Chapter 1: Am I a Princess?

“She’s awake! That potion really seems to work!”

I heard the muffled commotion swirling around me. As I slowly peeled my heavy eyelids open, the immediate realization hit me: this was not my bedroom. A pungent, earthy scent of unfamiliar spices violently assaulted my nose.

I tried to sit up, but my entire body felt locked in stone. My arms and waist completely refused to obey my brain's commands. Is this what being paralyzed feels like? Blind panic started to claw at my chest, but when I tried to scream, nothing made its way up my throat except a pathetic, hoarse groan.

“Lie still, Princess. Your body still can’t move. You must be startled—calm down, this is all normal,” a middle-aged man whispered near my ear. I managed to slide my gaze over to him. For a guy his age, his outfit was bizarrely skimpy, exposing way too much skin. He hovered over me, acting like some sort of doctor or archaic healer.

I racked my brain, desperate for a memory. I was absolutely positive I’d fallen asleep in my trailer on set last night, same as always. Yet here I was, waking up in this strange, herb-choked room. There was no artificial lighting, just harsh sunlight slicing through wide, jagged cracks in the stone walls. My lower back throbbed in protest against the unforgiving surface beneath me. Clearly, I was no longer sleeping on my plush spring mattress.

Was this some kind of elaborate hidden-camera prank? If so, the producers had crossed a massive line. I mean, I am Jill Adelaide. I literally just got an Oscar nomination yesterday! A hot wave of fury washed over me; I vowed to sue the absolute hell out of the network, the producers, and my manager for letting this happen. I could take a joke. A standard scare prank or a dumb magic trick? Sure. But drugging me unconscious—and possibly poisoning me—to the point where I was totally paralyzed? This was completely legally unhinged.

A few agonizing minutes ticked by, and feeling slowly began to prickle back into my right arm. Thank God. My body was finally rebooting, and I needed to get out of here as soon as possible. That strange old man was muttering under his breath now, his wrinkled, unwashed hands stirring some dark, rancid-looking sludge inside a crude clay bowl.

“Where am I?” I startled myself the second the words left my lips. A completely foreign language had just slipped effortlessly off my tongue. The words in my head were English, but the sounds coming out of my mouth absolutely weren't.

Had the crew slipped something into my drink? Some kind of hallucinogen or psychiatric drug frying my brain circuits, causing delusions and scrambling my speech? It was the only logical explanation.

“You are in your palace, Princess. You’ve been asleep for nine days, and everyone has been very worried,” murmured a young woman. I noticed her simple, sheer gown, which looked less like clothing and more like a piece of fabric merely draped around her collarbones like a shawl. I’d seen costumes exactly like that in ancient Greek history books.

A chilling realization hit me: the girl, who was clearly playing my servant, was also speaking that same foreign language. And somehow, I understood every single word. It sounded exactly like Greek. Okay. So this twisted prank show had an ancient Greece theme. Got it.

While the set design might not have been a perfect carbon copy of the masterpieces by the great Renaissance painters, I had to hand it to them—the producers had committed hard to the aesthetic.

I gritted my teeth and finally managed to push myself up into a sitting position, my head swiveling to take in the rest of my surroundings. I was in a massive room constructed entirely of heavy stone. There wasn't a single light fixture in sight, just wrought-iron candle holders scattered about. I recognized the distinct, sweet scent immediately—beeswax. I used to burn beeswax candles in my room for aromatherapy. But these weren't sleek, store-bought pillars; they were lumpy, irregular, and aggressively handmade.

“Where’s Matthew? Send for him!” I demanded, shouting for my manager. But once again, that fluid, ancient Greek poured from my lips. A heavy, icy dread pooled in my stomach. It felt like I was wearing someone else's skin. Even the vocal cords vibrating in my throat didn't sound anything like my own voice.

“Who is this Matthew, Your Highness?” The young woman tilted her head in genuine confusion.

