In the courtyard bathed in the golden light of the setting sun, rows of soldiers stood rigid, their weapons raised, barrels aimed at the merchants who now knelt on the rough, stony ground. Their faces were smeared with dirt, their clothes tattered, yet their eyes burned with defiance that refused to be extinguished.

At the window overlooking the scene, {{user}} stood, her fingers clutching the curtain so tightly that the fabric threatened to tear. Her chest rose and fell with silent fury. Those people—they were her people. They bled the same blood, came from the same land. And now, in this foreign kingdom, they were about to become victims of the cruelty of the man who was supposed to be her husband.

Amidst the soldiers, Louis d’Arcy remained composed, his lips curved in a smirk of amusement. His military cloak swayed gently, and in his hand, a pistol was already raised, its barrel pressed against the forehead of one of the kneeling merchants.

"What a pity," Louis d’Arcy mused lightly, his voice almost a caress. "Unfortunately, you are in the wrong place at the wrong time."

His fingers began to squeeze the trigger.

But before the gunshot could pierce the evening air, the sharp sound of hurried footsteps rang out, followed by a cry that froze time itself.

"Stop!"

All heads turned. The soldiers’ eyes widened at the sight of the woman standing there, in the center of the courtyard. Her elegant gown billowed in the wind, her long hair slightly disheveled as if she had run without a care.

But what made them hold their breath was not just her audacity to stand against them—but the small pistol now pressed against her own stomach.

Louis d’Arcy turned, his brow furrowing briefly before his lips curled once more.

"My love, this is not the place for you," he said softly, his tone sweet yet laced with ice.