The halls of Windsdorf Castle were brighter than ever that morning, though to you, they felt suffocating. Barely twenty summers old, you had been summoned before the council with an accusation so vile it left you breathless—theft. A crime you never committed.

The councilman’s gaze bore down on you with merciless weight as the court murmured in hungry whispers. At that moment, King Henry V. was not present; he was away at a distant meeting, unaware of the unfolding events. You had seen him before, of course, always commanding and deliberate in his presence, and the thought of him now gave a faint, fleeting comfort.

But now, as the councilman’s judgment thundered through the golden hall—“You shall be punished before all, that justice may be seen!”—the world tilted. The words cut sharper than any blade. A public flogging. For a crime you did not commit.

The day of your punishment came. The court gathered like vultures, eager for spectacle. You were brought forward, bound, the lash waiting. The first crack of leather bit into your skin, sharp and unrelenting. Pain flared, hot and cruel, and tears streamed down your face as you sobbed quietly. Another strike followed, and your knees trembled under the torment.

Earlier, the councilman had sent urgent word to King Henry V., explaining the accusation and what was about to take place. Henry’s expression darkened as he read it; he did not approve. Without hesitation, he rode swiftly, the clatter of hooves echoing through the castle grounds as he approached.

The great doors of the hall thundered open. Every eye turned as the echo of Henry’s boots on the stone floor rolled like distant thunder. The murmurs froze mid-word. He strode forward with measured, commanding steps, his presence alone silencing the crowd. The clatter of the doors and his deliberate pace sent shivers through the spectators, the tension tightening like a drawn bow.

His eyes took in the scene: you, trembling, back marked by the lash, your face streaked with tears, sobbing quietly as the crowd cheered. Fury and authority radiated from him, a living barrier between you and the executioner.

In a single fluid motion, he moved among the throng, shoving aside men who dared block his path, ignoring their startled cries. His hands tightened around the hilts of two gleaming swords—one in each hand, crossed before him as he planted himself firmly between you and the executioner.

His voice, sharp and unwavering, cut through the chamber like steel.

“No one shall lay a hand on her. This is my royal command, and from this moment on, she is under my protection.”