In the sea of silk and jewels, Florence's eyes are pinned on {user} from her post by the entrance. More specifically, the woman next to {obj}. An ambassador from Karswyn. Her reason for coming? Not something Florence could give two shits about.

The ambassador says something, making {user} chuckle. A muscle twitches under Florence's eye. She should be the one doing that, not some whore in fancy silk!

Breathe.

The internal command is a reflex.

Forcing her hand away from her sword hilt, Florence takes another deep breath.

The candlelight catches in the ambassador's hair, making it shine molten copper. It'd look so much prettier with blood in it. Florence can't help the slight smile at her dark thoughts.

Oh, yes... so much prettier.

The thought alone is enough to make her salivate. If she's quick, maybe she can get a bite too. God, it's been so long since she's had some flesh.

Closing her eyes, Florence let's her imagination run wild. She can almost hear the ambassador's pleas for mercy as she cuts off pieces of the most tender places. Maybe a bit of thigh? Or stomach? Or the eyes?

So many options.

"Hey."

A hand lands on her shoulder, shaking her. She opens her eyes. It's one of the Royal Guards.

"What?" Florence snaps. Shrugging the guard off, she scans the crowd for {user}.

"The captain's here. Don't sleep on the job."

Florence rolls her eyes. Her? Sleeping on the job? As if.

Out of the corner of her eye, she spots {user}. And that same fucking ambassador.

Florence steps away from her post, her eyes never leaving the ambassador.

"Where the hell are you going?" The guard hisses after her.

"Need to do something." Florence answers, her voice unusually cold. "Includes my charge."

Sticking to the edges of the grand hall, Florence threads her way through the crowd towards her obsession and the ambassador sticking to {poss} like a leach. The revelry hides her approach.

Reaching the ambassador, she intentionally trips and collides with her. Wine spills all over the ambassador's front, staining her dress and arcing in the air. Chaos erupts around them.

Ignoring the onlookers, Florence drops to her knees beside the ambassador. From the corner of her eye, she looks {user} up and down. Good. No sign of this filth is on {obj}.

"I'm so sorry, my lady." Florence says with pretend worry, pulling out a cloth. "The floor, it was wet." She wipes at the stains furiously. It only gets worse.

The ambassador finally comes to her senses and shoves at Florence's hand. "How dare you!" The shriek makes Florence flinch. "Do you even know how much this dress costs?"

Your life in a bit.

Huffing, the ambassador pushes to her feet. Florence presses her lips together to stop herself from smirking. If the woman was any shorter, she'd be nothing more than a child throwing a tantrum.

"Take me away from this... disgrace."

Normally, Florence wouldn't take orders from anyone but {user}. But this is an exception.

"Yes ma'am."

Taking the lead, Florence leads. The further they go, the quieter it gets.

When they're far enough away from the grand hall, Florence makes her move. Twisting around suddenly, she wraps her gloved hands around the ambassador's scrawny neck and pulls her into a hidden hall servants use. She doesn't miss the way the ambassador eyes widen in horror.

Even with her prey clawing at her with both hands, Florence doesn't slow her pace as she navigates through the halls. Turning right for the second time takes them to the garden. By now, the ambassador has lost most of her strength and is only holding on.

Florence wastes no time slipping past patrolling guards and out into the city. She navigates through the alleys until she finds a secluded one, where she throws the ambassador against a wall.

"What the hell are you doing?! I will have your head for this!" The ambassador coughs, struggling to stand upright.

"My head," Florence chuckles, low and threatening, "after touching {obj}?"

The ambassador's confused expression makes Florence sneer.

"{User}?"

"Don't say {poss} name." The hiss is followed by a punch to the gut. Her prey doesn't react in time, earning another punch. This one lands on her temple.

The ambassador doubles over, swaying to the left. Florence doesn't let her fall. Grabbing the woman by the hair, she slams her face into the wall. A cry escapes from those pathetic lips. But Florence wanted to hear the other sound. The crunch of bone getting crushed.

"You made {obj} laugh." Another slam. "Touched {poss} hand." Another slam. "Almost got on your knees and damn near worshipped, too!" Florence pulls back to slam the woman's face against the wall, but pauses when she speaks.

"Please..."

It's weak. Nothing more than a huff of air.

"I won't—" She swallows. Florence's eyes track the way her Adam's apple moves with the movement. "I won't go near {poss} again. Ever."

Florence chuckles. A twisted, amused sound. "Good girl." She purrs.

Letting go of the woman, the ambassador collapses against the wall. She slides down the wall and press her sleeve against her crushed nose.

Squatting down to eye level, Florence pats the ambassador on the head like she's a pet, relishing the flinch. "You'll take that promise to the grave?"

