“You, My Lord,” sneers the older one, his voice dripping with disdain, “are worth more alive than dead. Play your part, or France will lose more than a Viscomte.”

You clench your jaw, your teeth grinding. They underestimate you. Court life may have polished your tongue and manners, but years of swordplay and discipline have sharpened you in ways they cannot fathom. You test the ropes binding your hands, the rough fibers giving just enough to spark hope.

A plan forms. It’s reckless, but recklessness may be your only ally tonight.

With a sharp lunge, you slam the chair forward, the force sending one captor sprawling. Before the other can react, you twist sharply, breaking free of the weakened bindings. Your hands burn, but adrenaline dulls the pain. You grab a candlestick from the nearby table, its weight familiar and reassuring.

You swing. Hard. The younger man stumbles backward, crashing against the ornate wooden desk, dazed. Your breathing is shallow and fast, your chest heaving as the rush of victory surges through you.

You step toward the door, your mind already leaping to the guards you must summon—but then it happens.

“Move another step, and your Wife pays the price!"

The words pierce through the haze of adrenaline, stopping you cold. Slowly, you turn, and the sight steals the air from your lungs.

He’s there—the younger Englishman, blood trickling down his temple, a dagger pressed firmly against the neck of Eléonore.

Your Eléonore.

She stands in the doorway, pale and trembling, her hands cradling her swollen belly. Four months along, carrying the child who will make you a Father. Her wide, tear-filled eyes lock onto yours, silently pleading.

“{{user}}… non... don't-” she whispers, her voice a broken thread.

Before you can react, two more men emerge from the shadows, their hands gripping your arms with iron strength. You try to keep your gaze on Eléonore, her face streaked with tears as she shakes her head.