Jacques jolted awake, every nerve firing as he registered the blade inches from his face, its sharp edge gleaming in the faint light.

His breath caught in his throat, a gasp stifled by the sheer shock of waking to cold steel rather than the gentle dawn. Heart pounding, he lay frozen, his body entangled in bed sheets that suddenly felt like restraints. Around him stood a circle of golden knights, their armour polished to an unsettling brilliance, making them seem almost inhuman, statues carved from the Gods’ wrath and judgement. Each visor stared down at him, still and silent.

At their forefront was Prince Luis, his sword drawn and pointed directly at Jacques. His eyes, usually sharp and calculating, now blazed with unrestrained anger, an intensity leaving Jacques feeling as though the prince could strike at any moment.

But it was Princess Sofia’s face his eyes stuck to, a terrifying picture gripping onto Jacques’ heart like a living thing. Just hours before, she was as warm as a fireplace, laughing in his company as they shared stories and stolen glances. Now, she looked like someone else entirely, someone he scarcely recognised. Her face was drawn taut with fury, her usually soft features hardened, her eyes narrowed and shadowed. Her lips, once a soft line of amusement, were now pressed into a hard, unforgiving slash. The rise and fall of her chest, visible even beneath the ornate fabric of her blood-stained gown, told him she was barely holding herself together. Jacques tried to swallow, but his throat had gone dry, paralysed by the princess’s simmering rage.

'Princess,' Jacques managed to croak, his voice scratchy and thick with the remnants of sleep. 'I would call this a pleasant surprise, but I don’t see what’s pleasant about it.'

His eyes flicked around the room, the walls closing in with every heartbeat, confirming that he was indeed surrounded. One wrong move, one slight twitch, and they’d cut him down without hesitation.

A prickling fear rose within him. What have I done?

Princess Sofia moved forward, her steps deliberate, the soft rustle of her dress the only sound breaking the silence. Jacques’s breath hitched as he noticed something glinting in her hand. A weapon—long, slender, familiar.

As she stepped closer, he could see the murderous gleam in her eyes, a fury striking him to the core, turning his blood to ice. Her stare alone could turn him to ash. His instincts screamed to flee, but there was nowhere to run. No one would dare oppose her command. He was trapped in this royal lion’s den, utterly at her mercy.

Is she going to kill me right here and now? he thought, panic clawing up his spine. Why? His mind scrambled, trying to grasp at any explanation. What in the hell have I done?

Sofia’s grip tightened on the hilt, and she lifted the blade so the ridge was level with his eye. 'Recognise it?' she hissed, her voice low and laced with venom. Her eyes didn’t waver, daring him to deny what was right in front of him.

Jacques squinted, his head still foggy. As his vision cleared, his blood turned to ice. There, on the blade, was the crown emblem of Brandy Shore—a symbol unmistakably tied to him, to his house, his status, his very identity. And beneath it, stamped into the metal, were some initials: J and R. My initials. My sword.

'How in the depths of hell did you get hold of that?' he stammered, his mind reeling, unable to reconcile how his personal weapon had ended up here, in her hands.

A flicker of something dark twisted across Sofia’s face. 'So you do recognise it?' she snapped, her voice a burning whisper cutting through the air between them.

'It’s my blade, yes. How did you get hold of it?'

'Don’t act like you don’t know!' Sofia screamed, her voice breaking through the air like a crack of thunder, her fury blazing as hot as wildfire. She was trembling now, her whole body taut with rage. He could see the muscles in her jaw flexing, her hands shaking as she gripped the sword, her chest heaving with the force of her breathing. This was not the poised princess he’d known. This was a woman scorned, a woman betrayed.

'You gave Eduardo Jeffro, one of my father’s most trusted guards, this sword,' she spat, her words dripping with accusation. 'To kill my father, the King of Eastamere.' Her voice broke, her shiny eyes staring into nothing. Her lips trembled, as if a thousand words wanted to pour out of them, but her eyes remained cold and unwavering, filled with unrelenting wrath. 'What did you promise him? Land? Gold? Jewels? What was your price?'

