The glow of the monitor lit the small living room in pale blue. Outside, rain drummed softly against the window, and the old clock above the stove ticked the seconds away like a heartbeat. The smell of chamomile tea and dust lingered in the air — the kind of quiet that belonged to houses that had seen generations come and go.
Jacob William sat slouched in his chair, one hand on the mouse, the other idly turning a silver medal between his fingers. It was one of many — trophies, certificates, digital badges — all rewards from strategy tournaments that proved how sharp his mind was, even if the world didn't seem to care.
He was twenty, jobless, living with his grandmother in a two-bedroom house on the edge of town. He told himself it was temporary. Just until he figured things out.
On the screen, his armies marched — pixelated banners of East Anglia fluttering against the tide of Norse longships. He clicked, commanded, maneuvered. His kingdom stood, barely, under siege from the Sons of Ragnar.
Jacob smirked, murmuring to himself. "Not today, you don't."
He adjusted his strategy, a dozen moves ahead. He knew Crusader Kings III like the back of his hand — the art of rule, the math of war, the psychology of power. He might not have a job, but he could have ruled a medieval court with frightening efficiency.
Behind him, his grandmother's voice floated from the kitchen."Jacob, dear — don't stay up all night again."
He smiled faintly. "Just one more turn, Gran."
The next moment, lightning flashed — a deep rumble shook the windowpanes — and for a heartbeat, the lights flickered out.
Jacob blinked. The screen went dark. Then something bright — like molten gold — flared behind his eyes.
A whisper, clear and terrible, echoed through the darkness:
"The second son shall rise when the first is struck down."
The floor seemed to fall away.
When he opened his eyes, the world was no longer blue and electric. It was golden.
The scent of wood smoke and beeswax candles filled his lungs. He coughed — the air was heavy, real. His chair was gone. In its place: a carved wooden seat beneath a high-beamed ceiling. Banners hung from the walls — crimson, gold, and white — embroidered with the cross of East Anglia.
"Eadric?" a voice said.
He turned. A man in a servant's tunic stared at him, wide-eyed, holding a tray of wine.
Jacob blinked. No — not Jacob. The name settled in his chest like a bell struck deep underwater.
Eadric.
He looked down — his hands were not the same. Broader. Calloused. A ring of silver on his finger, a weight of cloth on his shoulders, the warmth of wool and fur.
"Are you well, my prince?" the servant asked.
"My… what?"
The man looked concerned, lowering the tray. "The King awaits you, my lord. He grows impatient."
Eadric's pulse quickened. His mind raced through denial, logic, disbelief. He was inside the game — inside East Anglia. But it wasn't pixels now. It was stone walls, flickering torches, the faint murmur of distant voices.
And then came another voice — smooth, mocking, older.
"You're late again, little brother."
Eadric turned. A tall young man leaned against a column — blond hair, fine clothes, a smirk that could slice armor. The firstborn heir. The king's pride. His brother.
"Father grows weary of your wandering mind," the man sneered. "Try not to embarrass him this time."
Eadric said nothing. His tongue was dry, his mind still whirling between two worlds. But something deep within him — instinct, or perhaps destiny — whispered: Play the game.
He followed the servant down the corridor.
The royal hall was heavy with the smell of roasted boar and spilled wine. King Edmund sat slouched on his throne, a crown askew, a goblet in hand. His once-proud frame had softened with age and comfort, his eyes dulled by indulgence.
"My sons," the king muttered, waving lazily. "At last."
Eadric bowed out of habit — or rather, out of what his instincts told him was habit. His brother, Beornred, didn't bother.
Edmund's gaze drifted to him. "Eadric, my quiet one. You must learn to speak as well as you listen."
The words were gentle, but they landed heavy. Eadric felt them — not as rebuke, but as warning.
In the corner of the hall, the queen sat stiff and watchful, her eyes sharp with suspicion. Eadric could feel her disdain, though he didn't yet understand why.
He ate little that night. He listened. He watched.
The courtiers whispered of raids across the sea. Of Norsemen landing in Northumbria. Of strange omens in the sky.
As the king laughed too loudly at his own jest and his heir preened before the nobles, Eadric sat in silence, his thoughts a storm.
He had been Jacob William — a boy with no future. Now, he was a prince with one forced upon him.
But the strategist within him — the same mind that once conquered empires from a computer chair — began to stir.
If this was his new world, he would learn it.And if war was coming… he would be ready.