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“They know who we are,” Rollant said bluntly. “The Duke is gone, and we’re hours behind schedule. The longer we stay, the more danger we’re in.”

Pierre piped in. “You suggest we continue? How? They took the carriage.”

“I could get it back,” Rollant said with a tight jaw, “but the men guarding it will die.“ He glanced at Louis, who had sat silently through the entire night’s exchange.

“But we would not have any soldiers to protect us the rest of the way. It is another day and a half ride to Montmédy,” Maxime said.

“And that’s if we don’t have any more events,” Rollant interjected. “Some towns may not be as civil as this one.”

Louis glanced at his sleeping family. “Do I put them in harm’s way, more so than I already have?” he muttered.

Rollant leaned forward. “They will be in harm’s way in either decision.”

The king closed his eyes. “Are we sure the town’s prosecutor knows who we are?”

Rollant, Maxime, and Pierre glanced at each other. Maxime answered, “No, but we are also not sure they don’t know.”

Louis leaned back in his chair and lifted his face to the ceiling. “We will wait until the morning, pray they only require paperwork, and we can be on our way.” He sighed. “No more bloodshed. We will be civil until we can no longer be civil.”

Rollant dipped his head, knowing Louis’ hope was misplaced. “Then, my king, you will need sleep.”

Once Louis was in bed with his family, Rollant turned to the two men.

Maxime’s face was pale, but his eyes were wide.

Pierre shifted and looked around the attic room.

Rollant didn’t need to hear their words; he knew their fear of being found out and dying a traitor’s death.

But they also knew—it wasn’t just about them anymore.

“I will take the blame if it comes to it,” Maxime said quietly.

Rollant shook his head, his voice cold as steel. “No. I am Captain. It is my responsibility. Now, get some rest. I doubt much will transpire this evening, but be alert in the morning.”

Maxime and Pierre retired to the floor and tried to sleep after a full 24 hours without rest. Rollant nestled by the door, his back against the frame. He closed his eyes, but élise found him there.

Her red scarf framed her dark tresses as she leaned close and brushed her lips against his.

“Monster,” she whispered with tears glistening in her eyes.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, trying to reach for her as she faded into the shadows of his dreams.

* * *

Morning came with the arrival of the Paris National Guard and constituents of the National Assembly. The royal family was discovered, their aliases meaningless. They were forced into the carriage to be returned to Paris as guards seized Rollant, Maxime, and Pierre.

The town’s prosecutor’s verdict was swift. “Hang the conspirators,” he ordered once the royal family had departed.

But Rollant smirked with a bitter grin as they threw the noose around his neck in the town square. “Let these men go,” he told the prosecutor. “These two are hired help. They didn’t know the royal family was in the carriage, nor the truth of its mission. I acted alone. They are innocent.”

The prosecutor hesitated as the noose was tightened around Rollant’s neck. The townspeople who gathered to witness the executions murmured among themselves about killing innocent men until, finally, the prosecutor relented.

“I will believe you for now, Monsieur, but you two will be held for further questioning,” the prosecutor said. Maxime and Pierre were untied and escorted elsewhere. They both glanced over their shoulder at Rollant as if to thank him.

“Any last words?” the prosecutor asked.

He smiled in sorrow. He’d never have to worry about last words.

The ache and burn in the chest always lingered after hangings.

He much preferred a bullet to the head or heart and, if bullets were not available, a swift and sure blade to the neck.

He just hoped they would put him in the coffin after his body healed.

Clawing out of a grave would take a long time.

The lever was pulled at his silence, and Rollant fell through the trapdoor at the crowd’s cheer.

It all faded, and his chest burned with the memories of many deaths. His body still ached with the aftershocks of the noose tightening around his throat, and for a moment, he thought he was still trapped in the suffocating darkness.

But then, the air—cool and damp—flooded his lungs in jagged breaths. A streak of sunlight slipped through the coffin lid, cutting across his face, but stopped cold at his throat as though mocking his execution. The coffin lid was ajar, not yet nailed shut.

He pushed against the cold wood, his hands shaking, his heart pounding as he gasped for breath. Still recovering from a full rebirth, his limbs were stiff as he freed himself. He slid the lid back into place and pressed it close before slinking into the shadows with slow and silent steps.

“Let them bury an empty box and celebrate their so-called justice,” he muttered. They’d see that swift trials and executions would leave many innocents dead. He’d seen it before, and it was bound to happen again.

His mind clung to his mission: return to the king, his eternal duty, and élise.

The thought of her flickered like a dim lantern in his chest, faint and far away.

He would be closer to her now—close enough to see her, close enough to remember what he could never have.

But as he disappeared into the darkness, he realized with grim clarity that eternity was not the curse.

The curse was living forever without her.