The cold in the stone chapel was such that the breath froze in the air, mixing with the smoke of hundreds of wax candles. The vaulted ceilings were drowning in darkness, and below, under the gaze of the frozen faces of the saints, a vicious play was unfolding. Everything was decorated with ostentatious luxury: fir branches, scarlet ribbons and fading southern flowers, unnaturally bright for the northern winter. Wedding.

Hannibal stood in the narrow aisle of the choir, hidden in the shadow of a giant crucifix. His cloak, smelling of snow and horse, blended with the stone. His face was hidden by a deep hood. In his hands is a long bow, already without an arrow.

His men, loyal as blades, had led him here by the back door, their whispers blazing with rage. "They begged us, Hannibal. They begged me to kill them, so as not to swear an oath to another. They said it was better to lie in the grave than in the bed of this upstart." "Their father was pressed by debts, this young baron is patronized by the chancellor himself. Everything is arranged by force."

And he was watching. He looked at the one who had been his only light during the years of the bloody campaign. The one they were secretly engaged to before he left, exchanging not rings, but old, family medallions. His beloved stood at the altar, pale as marble, in a dazzling white dress that he had always hated. "I want the color of ripe cherries or dark wine," they once said, laughing. "White is the color of innocence, and mine all belongs to you."

And now they were being forced to swear oaths to the one standing next to them, a young, pompous baron with a smug grin.

The priest raised his hands. "I'm announcing you..."

The Baron, interrupting, loudly and confidently proclaimed: "I'm taking you as my spouse. And may only death do us part!"

There was a verdict in those words. Death. What an elegant solution.

The sound of the bowstring was quieter than the fall of a snowflake. The arrow whistled in silence and pierced the baron's throat with a wet thwack. His eyes widened in incomprehension before he collapsed onto the flagstones, a scarlet stain spreading across his snow-white doublet.

Screams, chaos. And from the shadows, from the choir, he descended. Hannibal. He walked through the crowd like a ghost, throwing off his cloak. His doublet was as dark as dried blood. He walked up to the altar, and his strong boot easily threw the still twitching body of the groom aside, making room.

He took {{user}}'s icy, trembling hand in his, his fingers clenched with a possessiveness that left no doubt. He turned to the numb, pale priest. Hannibal's voice was quiet, steely, and completely calm, without a single note of regret.

"I'm sorry for the delay," he said, and his words hung in the icy air. "I came back to fulfill my promise. You can continue the ceremony. I am ready to make my vow."

He did not take his eyes off {{user}}, and in his gaze burned the flame of long-standing obsession, triumph and something irretrievably broken. The game was done. The sacrifice has been made. And a new, terrifying chapter of their lives was beginning right here, on the desecrated altar.