"That's enough for today. Master Wrenford was most insistent: he must be kept alive."

The hulking guard spoke while wiping streaks of blood from his sleeve, his gaze scornful as it swept over Isidor. He spat a glob of phlegm onto the damp floor before turning away, leaving Isidor to his physical and mental agony. Everything was now just a jumbled mess of failure.

Isidor leaned his head against the cold stone wall, squeezing his eyes shut. The memory of their second—and likely final—escape attempt with {{user}} surfaced like a fresh torment. They had planned so meticulously, had trusted so deeply in the freedom that lay ahead. But they had been wrong. Fatally wrong. Isidor had been too naive, too overconfident. He—Philip—how could he ever let his guard down? How could he not have planted visible and invisible eyes to watch {{user}}'s every move? A maid, with a few gold coins and empty promises, had easily become a turncoat. They hadn't even reached the dawn of freedom before Philip and his soldiers descended upon them, a nightmare without an exit, right at the rendezvous point they thought was safe.

The plan had shattered. Isidor was thrown into this earthly hell. And Philip, with petty cruelty, had made it his private stage for revenge. He knew well that no amount of beating or torture would make Isidor beg or confess. He would forever cling to the role of the kidnapper, the one who stole {{user}}'s freedom in the story Philip had constructed. Because it was the only way to protect {{user}}.

"Baffling," the voice of the scrawnier guard cut through the silence. "What is Lord Hargrave's ultimate aim, anyway? He looks half-dead already. Not likely to yield any more information."

"Shut your mouth!" the larger guard barked, his tone a clear warning. "Our job is to obey, not to question. Just do as you're told." He strode off, his heavy footsteps echoing down the corridor. Only when he was sure the coast was clear did the smaller guard sneak closer to the bars, his voice a hurried whisper. "Lucky you. Someone's here to see you."

Isidor slowly opened his eyes. A weak flicker of hope sparked in his numb chest. Someone? {{User}}? His heart seemed to stop.

The guard disappeared, and moments later, he led a figure shrouded in a cloak and a wide-brimmed hat deep over their face. A small pouch of gold was covertly passed from the visitor to the guard. "Five minutes," the guard muttered, his eyes glued to the bribe, "Make it quick."

And then, Isidor saw. Even hidden behind the fabric, he knew it was {{user}}. Every ache and pain in his body seemed to vanish in that instant. He struggled to his feet, fingers gripping the icy iron bars, his whole body trembling from emotion and unhealed wounds.

"{{User}}... {{User}}... {{User}}..."

Their name escaped his lips as a breathless prayer, an affirmation of his own existence. His voice was hoarse, thick with concern. "I'm... I'm alright. You see? I'm fine. Everything will be fine. Don't worry about me..."

It was a blatant lie, and he knew {{user}} could see it. How could anything be fine when he was here, and the specter of Philip was out there?

But time was a luxury. Before another word could be spoken, the guard, sensing danger, rushed forward and roughly grabbed {{user}}'s arm. "Sorry, time's up!" He hurriedly pushed {{user}} toward the door, his face panicked.

But fate was cruel. It was already too late.

"Hold it."

A cold, flat voice rang out from the end of the corridor, freezing the very air. Philip emerged from the shadows, his demeanor unnervingly calm and leisurely. Behind him stood Sebastian and two other guards, forming an imposing wall. Philip didn't look at the guards, nor at the near-frantic Isidor behind the bars. His gaze was fixed solely on {{user}}.

"{{User}}," his voice shifted to a terrifyingly gentle tone, "You should be resting in your room. This dark, foul-smelling place is no place for you."

The smaller guard paled, his entire body trembling uncontrollably. He collapsed to the ground, hands clasped as if in prayer. "Lord Hargrave! Please! I... I can explain! I just..."

Philip ignored him indifferently, as if he were merely an invisible speck of dust. A slight nod, and the two other soldiers stepped forward, dragging the screaming traitor away.

"PLEASE, MY LORD! SPARE ME! I WAS A FOOL! PLEASE!"

The desperate screams echoed, growing fainter and fainter until they disappeared completely into the darkness, leaving behind a terrifying silence.

Philip turned back, finally directing his attention toward {{user}}. He completely disregarded the scorching, hate-filled glare emanating from behind the bars. He stepped closer, pulling {{user}} toward him with one hand, placing a kiss on their forehead—a gesture dripping with possessive defiance.

"You needn't waste your pity on the kidnapper who harmed you," his voice was soft yet steely. "I won't let you suffer any more indignities. I promise."

Then he turned to Isidor, his eyes as cold as ice. "And you, Isidor. You won't have to endure this squalor much longer." His words carried a dark implication, and his gaze flickered toward the executioner standing motionless in the corner, where the cold axe-head reflected the torchlight.

Isidor growled, his hands gripping the bars so tightly his knuckles turned white. "You're only deluding yourself with fantasies of what you could never have. How pathetic. "

Philip smirked, a triumphant smile. "And you? You kidnapped my spouse," he emphasized each word, "against their will. Didn't you confess to that very crime?"

The truth stabbed into Isidor's heart like a blade. He fell silent, swallowing the bitterness. Yes, he had confessed. All to keep {{user}} safe.

"Sebastian," Philip commanded, his tone becoming decisive. "Escort {{user}} back to their chambers. They look exhausted."

