Page 1 of The Girl Who Fell Through Time (To Fall Through Time #1)

S elene, Duchess of Drakefell, sits in the bower house, fingers tracing the edge of an old embroidery hoop she has not touched in days.

Dust clings to the air, caught in the waning afternoon light that filters through the warped shutters.

Nocturne Hall looms in the distance, a silhouette of stone and sorrow against the Ashvold Mountains.

It is not a home, not truly. Just another place she is meant to exist in.

The bower house is in no better condition—drafty, half-forgotten, like everything else here. She supposes she cannot blame the Duke for that. The estate belonged to her grandmother, after all.

Or at least, it had.

When they first arrived here a few months ago, she tried to make it comfortable, but the damp seeped into the walls, the wind through the cracks, and the loneliness into her bones. Things had been strained before then, of course, but Selene had hoped that the move might change… something.

And it had. She’d barely seen her husband in weeks. Despite how remote Nocturne Hall is, the Duke has found a task to consume him—reopening the mines that everyone knows are empty.

But he would rather chase a ghost than revel in her warmth. There’s pain in that, but relief too.

Next month will mark their anniversary. Almost a year of marriage, and she has nothing to show for it except a ring she no longer wears and a name that is not truly hers.

Cassie hums softly as she mends a tear in Selene’s winter coat.

It is spring now, but the climate here is cold, and Selene will have need of the coat for another month yet at least. Cassie is the only company Selene has, save for the occasional visit from the house steward or the letters from her mother and friends.

Selene does not reply to them. What would she even say?

That her husband barely speaks to her? That he has buried himself in his work, whispering of mines that hold no wealth?

That when he does speak to her, his words squirm under her skin, and even his compliments seem to bite?

What an unusual shade, my dear. Not many women could pull it off.

Your voice is so soft. One might almost mistake you for being shy.

I must say, your composure is admirable. Others might take offense at my words.

You look so much better with your hair up. It hides the sharpness of your features.

She exhales slowly, pressing her fingers to her temples. Even when he’s not with her, she can hear him.

She hates the silence. She wants distraction, noise. She longs for parties and friends and music and dancing—and fears it, too. She will have to pretend in front of so many people.

She wants to smile and it hurts to do so.

Give me joy again, she begs the Divine Four. Aurelius, Silver Star, guide me from this place. Liriel, Water-Keeper, bring me change. Veridia, Green Mother, give me life. Vannor, Flameforger, destroy my solitude. Bring me laughter and light and noise—

The mountain roars.

A tremor rolls through the ground, shaking the bower house to its foundations. The wooden beams creak, the shutters rattle, and Cassie’s needle slips from her fingers. A dull boom follows, deep and thunderous, as if the mountain itself has been torn apart.

Selene’s heart pounds. She lurches to her feet, ignoring the way her chair scrapes against the floor. “What was that?”

Cassie stares, brown eyes blown wide. “The mines.”

The mines. Her stomach twists. The Duke has insisted for months that he can make them profitable again, despite the warnings, despite the records stating they were long since emptied. She has never believed him. But now—

How deep has he gone?

She strides to the door, flinging it open. A plume of dust rises in the distance, curling into the grey sky like smoke.

Cassie hesitates. “Your Grace, should we—”

Selene doesn’t let herself think. She gathers her skirts and steps into the cold, gravel biting into her slippers. Cassie scrambles after her. Together, they make their way down the uneven path toward the source of the disturbance.

Selene hardly knows what she expects to find, or what she’ll do. Will there be injuries? Can she help if there are?

What if the Duke is hurt?

What if she wants him to be?

As they crest the hill, the wind shifts, and the dust clears just enough for Selene to see the figures below .

She frowns.

They aren’t miners.

They’re soldiers. Soldiers dressed in red with blue sashes, a lot of them pale skinned with hair the colour of cobwebs.

Not Haverlandian soldiers, in their crisp uniforms of green and gold.

These are soldiers from Ashvold, the kingdom on the other side of the mountain.

An invasion? But how would they ever break through the rock, especially with—

Her heart stops.

At the head of the formation, welcoming the soldiers in, stands her husband.

