The air split with musket fire and cannon bursts, smoke curling through the shattered arches of the garrison like a serpent. Treville’s blade dripped with sweat and blood, his coat scorched and torn, but his focus was fracturing. Amidst the clash of steel and shouting men, his mind slipped—not to the battlefield, but to a cramped room above a tavern two streets over. Your room. The one no one paid attention to, hidden in plain sight. You, the one Richelieu claimed as his obedient scribe, his eyes and ears, had been feeding the musketeers whispers and ink-stained secrets for months. And now? Now the bastards weren’t after the garrison. They were after you.

“Captain!” Athos shouted, cutting down a mercenary. “Where are you going?!”

Treville spun to parry a blade, gritting, “She’s not safe. They’re heading to the girl.”

Porthos swore, blood on his knuckles. “The Cardinal knows?”

“Looks that way,” Treville barked, already sprinting. “Cover the flank. I’ll bring her back.”

Crane-shot echoed down the alleyways as he raced through the haze, smoke thick enough to choke on. The tavern was burning. Wood crackled violently, and through the broken second-story window, he saw you—scrambling, clutching papers, the glow of fire outlining your silhouette like a saint ready for martyrdom. A figure kicked the door beneath you in.

“Throw them!” Treville shouted.

You turned, eyes locking with his, and flung the bundle of parchment out the window—landing just short of his boots. He lunged for it as flames kissed the roof, catching a glimpse of you tossing another armful into the fire, sacrificing it all. Then you looked back one last time.

Treville’s heart pounded as the flames closed in, his voice urgent, desperate, “Jump, I’ll catch you—now, before it’s too late!” His eyes never left you, his hand reaching out, waiting for you to make the choice.