Jacques’ stomach dropped, his mind whirling with disbelief. Her words were like knives, each one sinking deeper, tearing at the foundations of everything he knew. Kill King Geraldo? The accusation was ludicrous. It had to be. But her face held nothing but certainty, a truth he could not yet comprehend.

Jacques forced himself to speak, though his voice was faint, unsteady. 'Your father is dead?' The question escaped him in a whisper, as if even speaking it aloud was a transgression. The room spun, a suffocating weight pressing down on him as the implications took hold. The king—dead. And somehow, impossibly, it was his sword, his very name, bound to the act.

'The things you said to me, about you, about Aubery…' Sofia’s voice fractured, a glimmer of tears pooling in her eyes before she shook her head, biting back her grief. 'Was that all a lie?'

Jacques stared back at her, his heart thudding like a war drum in his chest, disbelief freezing his mind. 'What in the bloody hell are you talking about?'

Sofia’s expression only hardened further, her fingers clenching around the hilt of his sword as if daring him to challenge her again.

Jacques felt himself reeling, trying to make sense of this nightmare. Just hours ago, he had been on Sunrise’s deck under the stars, baring his soul, his darkest secret, to the woman he intended to marry, the woman he would’ve entrusted with his heart. He had spoken of his past, of Aubery, of the choices he regretted and the path he’d walked. And now, the very sword his father had made for him hovered menacingly close to his face.

A sickening realisation crept over Jacques’ back, chilling his blood. If King Geraldo was truly dead, and it was murder, then someone had carefully orchestrated this scene to implicate him. The thought turned his stomach. A third war— his mind staggered at the possibility. Not another war, not after the last one. The memory of blood-soaked battlefields, of childhood innocence lost and people slain, crashed over him like a wave. The land had barely begun to heal from the last war’s ravages; they couldn’t survive another.

His thoughts abruptly shattered as the door burst open, slamming against the wall. Jacques snapped his head toward the sound, his pulse spiking as a guard shoved Sir Finn Alisser into the room. Finn’s hands were bound, his normally proud posture reduced to a grim, defeated stance, and his beloved trident was clutched in the guard’s grip.

Jacques’ heart plummeted, sinking like a stone to the pit of his stomach. Panic scratched at the edges of his composure, threatening to consume him. He forced himself to look into Sofia’s eyes again, hoping against hope there might still be some fragment of trust there, something he could grasp to explain his innocence.

'Look, you’ve made a mistake.' His tone was calm, almost too calm for a man whose life hung by the thinnest of threads. His eyes flickered between the faces of the golden knights surrounding him, each one of them primed to strike at Sofia’s command. He could feel the weight of their hostility, the lethal intent in their stances, their hands gripping their swords so tightly he could see the whites of their knuckles.

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'I am not a murderer!' Jacques continued, his words deliberate. 'I had nothing to do with this!'

Sofia thrust the blade closer, close enough he could feel the cold bite of its edge. 'Then explain this,' she demanded. 'Why would this sword be here if you weren’t involved?'

Jacques took a deep breath, forcing himself to meet her glare head-on. He sighed, his patience wearing thin as the absurdity of the accusation grated on him. 'Only an idiot would arm an assassin with his own blade,' he said, his voice ringing out into the silence. 'What, you think I like digging my own grave? What sort of fool do you take me for?'

The room fell into a tense quiet, the only sound the slow, rhythmic thudding of Jacques’ own pulse in his ears. For a brief moment, he saw something shift in Sofia’s expression. Her fury wavered, doubt flickering in her eyes as his words seemed to pierce through her anger. Her hand, which had been so rigid around the sword hilt, faltered, and the blade lowered a fraction.