“Her Highness is confused; this drink will make her feel better.” I watched in horror as the ‘healer’ shuffled closer, holding out that crude clay bowl. That repulsive concoction he’d just been mixing with his bare, wrinkled hands was apparently meant for me to drink.

“No! I won’t drink it! I’ll sue all of you!” True, visceral nausea rolled through me. I doubled over, clutching my abdomen as my diaphragm spasmed violently, trying to force whatever was left in my stomach up my throat. But there was nothing to vomit up. I just dry-heaved into the stale air.

“By mighty Zeus! Thank goodness, Portia!” Before I could even finish retching, a group of people suddenly burst into the room. One of them rushed forward, wrapping thick arms around me and pulling my head to their chest, stroking my hair.

I looked up into the wise, deeply lined face of a middle-aged man weeping tears of pure emotion. He was decked out in a heavy cloak and stiff leather armor, a lethal-looking sword sheathed at his iron belt. I could only stare at him in total bewilderment—until a blinding headache violently split my skull in two.

“Ah! Stop, it hurts! Help!” I screamed, entirely losing control. I writhed on the rock-hard bed, curling into a tight ball and gripping my temples. A deafening, vibrating buzz filled my ears, roaring like a massive swarm of angry bees zeroing in for the kill, though the air was completely empty. I thrashed against the agony for a few terrifying seconds, and then everything went black.

***

I woke up for the second time in that archaic nightmare. But this time, my heartbeat was steady, and my thoughts felt much more coherent. A vile, metallic bitterness coated my tongue. Great. That creepy old healer had actually forced his mystery potion down my throat while I was passed out.

My limbs felt considerably lighter, so I swung my legs over the edge and got out of bed. I’d been moved to a much nicer room; the mattress was actually soft this time, and a cool, pleasant breeze drifted through the space. I wasn't sweating or shivering. I noticed a cluster of beeswax candles flickering in the corners, signaling that night had finally fallen.

“My daughter, are you awake? How is your headache?” The armored man—the last face I’d seen before blacking out—stepped forward, his voice heavy with fatherly concern. I didn't answer immediately. Play along, I told myself. Just go with their act. I guessed this regal, imposing guy was playing the role of my father. Beside him stood a strikingly beautiful woman, wringing her hands, clearly cast as my mother.

“I’m fine, Father,” I replied, forcing my tone to be smooth and graceful. I scanned the shadows, wondering when the host was finally going to jump out and put an end to this prank.

But my stomach dropped at another thought: if this really was a broadcasted TV prank, hidden cameras were currently rolling. My hair and makeup had to be an absolute disaster, and the last thing I needed was my fans complaining about how awful I looked.

“Get me a mirror,” I whispered to the young servant girl who apparently never left my side.

Instantly, several servants scrambled out the door to fulfill the demand. I turned my attention back to the 'King' and 'Queen,' noting the deep, suffocating melancholy painted on their faces. I frowned. Why are they still acting so depressed? Hadn't their 'daughter' just woken up?

A moment later, the servants returned, lugging a large mirror. I glanced into the glass—and my blood turned to ice. I completely froze in shock. Beside me, the Queen suddenly broke down into quiet, tragic sobs.

“Portia… Oh, Portia…” The Queen sank to the floor, weeping into her hands. “Look at yourself. As beautiful as Aphrodite, with your long, silvery-blonde hair, and your gait as graceful as a doe… From any angle, you are the most beautiful princess in Greece. But why is your fate so tragic?”

My soul violently shook. Where was my dark, wavy brown hair? Where was the face I’d known since birth? The woman staring back at me in the polished glass was a complete stranger. She was stunning—maybe even slightly more beautiful than me—but she was absolutely not me!

“I have already promised to hand her over, my Queen,” the man known as the King of Sparta wailed alongside her, tears shining in his eyes. “If we break that promise, he might destroy Sparta and kill thousands of innocent souls.”

