The door rattled, the unmistakable clink of chains sending a chill down Tristan’s spine. His heart rate increased as the door creaked open, and before he could utter a word, the sharp tip of a saber slid through the opening, gleaming in the faint light.
He froze, his breath catching in his throat. Every instinct screamed at him to react, but the sudden presence of the weapon held him still, the cold steel mere inches from his chest. Whoever held that blade had the upper hand, and Tristan knew better than to provoke them without understanding the situation.
“Get out,” a voice commanded from the shadows outside the coach, low and unfamiliar. The figure holding the saber remained hidden from view, but the tone left no room for argument.
Tristan swallowed hard, carefully raising his hands in a gesture of submission. He moved slowly, his muscles tense, sliding toward the edge of the seat. His mind raced, searching for an explanation, a plan—anything—but all he could do was comply for now. As he stepped down from the carriage, his gaze darted toward the mysterious figure standing just beyond the door.
This was no accident, no out-of-control coach. He was caught in something far darker, and escape, for the moment, seemed impossible.
“Mark my words, my lord, one wrong move and I’ll slice this blade clean through you.”
A figure cloaked in a hooded black cape stood in the doorway, their face concealed in deep shadows. Tristan blinked, momentarily taken aback by the strangeness of it all. The person before him had spoken with a voice that seemed too young for someone so threatening.
Despite the menacing situation, Tristan couldn’t shake the suspicion that his captor might not be a full-grown man at all. The tone—sharp, commanding—lacked the depth and weight of a seasoned adult. Instead, it carried the unmistakable timbre of a lad on the cusp of manhood, just shy of full maturity.
Tristan’s mind whirled. Was he really being held at saber-point by a mere boy? It seemed absurd, yet here he stood, the cold tip of the weapon inches away, his freedom slipping through his fingers. He studied the cloaked figure, searching for any other clues, but the hood obscured any defining features.
“What is this about?” Tristan asked, his voice measured but laced with tension. He needed answers, and fast. “You’ve gone to a lot of trouble. What do you want?”
The figure remained silent for a moment, the blade steady, before finally responding, the young voice carrying an unsettling authority. “All in good time. For now, follow me—quietly.”
Tristan’s misgivings deepened. Whoever this was, they were clearly skilled enough to wield fear and authority, despite their youth. Resigned to his fate for the moment, he nodded. The figure motioned toward the dimly lit path leading to the isolated cottage.
“I’ll cooperate,” Tristan replied.
His captor wore the attire of a driver, except the clothes didn’t fit him as well. Even the hat hung low on his forehead, and the brim cast shadows over the occupant’s thin face. Tristan was certain he could overpower this one—yet his captor held a saber in one hand and a pistol in the other.
A gust of wind blew from behind, pushing Tristan forward. Drops of rain fell on him. When had the storm moved in?
“I assure you, my lord, I’m well-schooled in the use of a saber and pistol. One wrong move and it will be your last,” his captor said loudly above the howling wind.
Tristan frowned. The odds of escaping were not in his favor. “I believe you.” And he did. The other man’s hands didn’t tremble like someone who had never done this before. There was confidence in the way he spoke and in his movements.
The lad motioned toward the cottage as he tried to keep his hat from blowing off his head. “Enter.”
Tristan held his hands up in surrender as he walked. He wanted to make the other person aware that he was unarmed and was no threat. “Can you at least tell me why you have taken me? What have I done?”
“You shall know when I want you to know, and not a moment sooner.”
Tristan’s mind raced, trying to piece together why anyone would want to kidnap him. He had lived a mostly unremarkable life, aside from his ill-fated connection to Lord Hollingsworth, who was now dead. He certainly hadn’t made enough enemies to warrant such an elaborate scheme. He wasn’t like his brother, Trey, who had left a trail of broken hearts and scandal in his wake. Tristan’s only notable downfall, as of late, was his growing reputation as a drunk.
As Tristan stepped inside the small cottage, the door creaking shut behind him, he swept his gaze across the room, taking in every detail with practiced precision. The interior was modest but carried the unmistakable warmth of a lived-in space. Faded, patterned rugs overlapped across the wooden floor, softening the sound of his boots as he moved forward. The scent of burning wood mingled with the faint tang of herbs, as though someone had recently brewed tea that still lingered in the air.
A few lamps were scattered strategically around the room, their flames flickering lazily and casting golden halos of light onto the walls. Shadows danced across the wooden beams of the ceiling, creating an almost hypnotic rhythm as the light shifted with the crackling fire in the hearth. The fire was robust, its glow casting a comforting warmth that Tristan could feel even from where he stood. Above the mantel, a few simple trinkets sat—a wooden clock ticking quietly, a ceramic vase filled with dried lavender, and a stack of worn books leaning precariously against one another.
The furniture was functional yet inviting: a well-loved armchair draped with a knitted blanket, its fabric worn smooth in places from years of use, and a small wooden table bearing the faint rings of long-forgotten teacups. The walls were lined with shelves containing mismatched books, jars of dried herbs, and small knickknacks that suggested someone had taken time to make this place a home. It wasn’t opulent or grand, but it had an understated charm, as though the space itself breathed familiarity and routine.
A flicker of hope sparked within Tristan as he took it all in. This wasn’t the cold, barren hideout of a killer plotting his demise. No, this place carried the marks of someone who lived here day after day, tending the fire, sipping tea, and reading by lamplight. That detail, however small, made his pulse steady for the first time since the chains had rattled on the coach door. If his captors intended to kill him, surely they wouldn’t have brought him to a place like this. Or so he desperately hoped. His instincts had failed him before—but tonight, he prayed they wouldn’t.
However, any comfort he took from the cottage’s atmosphere was tempered by the cold tip of the saber pressing against his back, reminding him that he wasn’t in control. His breath hitched as the weapon prodded him toward a single wooden chair positioned in the middle of the room. Every nerve in his body screamed to resist, to fight back, but the blade against his spine kept him compliant.
He reached the chair, and, without a word, the figure behind him gave a final nudge with the saber. Reluctantly, Tristan lowered himself into the seat, still scanning the room for any sign of who might be behind this strange ordeal.
“Now what?” he asked, his voice betraying more frustration than fear.
The hooded figure stepped around him, still keeping their face obscured. “You’ll find out soon enough,” they said, their young voice carrying an unsettling calm.
The lad walked behind him, tied his hands and legs with a rope before standing again, and then moved in front of Tristan.
