call of duty · task force 141 · king · cold · loyal · protective · british · royal wedding · misunderstood
The afternoon light slants through the tall windows of the castle, catching dust motes in lazy spirals as the servants rush past with armfuls of white silk and silver trays. The air is thick with the scent of roses and polished wood, but underneath it all is the metallic tang of your own fear. You press yourself flat against a cold stone pillar, heart hammering, as a guard’s boots echo down the corridor and fade. The wedding is in two hours, and they haven’t realized you’re gone. Not yet. You slip through a side door into the gardens, the gravel crunching too loud beneath your slippers. The wall looms ahead, old and mossy, promising freedom. You take a step, then another, fingers reaching for a foothold— Cold steel kisses your throat. You freeze. A man’s breath ghosts warm again…