“What are you talking about?” I gasped, panic fully severing my control. “Why are you crying like that? What the hell is wrong with my body? Did you do plastic surgery on me?!” Hot tears spilled down my new, unfamiliar cheeks, but they were born of pure, unadulterated rage. What had they done to me? Were they so desperate to ruin Jill Adelaide’s career that they literally carved up my face like this? A hundred terrifying, impossible theories swirled through my mind.

“Calm yourself, my daughter,” the King pleaded, his voice thick with raw desperation. “Tonight, we will stay with you all night. You must prepare your heart. Tomorrow evening, an envoy from Olympus will come to fetch you. To take you away as the bride of the god Ares.”

Chapter 2: Accepting Reality

I lost count of how many times the maids scrubbed my skin raw before they were finally satisfied. By my estimation, I’d already been forced to soak in scalding, herb-scented water twice. Before that, they had vigorously rubbed my entire body down with a gritty mixture of olive oil and Mediterranean sea salt, and even earlier, my face had been relentlessly massaged and slathered in thick honey and oil.

I spent my entire morning enduring this relentless battery of ancient spa treatments. I was about to be presented as the bride of Ares, and everyone in the palace was operating in a state of frantic preparation.

I had checked over and over again. Searched every corner, every shadow. There were no hidden cameras. There were no fresh surgical scars anywhere on this body. Even though a stubborn, rational voice in my head screamed that it was scientifically impossible, I had no choice but to accept the horrifying truth: I had genuinely woken up in the body of a Spartan princess named Portia.

I was bone-tired. I’d spent my first night as a royal running frantically through the stone corridors of the palace, screaming like an absolute madwoman in a desperate bid to find a way back to my own body. I’d only just regained a shred of my sanity after realizing that, for the time being, there was absolutely nothing I could do. Everyone around me just assumed I’d lost my memory, completely disoriented from narrowly escaping death. They didn’t care that their precious princess was babbling in modern English—a language completely alien to their ears. They just chalked it up to the Princess of Sparta being temporarily unhinged.

I didn't know how or why this had happened. Maybe I was under some ancient, mythical spell. Or, taking a more scientific approach, maybe I was just trapped in an intense lucid dream—the kind that felt terrifyingly real. It was like I was living in *Inception*, except Leonardo DiCaprio was nowhere in sight to save me.

But even if this was just a dream, I couldn't afford to take any chances. Because there was a solid fifty-fifty chance that I had actually time-traveled into the distant past. I needed to act fast and formulate a strategy to survive in this heavily patriarchal, sword-and-sandals world.

If I really was stuck in ancient Greece, at least I knew the lore. As a feature film actress, I had once been cast as Psyche, the mortal princess who fell in love with Eros, the God of Love and the son of Aphrodite.

The movie had been a complete box-office flop, but the intense research I’d done for the role meant I actually knew a lot about Greek mythology. And I knew one universal, undeniable truth about the Olympian gods:

They were, without exception, selfish, arrogant, and deeply immoral beings.

Poor Portia. The beautiful Princess of Sparta had suffered the ultimate misfortune of being offered up as a literal sacrifice to the most brutal, unhinged Olympian of them all: Ares.

Ares, the God of War, the Lord of Battle. Just the mere mention of his name was enough to make the toughest Greeks shake in their leather sandals. The guy was legendary for his insatiable bloodlust and obsession with carnage. He had a notoriously volatile temper and would challenge absolutely anyone to a fight to the death. And as if being a bloodthirsty warmonger wasn't bad enough, he was basically ancient history's biggest player, constantly cheating with Aphrodite and fathering a small army of illegitimate children.

I honestly couldn't recall a single myth where Ares actually took a lawful, mortal wife. It seemed I was completely off-script, stepping into an unwritten chapter where the tragic princess of Sparta was forced into a nightmare marriage with the cruelest god in the pantheon.

I had spent the morning interrogating the servants and Portia’s parents, trying to pry as many details about her life from them as possible. I also possessed these faint, ghostly memories flickering in the back of my mind—genuine fragments of Portia's past. I needed to fully understand this sheltered eighteen-year-old girl, because like it or not, I *was* Portia now.