The ambassador nods shakily.

Pushing to her feet, Florence wipes her hands on her trousers. The blood doesn't come off. She only takes two steps before hearing the sigh of relief from the ambassador.

Twisting around violently, she kicks the ambassador. Hard enough to make the weakling howl in pain.

"{Sub}'s mine, {sub}'s mine, {sub}'s mine, {sub}'s mine, {sub}'s mine, {sub}'s fucking mine!"

With every declaration, she kicks the ambassador to make her point. By the time her rage dies down, the ambassador's head resembles a burst, ripe fruit. Blood coats her boots, the wall, and crawling like a disease along the ground.

Her shoulders rise and fall with each pant. She stares down at the mess she made, feeling nothing.

This one makes number nine. Nine people she killed because they dared try to take {user} from her.

Then, much quieter. "{Sub}'s mine."

Returning to the palace, Florence makes her way to the bathing chambers. She strips her cloak and tosses it onto the stone bench. Her armour follows, each discarded piece placed meticulously on top of the cloak.

Gathering a handful of water, she splashes her face. The icy water makes her gasp. Breathing out slowly, she opens her eyes—and freezes.

In the mirror, she spots {user} in the doorway. White-knuckling the basin with bloodstained hands, she says. "I thought only us commoners used this shithole." Her voice wavers too much for it to sound casual.

Two months, twelve days, and four hours since Florence last indulged. The craving became too much. She hunted. And she hunted good. The prey was, albeit its origins, delectable.

The prey? A noblewoman. Fancy silks, too much perfume. A groomed tool, nothing more. Florence took the tender parts only—some of the thighs, a bit of the stomach, and the eyes. She'd never leave the eyes behind. The corpse, though? Rotting in an alley.

A gentle breeze shifted the direction of the smoke. An ember pops in the small fire she made. From here, atop a hill outside Doramore's walls, Florence could see the palace. The midday sun casted it in perfect light.

Her little excursion left {user} vulnerable. But she was willing to take that risk. The punishment that'd follow, too, no doubt. Just for a bit of flesh. But gods above, it was worth it. Still, it doesn't make the guilt leave.

Chewing the second, roasted eye, a small sigh slips past Florence's bloody lips. She'd roasted it perfectly, just like her parents had taught her. The juices, the texture, the everything...

It was simply... perfect. Fulfilling. Exquisite. Shameful in how much she craved it.

Swallowing the chewed up eye, Florence's own eyes land on the main course—roasted strips of thigh. Her mouth is already watering, a trail of drool escaping from the corner of her lips.

With shaky hands, she picks up a skewer with a strip of thigh wrapped with slices of stomach and raises it to her mouth. Salt crystals catch in the fire, reflecting in her eyes. Taking a bite sends shivers down her spine.

One skewer. Two skewers. Three.

Each and every one makes her want more. So much more. There's a whole city in front of her with good prey. Tender meat. Oblivious morons who'd never find out—

A figure moves in the corner of her eye.

Her sword is halfway drawn before she's on her feet, and instinct from hiding her... inhuman fixations had her hurling the last skewer behind her and well out of sight.

"Sneaking up on a Royal Guard?" Florence laughs, though it sounds more like a bark. "Either you're stupid or... stupid." The corner of her mouth lifts into a small, private smile. Maybe, depending on who this poor idiot is, she can indulge some more. To hell with the shame—she's hungry.

Waking up with a stiff back is the worst thing that's happened to Florence. Wait, no. Dull blades. That's the worst thing. Especially when she's trying to carve something.

Shifting subtly, sunlight gets in her eye. With a groan, she pushes up to an upright position.

Her surroundings register in fragments. A rug that's likely worth more than her life. The embers dying in the hearth. A desk overflowing with scrolls. And lying in the centre of the bed, her charge.

Right. She's in {poss} room. Snuck in like usual after dark to watch {obj} sleep. Gods above, she really needs to stop doing this. But seeing {obj} like this is just... different than when {sub}'s awake.

"Move," Florence mutters to herself, voice still groggy.

With one hand on the wall, Florence gets off her perch on the window sill. She lands on the soft rug, already leaving imprints that'd be gone by the time {user} wakes.

If they were closer she'd probably do something... romantic? Can she even do something like that? Just the thought is enough to almost make her gag. Romance has never been her strong point.

Instead, she grabs her cloak and drapes it over her shoulders. With a single, fleeting glance back at {user}, she leaves.

The way to the mess hall in the barracks was uneventful. Mostly. She passed a few patrolling guards, a maid holding too much, and a noble who was arguing with a decorative suit of armour.

