I Time-Traveled To Marry the God of War

Chapter 1: Am I a Princess?

“She’s awake! That potion really seems to work!”

I heard the muffled commotion swirling around me. As I slowly peeled my heavy eyelids open, the immediate realization hit me: this was not my bedroom. A pungent, earthy scent of unfamiliar spices violently assaulted my nose.

I tried to sit up, but my entire body felt locked in stone. My arms and waist completely refused to obey my brain's commands. Is this what being paralyzed feels like? Blind panic started to claw at my chest, but when I tried to scream, nothing made its way up my throat except a pathetic, hoarse groan.

“Lie still, Princess. Your body still can’t move. You must be startled—calm down, this is all normal,” a middle-aged man whispered near my ear. I managed to slide my gaze over to him. For a guy his age, his outfit was bizarrely skimpy, exposing way too much skin. He hovered over me, acting like some sort of doctor or archaic healer.

I racked my brain, desperate for a memory. I was absolutely positive I’d fallen asleep in my trailer on set last night, same as always. Yet here I was, waking up in this strange, herb-choked room. There was no artificial lighting, just harsh sunlight slicing through wide, jagged cracks in the stone walls. My lower back throbbed in protest against the unforgiving surface beneath me. Clearly, I was no longer sleeping on my plush spring mattress.

Was this some kind of elaborate hidden-camera prank? If so, the producers had crossed a massive line. I mean, I am Jill Adelaide. I literally just got an Oscar nomination yesterday! A hot wave of fury washed over me; I vowed to sue the absolute hell out of the network, the producers, and my manager for letting this happen. I could take a joke. A standard scare prank or a dumb magic trick? Sure. But drugging me unconscious—and possibly poisoning me—to the point where I was totally paralyzed? This was completely legally unhinged.

A few agonizing minutes ticked by, and feeling slowly began to prickle back into my right arm. Thank God. My body was finally rebooting, and I needed to get out of here as soon as possible. That strange old man was muttering under his breath now, his wrinkled, unwashed hands stirring some dark, rancid-looking sludge inside a crude clay bowl.

“Where am I?” I startled myself the second the words left my lips. A completely foreign language had just slipped effortlessly off my tongue. The words in my head were English, but the sounds coming out of my mouth absolutely weren't.

Had the crew slipped something into my drink? Some kind of hallucinogen or psychiatric drug frying my brain circuits, causing delusions and scrambling my speech? It was the only logical explanation.

“You are in your palace, Princess. You’ve been asleep for nine days, and everyone has been very worried,” murmured a young woman. I noticed her simple, sheer gown, which looked less like clothing and more like a piece of fabric merely draped around her collarbones like a shawl. I’d seen costumes exactly like that in ancient Greek history books.

A chilling realization hit me: the girl, who was clearly playing my servant, was also speaking that same foreign language. And somehow, I understood every single word. It sounded exactly like Greek. Okay. So this twisted prank show had an ancient Greece theme. Got it.

While the set design might not have been a perfect carbon copy of the masterpieces by the great Renaissance painters, I had to hand it to them—the producers had committed hard to the aesthetic.

I gritted my teeth and finally managed to push myself up into a sitting position, my head swiveling to take in the rest of my surroundings. I was in a massive room constructed entirely of heavy stone. There wasn't a single light fixture in sight, just wrought-iron candle holders scattered about. I recognized the distinct, sweet scent immediately—beeswax. I used to burn beeswax candles in my room for aromatherapy. But these weren't sleek, store-bought pillars; they were lumpy, irregular, and aggressively handmade.

“Where’s Matthew? Send for him!” I demanded, shouting for my manager. But once again, that fluid, ancient Greek poured from my lips. A heavy, icy dread pooled in my stomach. It felt like I was wearing someone else's skin. Even the vocal cords vibrating in my throat didn't sound anything like my own voice.

“Who is this Matthew, Your Highness?” The young woman tilted her head in genuine confusion.

“Her Highness is confused; this drink will make her feel better.” I watched in horror as the ‘healer’ shuffled closer, holding out that crude clay bowl. That repulsive concoction he’d just been mixing with his bare, wrinkled hands was apparently meant for me to drink.

