The great hall of the palace in Jerusalem was a far cry from the sterile coffee shop Ethan had spent his days in. Stone walls soared to a vaulted ceiling, adorned with banners bearing crosses and the lion of Judah. Torches flickered, casting shadows over the assembled nobles, knights, and clergy who filled the room. Their eyes were fixed on him—Baldwin IV, their king, seated on a cushioned throne that did little to ease the ache in his bandaged limbs. Ethan's heart thudded beneath the heavy robes and the silver mask that hid half his face. He felt like an impostor in a costu, playing a role he barely understood.
Raymond of Tripoli stood to his right, his expression unreadable as he recounted the latest reports. "Saladin's forces have been sighted near Ascalon," he said, his voice carrying over the murmurs of the court. "Our scouts estimate ten thousand n, perhaps more. They move with purpose, likely aiming to test our defenses before striking Jerusalem itself."
The nobles stirred, so whispering, others gripping the hilts of their swords. Ethan's mind raced. Ten thousand n. He'd read about Saladin's campaigns— the Ayyubid sultan was a military genius, uniting Muslim forces against the Crusader states. The Battle of Montgisard was coming, a victory that would cent Baldwin's legend. But Ethan wasn't Baldwin. He was a 23-year-old with no military experience, unless you counted strategy gas. Could he pull off a miracle like Montgisard?
He cleared his throat, hoping his voice wouldn't betray his panic. "What are our forces?" he asked, the words coming out in that unfamiliar Old French. He was still unnerved by how naturally he spoke it, as if Baldwin's mories lingered in this body, guiding his tongue.
Raymond raised an eyebrow, perhaps surprised by the question. "We have five hundred knights, sire, and perhaps three thousand foot soldiers, including levies from the baronies. The Templars and Hospitallers can bolster our numbers, but we are sorely outnumbered."
Ethan nodded, trying to look thoughtful while his mind scread. Five hundred knights against ten thousand? The odds were insane. He rembered Montgisard from his history class— Baldwin had won with a fraction of Saladin's numbers, relying on speed, terrain, and sheer audacity. But that was Baldwin, not Ethan. He needed ti to think, to plan, to figure out how to survive this.
His gaze drifted to his hands, wrapped in linen to hide the lesions of leprosy. The disease was another enemy, one that gnawed at his body every mont. In the 12th century, leprosy was a death sentence, treated with prayers and primitive redies. But Ethan wasn't from the 12th century. He was from 2025, a world of antibiotics, immunotherapy, and dical research. Could he use that knowledge to fight this? To cure himself?
"Sire?" Raymond's voice cut through his thoughts. The court was waiting for his response.
Ethan straightened, aware of every eye on him. "We will prepare to et Saladin," he said, hoping he sounded decisive. "Send word to the Templars and Hospitallers. I want their full support. And... gather our best physicians. I wish to discuss my health."
A murmur rippled through the court. The ntion of his health was bold— everyone knew the king's condition was a delicate subject, rarely spoken of openly. Raymond's eyes narrowed slightly, but he bowed. "As you command, my lord."
The eting continued, with nobles debating supply lines and fortifications. Ethan listened, nodding when it seed appropriate, but his mind was elsewhere. Leprosy. In his ti, it was called Hansen's disease, caused by Mycobacterium leprae. It was treatable with multidrug therapy— dapsone, rifampicin, clofazimine. None of those existed here. But Ethan wasn't a doctor; he was a barista with a high school biology class and a Wikipedia-level understanding of dicine. Still, he knew the basics: bacteria, not curses, caused this. Cleanliness, diet, and maybe so herbs could slow its progress. If he could recreate even a crude antibiotic...
He shook his head, catching himself. Antibiotics were centuries away. But there were other possibilities. He'd read about dieval dicine—herbs like garlic and turric had antibacterial properties. Honey was used as a wound dressing, wasn't it? Maybe he could experint, find sothing to manage the symptoms, buy himself ti. The real Baldwin had died at 24, and Ethan was in his body now, probably 16 or 17. He had years to work with, if he could survive the wars and the court.
As the eting adjourned, Ethan gestured for the physician from the previous day to approach. The man, introduced as Brother Gerard, was a Hospitaller with a lined face and a calm deanor. "You summoned , sire?" he asked, bowing.
Ethan leaned forward, lowering his voice. "Tell about my... condition. What treatnts are used?"
Gerard hesitated, his eyes flickering with unease. "My lord, your affliction is a trial from God. We apply salves of aloe and myrrh to soothe the skin, and you are bathed in holy water blessed by the patriarch. Prayer and fasting are your greatest allies."
Ethan suppressed a groan. Prayer wasn't going to kill bacteria. "What about herbs? dicines from the East? I've heard of physicians in Damascus and Baghdad with knowledge beyond ours."
Gerard's brow furrowed. "The Saracens have their ways, sire, but their redies are suspect, tainted by their faith. We trust in Christian healing."
Ethan bit back a retort. He wasn't about to argue theology with a 12th-century monk. "Bring texts," he said instead. "Anything you have on dicine— Christian, Saracen, or otherwise. I want to understand every option."
Gerard looked skeptical but nodded. "I will see what can be found, my lord."
As the physician left, Ethan leaned back, his bandaged hands gripping the throne's arms. He felt the weight of the crown— taphorical, since he wasn't wearing one— pressing down on him. Saladin was coming. The court was watching. And his body was a ticking ti bomb. He needed to be Baldwin, the king, but he also needed to be Ethan, the guy who'd googled "how to treat infections" when he got a bad cut. Could he bridge those worlds? Could he change history, not just for Jerusalem but for himself "
Tonight," he muttered to himself, "I start researching."
A young squire approached, bowing. "Sire, the Lady Sibylla requests an audience."
Ethan froze. Sibylla. Baldwin's sister, a key figure in the kingdom's politics. Another challenge. "Send her in," he said, bracing himself.
He had a war to fight, a body to save, and a kingdom to rule. And sohow, he'd have to do it all without losing himself.
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