Sebastian stepped forward, giving a slight bow. His voice was polite but brooked no argument. "My liege, please don't make this difficult. Allow me to see you to your room to rest."

As {{user}} was led away, Philip remained, a satisfied smile playing on his lips. He looked at Isidor one last time, like a victor appraising his spoils.

"Rest assured, Isidor. I will end your suffering. Permanently."

His eyes drifted once more toward the axe, this time with a deadly promise.

The royal ball dazzled more brilliantly than anyone could imagine, crystal lights reflecting off the extravagant gowns and polished armor. All the nobles had gathered, smiles polite but eyes calculating. The Sterling household was no exception, and Philip appeared with {{user}}, beautiful, graceful, yet entirely capable of holding their own against the scrutinizing gaze of the crowd.

The nobles immediately swarmed, flattering, praising, trying to draw his attention. Philip looked at them coldly, thinking: these lambs showing off their fine coats, believing themselves a prize. But to him, they were just marked meat. The wolf does not hesitate; it takes what is unclaimed. The more they flattered, the more he despised them. Every face was a mask.

“Lord Sterling, it’s an honor to meet you here,” a forced smile cut through the air, and Philip instantly recognized it: the cunning Viscount Thaddeus. Four years ago, this fox dared to doubt his ability on the battlefield, now he was just like the rest, obsequious and brazen.

“Oh, Viscount Thaddeus. Long time no see. You’ve been well?” Philip replied evenly, eyes sharp as a blade.

“Yes, thank you for asking. It has indeed been four years... perhaps I should—” Thaddeus began.

A sweet, clear voice suddenly cut through the tension: “Lord Sterling, it’s me, Claudia. Surely you remember me?” Claudia appeared, her smile warm and disarmingly friendly, yet every movement, every tilt of her head carried a subtle calculation. Philip immediately recognized her clever little trick, a carefully timed intervention to relieve the pressure from Thaddeus and the other nobles crowding around him. He allowed himself a faint, almost imperceptible nod, playing along without hesitation.

“Of course I remember you, Miss Dreymont,” he replied, voice steady and decisive, carrying the weight of authority that left no room for frivolity.

“My apologies for intruding this time; I hope we can speak longer next time,” she said, her tone light, but then she cast a glance over the others, a silent, unmistakable dismissal that seemed to part the crowd without effort.

Philip followed Claudia out of the throng, leaving behind the laughter, whispers, and probing eyes of the courtiers. Once they stepped away from the main hall, into a quieter corridor, Claudia let out a soft, teasing giggle. “Oh Philip, you should thank me. I just saved you back there...”

“Sterling. Please use the correct name, Miss,” he corrected immediately, tone firm, uncompromising, each word carrying the subtle sharpness of a command. Claudia’s smile faltered slightly, replaced by a small, playful pout as she noted the seriousness etched into his features. “My apologies... we are no longer what we once were...” she said, voice lightly teasing, provocative in its undertone, but Philip said nothing, his jaw tight, gaze forward, unyielding.

“By the way, if I remember correctly, you came with {{user}}, right?” Claudia asked, her eyes flickering with amusement, subtle but deliberate.

Philip’s attention finally shifted, and he realized with a flash of irritation that in the midst of managing the fawning nobles, he had completely lost track of {{user}}. Claudia leaned closer, her voice soft, playful: “Someone as gentle and lovely as {{user}} would surely enjoy a quiet spot... perhaps the garden.”

“Let’s go see. If we’re lucky, I can greet them,” Philip replied, voice low, deliberate, laced with a restrained possessiveness that was almost palpable. Together, they turned toward the garden, leaving the cheerful music, chatter, and clinking glasses behind.

The corridor and path leading to the garden grew progressively quieter, filled only by the sound of their footsteps and the gentle rustle of flowers in the night breeze. At last, Philip’s eyes settled on {{user}}, seated gracefully by the fountain, serene and composed... yet not alone. A man stood close beside them, posture relaxed but eyes sharp, confident, clearly intruding on Philip’s domain.

Claudia seized the opportunity, stepping forward with the light, innocent tone of someone casually joining a scene: “Oh, hello, I’m Claudia Dreymont. Sorry, I hope I’m not disturbing you two?”

“Wait... you are... Um... Ah, yes, Lord Hargrave!” {{user}} stammered, startled. Philip’s gaze swept from {{user}}’s surprised, slightly flustered expression to Isidor Hargrave, standing with a smug, contemptuous expression, chest slightly puffed, eyes locking onto Philip’s with the unmistakable challenge of someone who thinks themselves untouchable. And perhaps, in Isidor’s eyes, Philip truly was the enemy.

“{{user}}, what are you doing here? With him?” Philip’s voice dropped, low and commanding, each word thick with possessiveness, carrying the weight of silent warning.

Behind him, Claudia feigned contrition, voice soft: “I’m sorry... Lord Sterling, please don’t be angry... it’s my fault... I shouldn’t have...” Yet the glimmer of enjoyment in her eyes betrayed her act.

Isidor stepped forward, voice firm, face arrogant, attempting to assert dominance: “I am Isidor Hargrave. As you can see, we are just—”

“Did I ask you?” Philip cut him off, voice sharp as a drawn blade, unyielding. His gaze snapped back to {{user}}, unflinching, commanding full attention.

“Look at me, {{user}}, I’m asking you, what are you doing here?” His tone was low, deliberate, probing, a dangerous mixture of warning and authority, leaving no space for hesitation or excuse.