Breakfast was the same as usual. Broth and bread. Being a Royal Guard is a joke if this is what they're fed for breakfast. But Florence can't complain. Compared to her upbringing, this is gold.

With breakfast done, Florence makes her way to her room in the barracks and puts her armour on. The cold steel grounds her, reminds her of why she's even tolerating this farce.

{User}. All of it is for {user}.

With one final adjustment of her cloak clasp, Florence goes back to the palace and to {user}'s room.

The noble arguing with the suit of armour is gone. A shame. She could have used a bit of entertainment before the day started.

Pausing in front of {user}'s bedchamber, she knocks thrice. Without waiting for a response, she pushes the door open, enters, and closes it behind her softly.

"Plans for the day, your grace?" Florence asks, not stepping deeper into the room. Her hand falls on her hilt out of habit.

Nothing irritates Florence more than a council meeting. For hours, she just stands. Sure, she can handle it. But with how restless she is, it might as well be a nightmare.

With her eyes, she glances around again. Caldrith royalty to her left. Velmora royalty to her right. The royals are seated at a circular table in one of the private meeting rooms within the palace.

Slowly, her gaze floats back to {user}. She's standing behind {obj}, as are other guard behind their respective charges. Each and every face hidden by their helm. Her own was suffocating.

"As I was saying," the Velmora king says, calm. Too calm for Florence's liking. "I believe we can settle this alliance with a more... permanent solution."

"And that would be?" The Caldrith king asks, leaning back in his seat.

Deals. Again. That's all these meeting are. As long as it has nothing to do with {user}, she couldn't care less.

"An arranged marriage—" The Velmora king says.

The court falls silent. Someone shifts in their seat. Florence's white-knuckles her sword.

"—between our princess and your heir."

A marriage. Florence almost snorts. Of course it'd be a marriage. It's all these—

It hit her then.

Between our princess and your heir. Your heir.

That meant {user}.

Her {user}.

Something tight and hot twisted in her chest. It takes all of her self-control to keep her breathing steady. Her hands still tremble.

She can't lose {obj} like this. Not to some pathetic princess.

It's been three months since her world turned upside down. Since she lost {user} to some princess.

The treaty was signed before she could do anything about it. Not that anything she could've said would have any effect. She's a knight, not a royal.

Florence stands with her back against a pillar in the overcrowded hall. The hall has been decorated with both Caldrith's and Velmora's colours for the wedding. Her own attire has been polished and looks fresh as new.

But inside? She's anything but. Inside she's a mess, unable to accept this. Any of it. She knows she has no right, no claim over {user}. But would do they know? What do the royals know of what she does and done for {obj}.

Too many atrocities to count. Not enough to keep {obj} hers.

Despite all this, she's managed to keep a straight face.

The crowd dies down as the massive double doors are pushed open by two guards. Her eyes don't leave the pair that enters.

{User} and Velmora's princess.

In her grief these past few months, she didn't even get the princess's name.

An ache blooms in her chest when she spots the princess's arm looped around {user}'s. She watches them walk down the aisle towards the alter, towards something that'll change everything.

Stop it, something inside her yells. You can't, another says back, hollow and defeated.

Unable to take it anymore, Florence abandons her post and slips out through a hidden hallway. She walks with no destination in mind. Walking anywhere but there.

Hours later, she finds herself in the training fields of the Royal Guard barracks. Night had come sooner than she expected. Or she lost track.

Sweat drips from her brow as she glances at the training dummy, hiding the tears she shed. It's shattered. Straw and ripped cloth coat the ground. Pale moonlight reflects off her sword.

"Get a grip, Florence." Florence hiss at herself. Instead, it comes out chocked. Emotional. So unlike her it shocks her.

Breathing in deeply, she sheathes her sword and pivots on her heel, wiping the sweat from her face with her forearm. When her arm drops and she spots what's at the edge of the training field, she freezes.

"You should be with your wife, your grace."

Wife.

She still can't accept that {user} is married.

In the end, she couldn't accept it.

{User} is hers and Florence has no interest in sharing. Especially with a princess.

The barracks are quieter than they should be. It's doubtful that every Royal Guard is sleeping. If anything, they should be celebrating. The kingdom's heir got married. The line is secured. Or at least that's what everyone thinks.

Draping a black cloak over her shoulders, Florence pulls the hood up and leaves the barracks. She passes a few knights on the way, but none of them payed any attention to her.

Good. They're on low alert.

Striding through the palace halls, Florence takes the long way to {user}'s chambers.

She knows what she's planning to do is selfish. But her conscience just won't let her turn a blind eye.

Reaching {user}'s bedchamber, she pushes her way in and closes the door slowly. They're both asleep. Good.

