be more disturbed by what just occurred," he observed, gesturing at the bodies surrounding them. The clearing now resembled a battlefield, with blood soaking into the soil and pooling in depressions, flies already beginning to gather on cooling flesh.

Elizabeth's eyes revealed a flash of something dark and wounded before royal training reasserted control over her expression. "I am my father's daughter," she replied simply. "And I have no luxury for weakness if I am to survive until my time comes."

The statement revealed volumes about her upbringing and psychological development. In her brief existence, Elizabeth had already witnessed her mother's execution, been declared illegitimate, weathered religious upheavals that repeatedly changed her status, and navigated the treacherous politics of Tudor court life. The crucible of her childhood had forged something extraordinary—a mind that combined ruthless pragmatism with visionary ambition.

Bobby nodded, newfound respect coloring his assessment of this young woman who had handled her first killings with such composure. Perhaps this displacement wouldn't be completely tedious after all.

"Very well, Your Future Majesty," he said, the faintest smile touching his lips. "Let's find me some clothes, and you can explain exactly what you think I am and how I might serve your ambitions."

For the first time, uncertainty flickered across Elizabeth's features. "You... you will stay? You will help me?"

Bobby shrugged, the gesture casual despite their gruesome surroundings. "What else do I have to do in this reality?" He examined the bodies around them, calculating mass, clothing sizes, and biological decomposition rates automatically. "Besides, I find myself curious about a princess who decapitates her enemies without vomiting immediately afterward. That suggests either psychopathy or extraordinary self-control, and I'm interested in discovering which."

Elizabeth straightened, her blood-spattered appearance at odds with her regal bearing. "Neither, Mr. Kestrel. Merely necessity and the Tudor capacity for doing what must be done." She glanced at the bodies, her expression calculating rather than disturbed. "We should burn these and be gone before nightfall. I know a place where we can speak privately."

Bobby nodded, impressed despite himself by her practicality. "Lead on, Your Highness. It appears I've found my purpose in this timeline, at least temporarily."

As they gathered wood for the pyre that would eliminate evidence of the massacre, Bobby reflected that while this wasn't the family he had lost, Elizabeth Tudor might provide a novel distraction from the endless emptiness of his existence. At minimum, her political rise would offer entertainment in a reality he had expected to find utterly devoid of interest.

And if she somehow knew of pathways between realities that might lead him back to Galea and Eden—well, that would be worth any price this not-yet-queen might ask.