And Portia was the definition of the perfect princess. She wasn't just celebrated as the most beautiful woman in Greece; she was gentle, remarkably mature, and fiercely intelligent for her age. It was that sharp intellect that had earned her the prestigious honor of serving at the Temple of Athena.

But then, a horrifying incident had struck while she was making a sacred offering at the goddess's altar. A venomous snake had bitten her, sending her into a deep, death-like coma. The king had mobilized every physician and exhausted every known antidote in Sparta, but Portia had remained unresponsive, the delicate tips of her fingers slowly turning a morbid, icy blue.

That was when a satyr—a literal half-human, half-goat mythical creature—strode into the palace and approached the desperate king, offering a miraculous cure.

“He claimed to be a messenger of Ares, sent with a cure to save you,” the King of Sparta told me, his regal face sagging with a profound, heavy sadness.

I listened intently, absorbing every single detail of the twisted events that had dragged Portia into this doomed arrangement.

“Never before had a Spartan encountered a satyr walking so brazenly in the realm of mortals. At that moment, I was utterly convinced he had been sent by divine intervention. The creature made a pact with me.” Despite his massive, battle-hardened frame, the King of Sparta seemed completely powerless to hold back the tears pooling in his eyes.

"So, the deal was that if I recovered, I'd be married off to Ares?" I filled in the blanks, my tone sharp, since the king was clearly too choked up to finish the story.

I had learned that although the King of Sparta had three daughters, Portia was the absolute light of his life. He had loved her so fiercely that he’d been prepared to shield her from political marriages entirely, perfectly content to let her devote her life to serving the Goddess of Wisdom.

Faced with this grim reality, the King was now drowning in regret over all the proposals from handsome Greek princes he had so stubbornly rejected. Now, his favorite daughter was betrothed to the Olympian with the most toxic reputation in existence. Portia was going to be dragged away to a divine realm, and her father knew he might never look upon her face again.

“Pray to the wise Athena, my sweet daughter. Beg her to shield you from Ares’ cruelty. You have been the most faithful servant of her temple; I am certain the Goddess of Strategic Warfare will not forsake you in your hour of need,” the Queen of Sparta pleaded, her voice breaking on a choked sob.

Honestly, I was already getting exhausted by Portia’s parents and their constant, suffocating gloom. I shifted my gaze, scanning the massive, echoing throne room. Scattered around were faces that felt strangely familiar, pulled straight from Portia’s residual memories: her older sisters, along with a flock of half-siblings born to the king's concubines. I searched their expressions, but there wasn't an ounce of genuine sorrow on a single face. It seemed Portia hadn't exactly been close to her siblings. Still, the King and Queen had insisted on summoning the entire extended royal family for a grand, morbid farewell banquet.

So, I made my public debut, radiating an almost intimidating level of beauty in Portia’s flawless body. I wore a gown of the finest, most diaphanous ivory silk that clung perfectly to every sensual curve, my delicate feet laced into intricate sandals crafted from soft buffalo leather. Heavy, ornate gold jewelry crusted with raw diamonds and blood-red rubies weighed down my neck and wrists. And to top it all off, a rich, heady scent of exotic musk wafted from my skin with every movement. Whoever had dubbed her "Greece’s most beautiful princess" certainly hadn't been exaggerating.

I had chewed on the thought several times throughout the day: honestly, living out the rest of my days as the perfect Princess Portia wouldn't have made me happy, anyway. Sure, she was royalty. She received the absolute best service, luxury, and protection as the favorite child of the Spartan King.

But the reality of her day-to-day existence? Growing old as a celibate maiden worshipping Athena, suffocating under the thumb of an overbearing, overprotective father, and existing merely as a pretty little trophy for Sparta’s ego? Being paraded around with the empty title of "the most beautiful" wasn't exactly my idea of a fulfilling life.

