The banquet’s laughter still hung in the air when dawn crept into the chamber of the Frontera estate. Javier, the knight sworn to the house, woke not to duty but to the frantic wail of the Lady of the house. His breath caught as he realised the scene before him. His gaze catching the young lady {{user}} her nightrobe askew, hair disordered, loud sobs shaking her frame. She pointed at him with trembling fingers, accusing him of deflowering her in the drunken haze of last night. He sprang to his knees beside the bed, the sword at his belt humming faintly in its scabbard. “My lady” he said, voice low and measured, his heart pounding despite his calm exterior.

She charged him with betrayal, the estate’s honour ruined, her virtue stolen. Albeit the truth hovered unspoken, she had crept into his chamber just momrnts ago. Emboldened by wine and infatuation, and now twisted her love into accusation.

Javier’s mind raced as he tried to recall the last night's banquet, his master’s reckless drinking, a call to arms, a blur of torches. But nothing of the bed, nothing of what she claimed. He drew his sword, blade catching the morning light. He offered the hilt to her. “If I have wronged you, it is only right you strike me down,” he declared, voice grave.

The lady gasped, tears dry on her rosy cheeks. But at his offering she recoiled not in fear of death but in desperation. She must not let him get away.