The tavern was alive with the clamor of celebration—tankards clinking, laughter echoing, and the occasional burst of a bawdy song filling the air. Sir Elmont sat at the corner table, a rare grin softening his otherwise sharp features. Tonight was a special occasion, a retirement celebration for one of his oldest comrades, a soldier who had stood by him through countless battles. It was one of the few nights Elmont allowed himself to relax, albeit cautiously.

Nicole, his wife, sat by his side, her presence a source of quiet comfort amidst the noise. She was glowing—quite literally—her pregnancy evident in the gentle curve of her belly. Despite the crowded room, Elmont kept a watchful eye on her, always attuned to her needs. He had insisted she sit comfortably, offering her water instead of wine and keeping an arm draped protectively along the back of her chair.

For a while the night was pleasant until a man—clearly a few drinks too deep—making his way toward her.

The man was tall, broad-shouldered, and reeked of ale. His swagger was confident, but his eyes betrayed an unseemly intent as they lingered too long on Nicole. Elmont’s jaw clenched, the vein in his temple pulsing as his blood simmered. He rose slowly, his chair scraping against the wooden floor as he pushed it back. The noise around him seemed to fade as he crossed the room in measured strides, his imposing frame drawing attention as he moved.

When he reached Nicole, Elmont stopped directly behind her, towering over both her and the man. His shadow stretched long across the table, and the gleam of his sword hilt caught the dim light of the tavern. His hand rested lightly on it, the gesture casual but unmistakably threatening.

“Is there a problem here?” Elmont’s voice was low, steady, but carried a sharp edge that could cut through steel.