Weirdly enough, accepting this twisted fate as a bride of Olympus actually sounded a hell of a lot more appealing. At least up there among the gods, I’d have a real chance of figuring out exactly how my soul had been hijacked and dragged into the ancient past—and more importantly, how to get back.

I let out a long, heavy sigh, a pang of grief hitting me as I thought about the glamorous, fiercely independent life of Jill Adelaide I’d been forced to leave behind. But until I uncovered the secret to returning to my own time, I had only one real option. I was an Oscar-nominated actress, after all. So, I would do what I did best: I would put on the performance of a lifetime and play the role of Portia to absolute perfection.

Chapter 3: Demigods and Divine Miracles

“Greetings, Princess of Sparta. My name is Alastair. I am here to collect you.”

A young man in a sweeping red cloak bowed respectfully before me. He had dark, striking features and a head of unruly black hair. Dressed like a hardened Greek warrior, he wore form-fitting leather pants and a sleeveless tunic that showed off his arms. He carried a lethal-looking bow and a quiver of arrows, along with a short sword sheathed in pale deerhide at his hip.

He hadn’t come alone. Alastair brought two massive horse-drawn carriages overflowing with treasure: bolts of the finest Libyan silk, masterfully forged swords and daggers inlaid with heavy gemstones, exquisite jewelry, mountains of gold coins, and even several pristine marble statues. A literal king's ransom. These were the extravagant wedding gifts from the God of War to the King of Sparta.

I offered Alastair a measured, graceful bow—playing the part of Portia perfectly. But out of the corner of my eye, I caught sight of my new 'brothers and sisters.' They couldn't even pretend to hide their greedy delight at the mountain of wealth. They giggled and whispered, some of them shamelessly marching right up to the carriages to inspect the loot like kids in a candy store.

“Mind your manners—they are the God of War’s envoys!” the King of Sparta hissed, his voice trembling. He didn't spare a single glance for the unimaginable wealth. His tear-filled eyes were locked entirely on me. It was tragically clear that no amount of gold would ever replace his beloved daughter.

“What exactly is your connection to the God of War? I assumed he would come to fetch me himself,” I asked, letting Portia's sweet, innocent tone mask my irritation. I mean, if you're forcing a girl into an arranged marriage and dragging her away from her home, the least you could do is show up in person. Sending an errand boy was just rude.

The Queen of Sparta panicked, hurriedly yanking on my silk sleeve.

“Watch your words, my child. We are speaking to Ares's messenger. The Lord of Battle is an Olympian god; he would never lower his divine status or set his majestic foot on mortal soil,” she hissed under her breath, terrified of the insult.

“I am a demigod, a blood relative of the Great God Ares. I am his loyal follower and his soldier,” Alastair declared smoothly. He very deliberately ignored my pointed question about his boss's absence.

*A demigod,* I thought. I immediately recalled the chaotic, boundary-less nature of the Olympian gods. The myths were full of them sowing their wild oats absolutely everywhere—with fellow deities and unsuspecting mortals alike. The children born from those divine hookups were the demigods.

I knew the A-listers, of course: Hercules, Perseus. Alastair was probably a C-list demigod, someone whose role wasn't quite heroic enough to make the final cut in the poets’ epic verses.

The gods basically took whatever—and whoever—they wanted. Surprisingly, the women who gave birth to these divine bastards weren't exactly shunned. Quite a few of those illegitimate kids grew up to be legendary kings, powerful queens, or unstoppable war heroes.

But thinking about Ares’s notoriously brutal and heartless reputation in the ancient texts, this whole formal arrangement felt entirely off-script. The God of War could have just swooped in, kidnapped me, and used me however he pleased. Then, once I was pregnant or he simply got bored, he could have tossed me out like trash.

He was a god, after all. Mortals didn't get to defy a god's will or put them on trial for their morality. And even though Ares was arguably the most hated deity in the pantheon, he was still one of the twelve almighty rulers of Olympus.

