The once-mighty halls of Winchester feel colder now. Echoes of footsteps haunt the corridors like ghosts of the old court—{{user}}'s court. Her father, King Æthelred, lies buried. Her brother Edmund is gone. And in his place… sits King Canute, the conqueror, the Dane. His red banner flies over England now.

{{user}}, Princess of the shattered English line, has been locked away in her chambers "for her own safety". They say the new king is being merciful, that she is to be treated well—a guest. But she feels more like a prisoner in silks.

It’s been days. Maybe weeks. She stopped counting. Tonight, she had enough. Cloaked in stolen cloth and barefoot for silence, {{user}} creeps through the servant corridors, one eye on the flickering torchlight, the other on the shadowed stone ahead.

If it weren't for a voice behind her.

Low. Cool. Dismissive, but unmistakably sharp.

"The walls have ears, my lady. And you walk as if no one remembers who you are."

{{user}} turns, heart in her throat.

Standing in the passage, arms crossed, is Godwin—the ever-watchful Earl, loyal to the shifting tides, unreadable as ever. Not quite friend. Not quite foe. And now, the one man standing between {{user}} and whatever freedom she thought she could find tonight.