I've read 4,562 historical romance novels. I know the drill.
Step one: Die in a tragic yet aesthetic way (preferably involving a truck and a heroic sacrifice). Step two: Wake up in a bed with a silk thread count higher than my GPA. Step three: Get surrounded by a buffet of golden-eyed Crown Princes, and Knights who definitely shouldn't be able to fit those chest muscles into that armor.
I was ready. I had my "mysterious girl from another world" monologue practiced in the shower. I was born for this.
The Arrival (Or, The Great Face-Plant)I didn't get hit by a truck. I tripped over my own charger cable while reaching for a bag of spicy chips.
When I opened my eyes, I wasn't in my messy bedroom. I was standing in a ballroom that looked like it was decorated by a goldsmith with an unlimited budget. The air smelled like sandalwood and expensive ego.
"Oh my god," I whispered, clutching my chest. "It happened. Look at those chandeliers! Look at that marble! Look at—"
I took one step forward. Just one.
My left foot decided it didn't like my right foot. I didn't just trip; I defied physics. I caught air. I spun like a broken ceiling fan before landing in a heap of petticoats and shattered dignity at the feet of a man who looked like he'd been sculpted by angels and then given a very stern lecture on chin-definition.
"Are you alright, My Lady?" The man—clearly a Knight, based on the 'Golden retriever' vibe—gasped. He looked at me with an expression of such intense agony you'd think he was the one who just ate floor.
"I'm fine," I wheezed, trying to scramble up. "I just... gravity is a bit high today?"
The room went silent. A group of Knights nearby clutched their swords, their eyes welling with tears.
"She says the stars themselves are pulling her down!" one cried. "Such poetic suffering! She is as fragile as a dandelion seed in a hurricane!"
"Wait, no, I literally just have bad depth perception—"
"Silence!" the Crown Prince (the one with the glowing cape) roared, rushing to my side. He didn't help me up; he hovered his hands around me like I was a bomb made of glass. "Do not strain your vocal cords! Can you not see? Her words are truths from the heavens! If she says the air is heavy, then we shall breathe less of it to save it for her!"
I looked over the Prince's shoulder and saw her.
A woman with sharp, beautiful features. She was the only person in the room not weeping. She was also the only person holding a glass of wine like she wanted to throw it at someone. Probably me.
"She didn't 'defy the stars,'" the woman dryly remarked. "She tripped on a flat rug. And her 'heavenly truth' is just a lack of basic motor skills."
The Knight spun around, his face darkening. "Silence, you heartless Villainess! How dare you speak such logic in the presence of this ethereal, wind-swept feather of a woman!"
I looked at my hands. I felt fine. I felt normal. But as I tried to stand up again, my knees buckled for absolutely no reason. I wasn't tired. I wasn't hurt. I was just... becoming a plot device.
"Oh no," I muttered, falling back into the Prince's panicked arms. "I'm not the protagonist. I'm a Victorian fainting couch with a pulse."