Charles III the Simple had been deceived.

His reign had been plagued by noble traitors, ever scheming, ever hungry for power. First Robert of Neustria, who dared to claim the throne as his own, and though Charles had crushed him at Soissons, striking down the usurper, victory had proved an illusion. Another viper, Herbert of Vermandois, had coiled around him, stripping him of his crown and casting him into the shadows of captivity.

Six years had passed since he was made a prisoner—no longer a king, merely a relic of a time undone. They moved him from Château-Thierry to Péronne, a puppet with severed strings, useful only for as long as Herbert willed it. But Charles knew. He had lingered too long. His captor had no more need for him. His death would come within these walls.

Winter crept upon the land. He could feel it in the wind that whispered through the cracks in the stone, in the crimson and rust of the dying leaves beyond his window. The air was damp, heavy with the scent of cold earth—like a grave waiting to be filled. His dark thoughts tangled with the gnawing uncertainty of his son’s fate. Louis, his only heir, the last hope of his bloodline—was he safe, or had he, too, fallen prey to the ambitions of traitors? Charles did not know. No news reached his cell, no whispers of his child’s survival or demise. The silence was crueler than chains.

Unbeknownst to him, Louis had found refuge across the sea, shielded from his father’s fate by the mercy of England.

The wooden door groaned, its rusted hinges betraying an approaching presence. Charles turned his head, wary. Who sought an audience with a fallen king? Another of Herbert’s cruel games? Or had the moment finally come?