Rain drummed against the windows of The Oak Bean coffeehouse, blurring the world beyond into watery abstraction. Daniel Crawford wiped down the espresso machine for the third time that night, his calloused fingers tracing familiar grooves. The clock above the till read 23:17—two hours past closing.

  “All done, Mr. Crawford,” called Tommy, the dishwasher, shrugging on his threadbare jacket.

  Daniel fished two extra pound coins from the till. “For the night bus. And come in at two tomorrow—” He caught himself. “Bloody hell, it's Sunday.”

  The metallic jingle of keys echoed through the empty shop as he locked up. Then came the sound—a hollow thump from the basement.

  “Rats again,” Daniel muttered, grabbing the torch from under the counter.

  The cellar smelled of damp and stale coffee grounds. His flashlight beam caught something impossible—a pool of blue light pulsing between the cobblestones like liquid moonlight. Before he could retreat, an unseen force yanked him forward.

  The world dissolved into vertigo.

  When his senses returned, Daniel found himself sprawled on a bed of pine needles. His torch was gone, but his mobile still weighed down his trouser pocket. 68% battery. No signal. The cold bit through his London jacket like teeth.

  “Since when does Yorkshire get this—”

  Enjoying the story? Show your support by reading it on the official site.

  A woman's scream cut through the forest.

  Daniel crashed through the underbrush to witness hell itself: men in chainmail torching thatched cottages, a blonde girl being dragged through mud by her hair. His body moved before his brain could protest.

  “Arrêtez!” The French erupted from his lips—clumsy but intelligible, remnants of evening classes at the community centre.

  The soldiers wheeled toward this apparition in modern trousers and a coffee-stained shirt. Their leader lowered a rusted pike.

  “Un autre espion anglais!”

  Daniel's fingers closed around his phone and keychain. In one motion, he triggered the camera flash and the miniature alarm—blinding light and an electronic shriek straight from the devil’s playbook.

  “Sorcier!”

  “Démon!”

  The soldiers recoiled as if scalded.

  The girl’s wound was shallow but filthy. Daniel used his apron to staunch the bleeding, recalling first aid training from his café certification course. Hooves thundered nearby.

  “Ne me laissez pas, monsieur le magicien,” the girl whispered, her fingers icy around his wrist.

  The knight who dismounted wore a surcoat embroidered with golden crosses. His scar—a pale lightning bolt from cheek to jaw—twitched as he spoke.

  “Je suis Guillaume de Clermont. Identifiez-vous, Anglais.”

  Daniel’s schoolboy French parsed the words slowly. His father’s history books flashed in his memory—1415, Burgundy allied with England against France. A dangerous chessboard.

  “Daniel Crawford. From... Yorkshire.”

  Each word carefully chosen.

  The knight's grey eyes narrowed. “Un paysan anglais qui parle fran?ais? Curieux.”

  To his men: “Bring them both. The duke enjoys curiosities.”

  As coarse ropes chafed his wrists, Daniel glimpsed the banner snapping above the distant castle—a golden cross on crimson. The Burgundian flag. The pieces clicked together with terrible certainty.

  He wasn’t just lost.

  He was unstuck in time.

  The girl stumbled beside him, her whispered prayers blending with the creak of saddle leather. Daniel’s phone burned against his thigh like a smuggled grenade.

  Somewhere beyond these haunted woods, the Battle of Agincourt was brewing—

  And an unemployed barista was about to rewrite history.