I couldn't stop racking my brain. What possible reason would drive the Lord of Battle to court Portia in such a highly traditional, respectable manner? Sure, she was Greece's reigning beauty queen, but that didn't seem like enough to make a savage god settle down.

Looking at this so-called divine envoy standing in the Spartan throne room, a sharp wave of skepticism hit me. Were these guys actually sent by Ares? What if this was an elaborate con pulled by some bitter mortal king or rejected prince? Portia's father had turned down practically every eligible bachelor in the Mediterranean. It would be a genius move to fake a divine mandate, knowing damn well the King of Sparta would never dare defy the gods.

“Prove it,” I challenged, staring dead into Alastair’s dark eyes. “Prove that you are truly the envoys of the god Ares, and not just emissaries from some king or prince of another realm.”

Alastair’s handsome face hardened into a mask of pure ice. He clearly did not appreciate a sheltered Spartan princess questioning his authority. But I had to push him. I refused to end up in the bed of some C-list nobleman playing dress-up who wasn't a suitable match for Portia.

Without breaking eye contact, Alastair slowly raised his right hand. A heavy fluttering sound echoed through the hall, and a massive, ugly vulture swooped in from behind the entourage, landing directly at my feet. Alastair reached into his pouch and pulled out a strange, glowing purple fruit that looked like a mutated strawberry. He tossed it to the scavenger, which swallowed it whole in a single gulp.

What happened next made my jaw drop. The entire palace hall bore witness to an impossible spectacle. The vulture began to violently tremble, throwing its dark wings wide. It unleashed an ear-piercing screech, looking like it had just been injected with a lethal dose of adrenaline. Thick, pulsating cords of muscle and swollen veins ripped through its skin, highly visible even beneath its coarse feathers. Right before our eyes, the creature’s body rapidly ballooned, mutating until it was nearly the size of a fully grown horse.

The vulture, now an absolute giant, shrieked again. It haughtily snapped its massive wings, generating a localized hurricane that sent objects flying across the room. Satisfied with the chaos, the beast hopped back to Alastair's side, its beady, lethal eyes locked onto me like I was its next meal.

The Spartans were utterly paralyzed by shock. They had just witnessed a literal divine miracle. Within seconds, every single person in the hall dropped to their knees in trembling worship. I knew from my research that the vulture was one of Ares’s sacred pets. Watching this impossible, monstrous transformation, I finally had to concede: they weren't fakes. They truly were Ares’s messengers.

Back in New York, I was about as close to an atheist as you could get. I usually identified as an agnostic, perfectly content not believing in any religion. To me, the sprawling epics of ancient Greek mythology were nothing more than pure nonsense. But having my soul miraculously shoved into the body of a Spartan girl named Portia had inevitably forced a major re-evaluation of my worldview. And now, I had just watched a bird turn into a giant with my own two eyes—a phenomenon I couldn't logically explain. Was this what they called magic?

*I’ll prove for myself whether the Olympians are real gods or not.*

My resolve hardened as I reached out to take Alastair’s waiting hand, letting him guide me toward the carriage.

As I walked, I couldn't stop the skepticism from creeping back in. Back in my own era, we had master illusionists. I had literally seen David Copperfield’s show firsthand, watching the man fly around a theater inside a bubble without a single safety harness. This whole giant vulture thing? It could very well be an incredibly sophisticated magic trick.

To these ancient Greeks, a flashy parlor trick or two was easily enough to amaze them, making them worship the magician as a deity. But it wasn’t going to be that simple for me.

Pausing, I flashed my best, most perfectly cinematic smile at Portia’s parents and family one last time. Then, I stepped up into the dark, heavily carved agarwood horse-drawn carriage.

The God of War’s massive, mighty horses instantly broke into a thunderous gallop, tearing away from the palace grounds. They moved with terrifying, impossible speed. By the time the King of Sparta and his troops snapped out of their stupor and tried to give chase, Ares’s entourage had already vanished without a trace.