'I…' she began, her voice uncertain, eyes searching the empty space as if seeking answers from the air. But then her jaw tightened, and a spark of defiance reignited in her gaze. She steeled herself, her lips pressing into a thin line. 'I take you for nothing but a murderer,' she bit out, the words harsh.

'Then take my head and be done with it! You seem to have already made up your mind!'

The echo of Jacques’ words hung in the room, a challenge that cut through the thick tension. He could still feel every eye on him, each knight bracing, awaiting Sofia’s next command. But Jacques could also see the flicker of uncertainty in Sofia’s eyes, the conflict raging behind her mask of anger and grief. She held the power to end him right there, but something—some small remnant of the trust they’d shared—seemed to hold her back, however faint. The room lay suspended in a taut silence, each second stretching unbearably, as they all waited to see if the next word from the queen’s lips would be his death sentence or his reprieve.

Lord Serben crept forward and laid a hand on the princess’ tense shoulder. His hand lingered there, his voice low and steady, his words barely audible over the tense silence in the room. 'Your Majesty,' he whispered, his gaze flickering briefly toward Jacques, 'perhaps it would be wise to speak with him another time. I fear grief is clouding your judgement.'

A fury coiled itself tightly around Jacques’ chest, his anger bubbling to the surface. 'Oh, I see,' Jacques snarled, his voice cutting through the silence like a blade. 'Yes, shut me up right as I start making sense. Perhaps, Your Majesty, you might consider Lord shadow-on-your-shoulder over there. Or does the snake’s counsel come without question?'

'Silence!' Luis snapped, stepping forward and bringing his sword so close to Jacques’s face that he felt the icy kiss of the blade against his cheek. Jacques went rigid, staring down the razor’s edge, his heart pounding in his chest. One wrong move, one inch too far, and he would lose an eye.

Taking a shuddering breath, Jacques fought to rein in his anger. He wouldn’t get out of this alive if he let his rage control him. He forced himself to speak again, his voice softer, tinged with the earnestness of a man quite literally fighting for his life. 'I’m sorry for your father’s death,' he said, his eyes locking onto Sofia’s, pleading for her to see the truth, 'truly, I am. But I swear to you, I’m not responsible. You have to believe me!'

'I don’t,' Sofia whispered, each word a death knell. Her stare bore into him, cutting deeper than any blade. In her eyes, Jacques saw his death—an image of the executioner’s block, the crowd watching as the headman’s axe gleamed in the Eastamerean sunlight, poised to strike. His heart hammered, the sheer finality of her gaze sinking into him with bone-chilling clarity.

A cold sweat trickling down his spine, the room pressing in around him as if the walls themselves were preparing to bury him.

'But I sense an opportunity,' Prince Luis said slowly, his gaze sharp and assessing as he looked at Jacques. He then glanced at his sister, the hint of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. 'We have the chance to avoid war, to prevent needless suffering. If we hold Prince Jacques as our hostage, we can use him as leverage to ensure the Galians never pull a stunt like this again. It’s a way to send a message while still keeping the peace Father would’ve wanted.'

Jacques’s pulse steadied, relief blooming in his chest. Anything was better than death. He forced a smile, turning his gaze to Sofia with as much gratitude as he could muster, hoping it would soften her stance. 'A fine plan,' he said, his voice laced with as much confidence as he could manage.

Lord Serben took a step forward, his hand clasped tight around the hilt of his sword. 'I can think of a better way,' he interjected, his voice a cold knife in the room’s tension. 'Your Majesty, to let your father’s death go unpunished would be an insult to his memory and a weakness. The Galians have already declared war by killing our king. An example must be made.'

'If you kill me, you will definitely start a war!' Jacques shouted, 'My father will rain hell down on you, and all of Eastamere!'

King Rickard would do no such thing. If anything, the death of his delinquent son would bring him no greater pleasure, but Jacques banked on the idea the Princess did not know that. Jacques could only watch and wait for his fate to be decided. Would his head roll in the Eastamerean sun or would he live to see his next birthday, or better still live to see his brother again? He knew Rick wouldn’t stand for this, no matter what their father said. But Rick wasn’t here to help him. Jacques had to handle this himself.

