The punishment for treason was death. Every Parisian and Frenchman knew that. After prolonged torture in the dingy cells of the city's prison, the accused would be paraded through the streets of Paris to the jeering and shouts of the crowds, on a rickety cart, their company only that of a solemn priest. When they reached the city centre, thousands of people would gather to watch the criminal's dying moments. Ordinary people- mothers, soldiers, beggars and nobles alike came to delight in the spilling of crimson over the old cobbled streets of Paris. People who were usually so courteous, so quiet, raced to the gallows, baying for accused's blood like ravenous wolves. The audience would hold an apprehensive, collective breath as the convict was forced upon the raised platform, a macabre stage in the centre of the theatre of Paris. You could hear the ravens cry in the moments before the execution, a hungry wail slicing the silence of the crowd. And when the axe was dropped, the blood spilled, the justice delivered, the crowd would erupt into cheers and shouts. The ravens would watch closely, spying for the right moment to swoop down and feast on their fresh prey. The body would be dumped in an unmarked grave, over which grass would grow and children would play. Over time the people of Paris would be given another execution to quench their blood lust, and events would begin over again. It was a common occurrence in Paris.

That was not what Florence Durrand wanted for Aramis. He had wronged her, certainly, and committed the highest act of treason save for killing the king himself, but Florence knew that however much he had hurt her, she still loved Aramis and couldn't bear for any harm to come to him. She knew that Aramis had literally put his (and the Queen's) life in her hands by telling her his secret. Aramis had entrusted his whole future and reputation in Florence and she was adamant she would not let him down. She would tell no one of what Aramis told her on that day in the Dauphin's bedchamber. Being the King's niece, she had certain allegiances, and had to live by them… but her loyalty to Aramis outweighed her loyalty to the King. On coming to the palace, the last thing she had expected to do was to fall in love. Florence was the youngest of many, so her parents had focussed more on marrying off her siblings into wealth and power than they had on her. This had left Florence alone in the world, cast over for prettier, older sisters. The last thing she had ever expected was for anyone to fall in love with her, let alone the handsome, brave soldier who made her heart leapt every time she saw him.

Rain battered against her window, startling Florence from her deep contemplation. The night outside was an opaque purple, only a sliver of the evening sky visible and quickly dissolving against the unending mass. Shadows leapt around the courtyard under her window, blurred by the rain dripping down her window like translucent blood. There was a knock at her door.

"A letter for you, My Lady." The steward promptly handed her an envelope and vanished into the dim gloom of the corridor.

She shut the door quickly behind her and wasted no time in opening the letter.

Three simple words were written down on the paper.

The Alcove. Eleven.

Florence knew that hand anywhere. Opening the her door tentatively to check the coast was clear, she slipped out of her room, down the corridor and into the night.


Athos was sat, hunched over a map with only a flickering candle to see by. The night crept in through the small window, but the moon was dim that night and gave Athos little light to work by. He added a quick note to one side of the map, but the pen leaked and dark ink spread across the page, enveloping everything in blanket of thick blackness, surging forwards like a slowly cascading pool of blood from a fresh wound. Athos lashed out and screwed the map up, tossing it on the fire in a fit of rage. He got up and poured himself another drink, downing it in one. His head was spinning. Shapes in the room began to convulse into inhuman objects and Athos needed to hold himself up on the wooden table in order to stay upright. Darkness had started to gather at the edges of his eyes and he had begun to fall when he felt strong hands on his arm, pulling him up.

"Easy there, Athos!" he heard D'Artagnan's voice from behind him. "I think you've had one too many, and it won't be there first time!"

Athos tried to mumble something incoherent and struggle to be free, but D'Artagnan had a firm grasp on his arm.

"Let's get you upstairs."

Porthos heard the D'Artagnan's forceful but soothing voice and Athos' mumbled protests fade as they made their way upstairs. He was suddenly left alone. His eyes caught a glimpse of something in the dying embers of the fireplace. He gently lifted it up out of the weak flames and dropped it on the floor. Kneeling down, he smoothed the smouldering paper out. Despite it being tossed in the fire, it hadn't burnt much, and Porthos could just about make out the vague shape on the map and notes scrawled around it. He knew these notes well enough. Porthos sat back on his heels, and his face dropped. His eyes stared despairingly ahead as realisation spread through him like a sinking anchor.

Athos was planning to attack Spain.