The carriage continued to groan as it traversed the rough terrain. Every jolt sent a new wave of nausea through me, but I didn't dare move.
I stayed slumped on the floor, my eyes fixed on the dark blue of the sky visible through the bars.
Hours must have passed. The temperature in the carriage had plummeted, the desert heat replaced by a biting chill that seeped through my thin silk robes.
I shivered, wrapping my arms around my legs. Back home, I'd be in my trailer right now, probably arguing with the wardrobe assistant about a scratchy collar. Now, I was freezing in a wooden cage, wondering if I'd even see the sun rise.
Suddenly, the carriage jerked to a halt.
The sound of marching stopped. The silence that followed was even more terrifying than the noise.
Clack.
The bolt on the door slid back. I scrambled into the corner, my heart hammering against my ribs. The door swung open, and the flickering orange light of a torch spilled inside, blinding me for a moment.
A soldier stood there, his face obscured by a steel helm. He held out a wooden tray with a bowl of something grey and a flask of water.
"Eat," he grunted.
I didn't move. I just stared at the bowl. "Where are you taking me?"
The soldier didn't answer. He set the tray down on the floor of the carriage and stepped back. Before he could close the door, a shadow fell over him.
The soldier immediately dropped to one knee, his head bowed.
General Qi walked into the light. He had removed his helmet, and his long, dark hair was pulled back in a severe topknot.
Without the steel mask, his face was even more striking—and even more cold. His eyes scanned the interior of the carriage, landing on me as I huddled in the shadows.
"You haven't touched your robes," the General noted, his voice low and raspy.
"I... what?" I stammered.
He stepped up onto the ledge of the carriage, looming over me. The space, which had felt cramped before, now felt like it was shrinking. He reached out, his fingers brushing against the fine white silk of my sleeve.
"This is the attire of a Prince of the Fallen State," he said, his gaze locking onto mine. "It is meant to be worn with pride, even in defeat. Yet you sit in the dirt like a common beggar."
He leaned in closer, the scent of cold air and old iron clinging to him.
"Do not think your 'confusion' will save you from your duties, Prince. We reach the border by dawn. If you cannot carry yourself with the dignity of your station, I will have you shackled to the horse. At least then, you will be forced to stand upright."
He turned to leave, but stopped, looking back over his shoulder.
"Eat the food." The door slammed shut, and the bolt slid back into place.
I looked down at the grey mush in the bowl. My stomach turned, but the General's words echoed in my head. Shackled to the horse.
He wasn't joking.
I reached out with trembling fingers and picked up the wooden spoon. The fuck was I doing?
"Okay, enough," I snapped, my voice cracking in the small space as I threw the spoon down. "Cut! Seriously, cut! The joke is over!"
I waited. I strained my ears for the sound of a director's muffled voice through a headset, or the distant beep of a production truck backing up. Nothing. Only the rhythmic, bone-deep thud-thud-thud of ten thousand boots hitting the dirt.
My heart started thumping erratically against my ribs. I scrambled to the side of the carriage, my fingers clawing at the wooden seams. I was looking for a "glitch." A piece of duct tape holding a panel together. A hidden hinge. A stray power cord. Anything that proved this was a constructed environment.
I ripped at the thin velvet cushion beneath me, tossing it aside. Beneath it was solid, hand-hewn oak, scarred with deep splinters and smelling of rot.
"Where is it?" I whispered, my breath coming in short, jagged gasps. "Where's the crew?"
I lunged for the small barred window, shoving my face against the cold iron. I looked at the soldiers marching alongside the wheels. I looked at their skin—pitted with real scars, glistening with actual, salty sweat, their eyes bloodshot and weary in a way no makeup artist could ever replicate.
I reached up and gripped a handful of that long, blonde hair, tugging it until my scalp burned.
It didn't come off. There was no lace-front glue. No bobby pins. The pain was sharp and rooted deep in my skull. I checked the back of my neck, my ears—no microphone tape. No earpiece.
The air left my lungs in a silent rush.
"It's not a set," I choked out, a cold, oily sweat breaking out across my neck.
Oh my God, did I fall down a rabbit hole? Maybe I died and my soul got placed here? Were people looking for me back home?
I sank back onto the floor, my fingers still tangled in the roots of my hair. My breath was coming in short, shallow hitches that made my chest ache.
"The premiere," I whispered to the empty, dark carriage. "The premiere is on Thursday. I have a tux fitting."
The absurdity of the thought made me want to scream. I was worrying about a tuxedo while a man outside was planning to 'shackle me to a horse.
Shen jun think.
I looked down at the silk of my robes. It was high-quality, but it was just fabric. There was no brand name on the collar. No "Made in Italy" tag. I searched the seams with my fingernails, hoping—praying—to find a stray thread of nylon or a plastic zipper. Something, anything, that belonged to the 21st century.
There was nothing but hand-stitched silk and cold, hard wood.
I reached out and touched my face again. The skin felt too smooth, the bridge of my nose a fraction higher than it used to be.
If I was here, in this body, where was the real Prince? Was he dead? Did he take my place? The thought made my stomach do a slow, sick flip.
If I died here, did I go back? Or was that it? No more auditions, no more late-night drives, no more life.
I looked at the bowl of mush. It was cold now, a skin forming over the top.
I needed to find a way back home, but first, survival.