He took a deep breath, his chest tightening as the memory of the sweet girl he’d shared that wine with only moments ago hung heavy in the air. The fire in her eyes, the way her fists clenched at her sides, told him everything he needed to know: she was lost to grief, consumed by the weight of it.

She’s drowning, Jacques thought, and with that realisation, a cold shiver ran down his spine. I can’t antagonise her. Not now. Not like this.

He tried to steady his voice, but it betrayed him—shaky, tight with the threat of everything unravelling. He could feel the tension in the room pressing in on him, suffocating. Calm down, Jacques, you fucking idiot. He cleared his throat, struggling to keep his hands from trembling. 'Look,' he said, the words coming out more strained than he’d intended, 'I’m accused of a crime, and I deny it. If you truly are the queen your father—'

'Don’t.'

The sharpness of Sofia’s interruption cut through the room like a dagger. Her voice cracked, raw with heart-wrenching grief. The blaze of anger in her gaze, the kind he had never seen in her before, made his heart lurch. It was the first time she had truly looked at him like this—not as a stranger, but as a genuine threat.

'Don’t mention my father.'

Jacques froze, a cold knot tightening in his gut. He’d gone too far. Sofia’s grief, a gnawing, hollow thing that seemed to grow with every passing second, pressed down on him like a weight he couldn’t escape. He could almost feel his own heartbeat hammering in his throat, the pulse loud in his ears. If I don’t guard my tongue now…

The thought flickered through his mind as he caught a glimpse of his own reflection in her eyes—dead. The image of his head rolling across the floor flashed before him, and the cold chill of reality settled into his bones.

One wrong word, he thought, his throat going dry, and I’m as good as dead.

His mouth was dry, but he swallowed the rising panic, forcing his voice to stay steady. 'If you truly seek justice,' Jacques said carefully, each word weighed and measured, 'then I suggest you give me a trial and a chance to prove my innocence.'

Silence.

The room held its breath. The air felt thick, buzzing with anticipation, like the moments before a storm. Jacques felt the eyes of the men in the room burning into him—eyes that flicked between Sofia and him, as if the very air they shared could tear them apart.

The new queen remained motionless, her face unreadable. For a fleeting second, she looked anywhere but at him, her gaze darting desperately towards her brother and Lord Serben.

Prince Luis, still gripping his sword, had his focus split between the two of them, his knuckles white, the point of his blade dropping slowly towards the wooden floor. His posture wasn’t as threatening anymore, but the tension in his body was a constant reminder that everything here was teetering on the edge.

Sofia’s eyes finally met his again, filled with an uncertainty so stark it almost broke him. She’s lost, I can see it in her eyes, he thought, but she’s still the queen. She holds my life in her hands.

'I will get to the bottom of this,' Sofia said, her breath trembling as she fought to keep her composure. 'In the interest of justice, I will grant your request. You and Sir Finn will get a trial after my father’s funeral. If you both are found innocent, the wedding will go ahead as planned and I will issue you both a formal apology.'

Jacques heard the words, but they sounded distant, as though she were speaking from the other side of a great chasm. The funeral. Her father. The weight of that grief hung between them, a chasm he couldn’t hope to cross.

Jacques’ eyes flicked towards the door, where the looming figure of Lord Serben still lingered like a shadow. The man’s very presence in the room felt like an unspoken threat, and Jacques couldn't shake the feeling that he was already a step behind, too late. The odds were astronomical—two foreigners accused of regicide, in a kingdom ripe for taking.

But he had no choice. He couldn’t run, couldn’t hide. Not if he didn’t want to be buried beneath the weight of his own guilt. If he fled, he'd be confirming the very crime they accused him of. His only hope was Sofia.

'But if you are found guilty,' Sofia said, her words biting into the air like ice, 'I’ll have both of your heads. Starting with you, Jacques.'