Her heart stops. He has done something—something awful. The mines were empty. There was no wealth to be found, no reason for an army to be here unless he let them in.

This was his plan all along, she realises. This was why he was mining, why he moved them here, why—

Why he married her in the first place.

There’s no time to think about that. There’s no time to think about anything. She turns sharply to Cassie. “Run,” she says. “Find someone—anyone. Sound the alarm. Take a horse into town—warn them what’s coming.”

Cassie stares at her, stunned, but then nods and bolts back toward the estate. Other servants are already emerging from the halls and outbuildings, drawn by the noise, by the unnatural tremor in the earth. Murmurs rise in confusion, and then fear.

Below, Drakefell looks up.

Their eyes meet, and he smiles.

A scream tears through the air.

Selene flinches, the sound slicing straight through her bones.

Another follows—high, desperate. A steward staggers backward, a soldier’s blade buried deep in his chest. Blood spills over his shirt, dark as ink.

Another man swings a rusted pitchfork, only to be run through.

A housemaid, barely more than a girl, is yanked to the ground by her hair.

Steel flashes. A musket cracks. The scent of gunpowder burns the air. The clash of metal on metal is drowned beneath the sickening, wet crunch of bodies hitting the ground.

Selene’s breath turns to ice in her lungs. Her limbs feel locked in place, her stomach twisting with something cold and primal. This is not a raid.

This is a massacre.

A man collapses a few feet away, his fingers outstretched, reaching for something—someone. Blood pools beneath him, steaming against the cold earth. His mouth moves in a silent plea before his eyes glaze over.

Drakefell steps over him without pause.

Run.

The word crashes through her, shattering the horror that holds her in place. She turns, skirts tangling around her legs, and runs.

The woods loom ahead. Her breath comes in ragged gasps as she pushes through the undergrowth, branches tearing at her sleeves. Behind her, chaos erupts. She does not look back.

Bang.

A searing pain explodes through her side. She stumbles, her steps faltering. A soldier grabs at her, but before he can drag her down, another figure collides with him, knocking him to the ground. A servant—one of hers. She doesn’t see who. She only sees the opportunity.

She runs.

The pain burns, sharp and relentless, but she does not stop. She cannot.

It is only when she is deep in the trees, when her vision wavers and her legs give way, that she realises the truth .

She’s been hit.

Selene presses her hand against the wound in her side, the warm, sticky wetness of her own blood slipping through her trembling fingers.

Each step sends a fresh bolt of pain shooting up her spine, but she can’t stop.

Not when the screams still echo behind her. Not when the air reeks of iron and ash.

Her breath rasps in her throat as she staggers forward, her boots sinking into the damp forest floor. The trees loom overhead, their skeletal branches clawing at the storm-heavy sky.

She wants it to rain. She needs it to rain. Rain might slow the army’s advance, might buy Cassie enough time to reach the next town and alert the watch. To get word to King Alden. To summon his troops.

The kingdom can’t be lost in a single day.

She utters a silent prayer to Liriel, Keeper of Waters, to bring down a torrent upon this corner of the realm. But she doesn’t wait to see if the goddess answers.

She can’t.

Her knees buckle, and she catches herself against a jagged rock, crying out as the motion jars her wound.

Blood stains the moss beneath her, vivid and accusing.

The sky above blurs as her vision falters.

For one terrible moment, she considers staying there, letting the forest take her.

It would be easier. Easier than moving. Easier than facing the truth.

This is her fault.

She sees her father’s face, chastising her, berating her for her stupidity. She should have known the Duke had never loved her. She should have known he’d never marry someone with nothing but a small estate to her name.

But she hasn’t known. She couldn’t have. How could she?

Because she hadn’t wanted to know. She hadn’t wanted to believe anything but her own fantasies—that she was perfect, that he was perfect, that they were. She hadn’t known she was allowed to ask questions.

Her lips tremble. No. This isn’t her fault. It’s his. Her husband’s.

He has allied with Ashvold. He has taken advantage of her inheritance—taken advantage of her.

He is the one that should pay.

Not her. Not all the servants lying dead on the ground.

She forces herself upright.

Not my fault , she tells herself. Not my fault.