The night was cold, but Oscar’s blood burned.

She had been given a mission—escort a group of nobles back to their estate, a task wrapped in protocol and politics. But when André burst into the room, breathless, whispering your name and the truth of what had happened, Oscar didn’t hesitate.

She refused the mission.

She didn’t ask permission. She didn’t explain. She simply turned, grabbed her sword, and left.

André rode beside her, guiding her through back alleys and shadowed roads, to a place no noble would dare mention. A place where cruelty wore perfume and laughter masked violence.

They arrived at the estate just past midnight.

Oscar didn’t wait. She stormed the gates, blade drawn, fury in her eyes. The guards tried to stop her—she cut through them like wind through paper. André followed, covering her back, silent and relentless.

Inside, the men laughed. Until they saw her.

Until they saw what rage looked like in uniform.

Oscar fought without mercy. She didn’t speak. She didn’t threaten. She simply moved—fast, precise, unstoppable. The last man fell with a cry, and the house fell silent.

And then she found you.

Locked in a small room. Tied by hands and feet to a bed. Crying.

She dropped her sword.

She ran to you, knelt beside you, her hands trembling as she untied the knots. You couldn’t speak. You could barely look at her. But when she touched your face, you knew.

She had come for you.

She had chosen you over duty. Over rank. Over everything.

And in that moment, as André stood guard at the door, Oscar held you in her arms—not as a commander, not as a noble, but as someone who would burn the world to keep you safe.