“No! I won’t drink it! I’ll sue all of you!” True, visceral nausea rolled through me. I doubled over, clutching my abdomen as my diaphragm spasmed violently, trying to force whatever was left in my stomach up my throat. But there was nothing to vomit up. I just dry-heaved into the stale air.

“By mighty Zeus! Thank goodness, Portia!” Before I could even finish retching, a group of people suddenly burst into the room. One of them rushed forward, wrapping thick arms around me and pulling my head to their chest, stroking my hair.

I looked up into the wise, deeply lined face of a middle-aged man weeping tears of pure emotion. He was decked out in a heavy cloak and stiff leather armor, a lethal-looking sword sheathed at his iron belt. I could only stare at him in total bewilderment—until a blinding headache violently split my skull in two.

“Ah! Stop, it hurts! Help!” I screamed, entirely losing control. I writhed on the rock-hard bed, curling into a tight ball and gripping my temples. A deafening, vibrating buzz filled my ears, roaring like a massive swarm of angry bees zeroing in for the kill, though the air was completely empty. I thrashed against the agony for a few terrifying seconds, and then everything went black.

***

I woke up for the second time in that archaic nightmare. But this time, my heartbeat was steady, and my thoughts felt much more coherent. A vile, metallic bitterness coated my tongue. Great. That creepy old healer had actually forced his mystery potion down my throat while I was passed out.

My limbs felt considerably lighter, so I swung my legs over the edge and got out of bed. I’d been moved to a much nicer room; the mattress was actually soft this time, and a cool, pleasant breeze drifted through the space. I wasn't sweating or shivering. I noticed a cluster of beeswax candles flickering in the corners, signaling that night had finally fallen.

“My daughter, are you awake? How is your headache?” The armored man—the last face I’d seen before blacking out—stepped forward, his voice heavy with fatherly concern. I didn't answer immediately. Play along, I told myself. Just go with their act. I guessed this regal, imposing guy was playing the role of my father. Beside him stood a strikingly beautiful woman, wringing her hands, clearly cast as my mother.

“I’m fine, Father,” I replied, forcing my tone to be smooth and graceful. I scanned the shadows, wondering when the host was finally going to jump out and put an end to this prank.

But my stomach dropped at another thought: if this really was a broadcasted TV prank, hidden cameras were currently rolling. My hair and makeup had to be an absolute disaster, and the last thing I needed was my fans complaining about how awful I looked.

“Get me a mirror,” I whispered to the young servant girl who apparently never left my side.

Instantly, several servants scrambled out the door to fulfill the demand. I turned my attention back to the 'King' and 'Queen,' noting the deep, suffocating melancholy painted on their faces. I frowned. Why are they still acting so depressed? Hadn't their 'daughter' just woken up?

A moment later, the servants returned, lugging a large mirror. I glanced into the glass—and my blood turned to ice. I completely froze in shock. Beside me, the Queen suddenly broke down into quiet, tragic sobs.

“Portia… Oh, Portia…” The Queen sank to the floor, weeping into her hands. “Look at yourself. As beautiful as Aphrodite, with your long, silvery-blonde hair, and your gait as graceful as a doe… From any angle, you are the most beautiful princess in Greece. But why is your fate so tragic?”

My soul violently shook. Where was my dark, wavy brown hair? Where was the face I’d known since birth? The woman staring back at me in the polished glass was a complete stranger. She was stunning—maybe even slightly more beautiful than me—but she was absolutely not me!

“I have already promised to hand her over, my Queen,” the man known as the King of Sparta wailed alongside her, tears shining in his eyes. “If we break that promise, he might destroy Sparta and kill thousands of innocent souls.”

“What are you talking about?” I gasped, panic fully severing my control. “Why are you crying like that? What the hell is wrong with my body? Did you do plastic surgery on me?!” Hot tears spilled down my new, unfamiliar cheeks, but they were born of pure, unadulterated rage. What had they done to me? Were they so desperate to ruin Jill Adelaide’s career that they literally carved up my face like this? A hundred terrifying, impossible theories swirled through my mind.

“Calm yourself, my daughter,” the King pleaded, his voice thick with raw desperation. “Tonight, we will stay with you all night. You must prepare your heart. Tomorrow evening, an envoy from Olympus will come to fetch you. To take you away as the bride of the god Ares.”