The transition from the futuristic portal to the forest floor felt like being dropped into a bucket of ice water. Evangeline was the first to stir, the scent of damp moss and ancient wood filling her senses. Above her, the canopy of Sherwood Forest was a dense cathedral of emerald leaves, so thick it felt as though the sky itself had turned to glass.
Beside her, Elara was already sitting up, coughing softly as she brushed dirt from her tunic. Alistair was instantly alert, his protective instincts overriding his confusion. He didn't know who he was or where they had come from, but he knew that if a leaf fell too close to Elara, he would catch it before it hit her.
"We aren't in our time anymore," Elara whispered, her genius mind already cataloging the species of ferns around them. "The air is too clean. The carbon levels are... ancient."
Evangeline stood, her sharp jawline set in a mask of determination. She reached into her hidden satchel—a piece of technology that looked like a simple leather pouch but held the contents of a laboratory. "We need a base. We need a way to blend in."
The Birth of the Bakery
Within days, the sisters had used their combined intellect to transform a derelict farmhouse on the edge of the village into something the medieval world had never seen. Using a small, hand-held device that could manipulate molecular structures, Evangeline "minted" gold coins from raw ore she found in the hills.
They didn't just build a home; they opened a bakery.
"If we want to hear the secrets of this kingdom, we must feed the people," Evangeline decided.
The shop was a marvel. While Elara used her knowledge of chemistry to create perfect, airy muffins and "modern" cream cakes that tasted like heaven, Alistair acted as the silent guardian. He moved heavy sacks of flour as if they were feathers, his blue eyes never leaving the door whenever Elara was near. He was her "puppy"—loyal and soft-spoken—but his muscles told a story of a warrior who could snap a spear with his bare hands.
The Encounter in the Woods
One afternoon, Evangeline ventured deep into the woods to find rare herbs for their fruit bread. She moved with a "fast and furious" grace, her senses heightened. She knew she was being watched.
She stepped into a clearing dominated by a massive, gnarled tree—the Major Oak.
Twang.
An arrow with distinctive green fletching thudded into the trunk inches from her ear. Evangeline didn't scream. She didn't even flinch. She simply turned her head, her gaze locking onto a figure perched in the branches above.
Rowan dropped down, landing lightly on the balls of his feet. He was dashing, with a reckless smile and eyes that sparkled with a mix of mischief and immediate, hopeless attraction. He had seen many women in Nottingham, but none who looked at a lethal arrow with such bored indifference.
"You're a long way from the flour-dust of the village, My Lady," Rowan murmured, his voice a low, melodic drawl. He stepped closer, his heart already hammering against his ribs in a way that had nothing to do with the hunt.
"And you're a long way from a proper target," Evangeline countered, her eyes scanning him with clinical precision. "Your bow is slightly warped on the lower limb. It's pulling three degrees to the left."
Rowan froze, his smile widening into a look of pure wonder. He was a master sportsman, a rebel hero, but he had just met his match. "You're as sharp as my broadheads," he laughed. "I am Rowan. And this forest belongs to me and my brothers."
"I am Evangeline," she replied, her heart giving a strange, unfamiliar tug. "And I don't believe in kings or outlaws. I believe in results."
An Invitation to the Rebellion
Before Rowan could respond, two more figures emerged from the shadows. Julian, a man with a constant, positive grin, and Seraphina, a woman whose eyes were as sharp as a hawk's.
"She found us, Rowan," Julian noted, impressed. "No one finds the Oak unless we want them to."
Evangeline looked at the small group—the beginning of a rebellion. She saw their hunger and their ragged clothes. "If you want to fight a Prince," she said, her voice cool and commanding, "you shouldn't do it on an empty stomach. Visit the bakery. Ask for the 'Star-Crossed' loaf."
As she turned to leave, Rowan watched her go, his breath hitching. He was a man who lived for the thrill of the chase, but for the first time in his life, he didn't want to catch her—he wanted to follow her.
"She's magnificent," Rowan whispered to the trees.
From a hidden ridge nearby, a pair of dark, beautiful eyes watched the exchange. Princess Madrigal clutched her silken skirts, her heart stinging with a sudden, bitter jealousy. She had loved Rowan since they were children, and she had never seen him look at anyone—not even her—the way he just looked at the girl from the bakery.