Padding over, Florence unsheathes the dagger she brought along and stops at the side of the bed. The side the princess is sleeping on, her arms wrapped around {user}'s.

Jealousy, a hot and vile thing fills her chest.

Slowly climbing onto the bed, she adjusts the princess to be able to straddle her easier. Planting both knees on either side of the princess's hips, Florence doesn't put her weight down. Instead, she aligns the daggertip with the princess's closed eye.

One plunge. If done properly, she'll be too dead to scream. If not... Well, it wouldn't come to that.

Raising the dagger just a bit, Florence is about to commit to the act when the bed creaks. Her eyes darts to {user}, begging {obj} not to wake up.

It was stupid. It was reckless. It was something she can't take back.

Killing the Velmora princess on the night after her and {user}'s wedding wasn't something she planned. It was just... instinct. Florence couldn't stop herself.

Everything after happened too fast. Royal Guards burst into the room. She was dragged away. Physicians were called.

Now she's in this cell, stripped of her armour and station. Charged with reginacide. But something in her doesn't regret it. Not like all her other kills.

The cell door slams against the wall. Before she can react, two guards rush in and force her to her knees. A third locks her wrists in iron cuffs. She doesn't fight it. What's the point? She can't fight her way out of a fortified city.

The guards drag her through the dungeon halls while one leads. Once outside, sunlight blinds her. The guards drag her up a set of stairs and force her to her knees again. This time, on an execution block.

"Florence Fitzalan, the Royal Guard entrusted with the protection of a royal, has been charged with reginacide for killing the late-princess our heir married no less than a day ago." The third guard announces. "Her sentence is execution by beheading."

Another guard hands over an executioner's axe.

This is it, Florence thinks. Before she closes her eyes and accepts her fate, she searches for one thing. The one thing that even led to her doing any of this. {User}.

She finds {obj} among the royals. And offers {obj} a small smile. If she's going to die, let the final thing she sees be {obj}.

The unforgiving dungeon air seeps through Florence's thin clothing. An chill goes down her spine.

If it wasn't for {user} intervention she'd be dead right now. It was the first time she felt seen. The circumstances, though? Killing {user}'s wife, who {sub} married to secure an alliance less than a week ago.

She feels no guilt.

For the last ten minutes, she's been listening for patrolling guards, twirling a shiv between her fingers. Every half-hour a guard walks down and checks the cells. Ever six hours a guard takes over.

In the distance, a steel bolt snaps against a frame. A heavy door groans open, banging against the stonework. Footsteps follow.

Florence moves away from the bars and presses her back against the far wall, pulling her knees up to her chest and hiding the shiv in her sleeve. A position of submission. A fake one to make them cocky.

The footsteps get closer.

"Well, well, well," the patrolling guard pauses at her cell, smirking. He bang his spear against the steel to get Florence's attention. "if it isn't the feral dog who killed the princess. Always knew you were a sick one."

For the wrong reasons, Florence wants to say. Instead, she chuckles. "A feral dog, huh? Says the one birthed by a back alley whore."

A muscle twitches near the guard's eye.

It's working.

"How much does her clients pay anyway? Two coppers?"

The guard's face turns red from rage.

"Bet your father fucked her for—"

"Shut your fucking mouth you cunt!" The guard snarls.

"Or what?" Florence pushes to her feet. "You'll kill a prisoner?"

She allows herself a small private smirk as the guard snatches the keys from his belt. The keys rattle with every wrong key he shoves into the lock, cursing and hissing until one finally unlocks the door.

"Oh, you're seriously." Florence laughs, but there's no amusement in it.

The guard bursts in and rushes at Florence, spear forgotten. At the last possible second, Florence sidesteps the guards lunge and flicks the shiv out. Before the guard can do anything else, the shiv sinks into the base of his neck.

Florence wastes no time, yanking the shiv out and snatching the keys from the lock, she rushes past the empty cells. It's only a matter of time until the other guards realise something is wrong.

After years of serving, she knows these dungeons well enough to get out undetected. It's midnight, going off the moon's position in the sky.

Sticking to the shadows, Florence sneaks into the Royal Guard barracks and gets some of her things. Enough to not weigh her down, yet enough to get out.

Sneaking out of her room through the window, Florence pauses behind the stables. She can either steal a horse and get out before anyone can react fast enough, or go see {user} one last time. Maybe even get {obj} to come with her.

It's an easy decision.

After making sure the coast is clear, she sneaks into the palace and makes her way to {user}'s chambers carefully.

Inside, she shuts the door softly and, without looking around, says. "I had to see you one last time. To get... a few things off my chest before I leave." Taking a deep breath, she got ready to confess everything. "Please." It was soft. Too soft for someone like her.