Gabriel's POV
Yale was supposed to be the start of something great. Four years of busting my ass on the football field, keeping my grades high enough to stay eligible, and dreaming about the NFL draft. Graduation was only a few weeks away, and the pressure had been crushing. So when Juan suggested we hit one last blowout party, I said yes.
Juan had changed a lot since freshman year. He used to be the quiet guy who tagged along to my games. Now he walked around campus like he owned it, flashing cash and talking about "connections." He'd picked up two new friends, cousins from his dad's side, he claimed. I'd never heard him mention his father before, but I brushed it off. Everyone reinvents themselves in college.
The party was at a ridiculous mansion just off campus, the kind of place that screamed old money mixed with new excess. We rolled up in Juan's tinted SUV, bass thumping from inside the house before we even opened the doors. Dozens of cars lined the long driveway. People spilled out onto the manicured lawn and some already puking in the bushes, others laughing too loud, passing blunts and bottles like the world was ending tomorrow.
Inside, it was chaos. Red Solo cups everywhere, bodies grinding on a makeshift dance floor, the air thick with weed smoke, sweat, and expensive perfume. I spotted her across the room almost immediately.
Elizabeth.
She stood near the grand staircase like she belonged in a magazine spread. Five-foot-nine with an hourglass figure that made half the room stare, long dark hair cascading down her back, and sharp, intelligent eyes that missed nothing. She was the undisputed queen of our year — business prodigy, heir to her grandfather's sprawling international enterprise. Rumors said she'd been managing stock portfolios since she was fifteen. Guys hit on her constantly. She shot them all down with a polite smile that somehow felt like a blade.
I was no slouch myself. Six-foot-four, blue eyes, strong jaw, and the kind of athletic build that came from years of football — though I'd never quite reached the DK Metcalf-level physique I wanted. Steroids were off the table if I wanted any shot at the draft. Still, I turned heads.
Our eyes met. She tilted her head, a small smirk playing on her lips. Before I knew it, we were talking. Really talking. Not the shallow party bullshit, but actual conversation — about ambition, pressure, the fear of what comes after graduation. She laughed at my dumb football stories. I teased her about being a secret corporate shark. The chemistry was instant, electric.
We drank beer but stayed away from the harder stuff. One thing led to another. Her hand brushed mine, then lingered. Soon we were slipping upstairs, away from the noise.
Her bedroom was on the second floor — huge, elegant, smelling faintly of vanilla candles. The second the door closed, the politeness vanished. We crashed together like starving animals. Clothes hit the floor in a frantic pile. Her skin was warm, soft, and she kissed with surprising hunger. I lifted her easily, pressing her against the wall before we tumbled onto the silk sheets.
For the next few hours, the party downstairs might as well have been on another planet. Sweat slicked our bodies. She moaned my name like a prayer, nails raking down my back, leaving marks I'd wear proudly. I lost myself in her — the way she arched, the way her breath hitched, the way she looked at me like I was the only real thing in her carefully controlled world.
We went at it like we both knew this night was stolen time. Positions shifted. She rode me with fierce determination, then let me take control again, pinning her wrists above her head. The bed creaked dangerously. Her room filled with the sounds of skin on skin, gasps, and breathless curses.
After what felt like an eternity, we finally collapsed, tangled and spent. Elizabeth rested her head on my chest, tracing lazy patterns across my abs.
"That was… my first time," she whispered, almost shy now that the fire had cooled. "I'm not the type who sleeps with just anyone. I've turned down plenty of guys. But you… you felt different. Real."
I believed her. She had that untouchable reputation for a reason.
I smiled, running fingers through her hair. "Best night of my life, honestly."
Then her expression changed. She glanced down at her stomach with a strange, distant look. A flicker of worry crossed her face.
"Hey," I said, suddenly serious, "you're on the pill, right?"
She didn't answer immediately. Instead, she gave me a small, almost secretive smile and rubbed her belly lightly. My stomach dropped. No condom. That had been reckless as hell.
"Shit. Elizabeth, if anything—"
Gunshots shattered the moment.
Pop. Pop. Pop.
Screams erupted from downstairs. Glass broke. Panic flooded my veins.
I rolled off the bed instantly. "Get dressed. Now."
I shoved her heavy wooden dresser against the door with adrenaline-fueled strength while she scrambled for clothes — whatever was closest in her closet. A hoodie and jeans for her. I yanked on my pants and shirt. More shots. Heavy footsteps on the stairs.
"Window," I ordered, voice low and urgent. "We're on the second floor. I'll jump first and catch you."
We climbed onto the balcony. The drop looked brutal, but football had taught me how to take hits. Below us, shadows moved in the garden.
A voice bellowed from inside the room — familiar, twisted. "This one's locked! Give me the shotgun!" It sounded like Juan.
My blood ran cold.
I jumped. The impact jarred my knees and ankles, but I stayed upright. "Now! Jump, Elizabeth! I've got you!"
She hesitated on the railing, fear plain on her face.
"Hurry!" I shouted.
More gunfire. Wood splintered violently behind her.
"Fuck this," she muttered, then leapt.
I caught her perfectly, staggering but holding firm. We hit the ground running, her hand in mine, hearts pounding.
Pain exploded in my right shoulder — once, twice. Hot fire tore through muscle and bone. I grunted, knees buckling as blood poured down my arm.
"Gabriel!" she screamed.
"Go," I gasped, pushing her forward. "Don't stop."
Darkness swallowed me.
Elizabeth's POV
"Gabriel!"
I dropped beside him, cradling his head in my lap. Blood soaked through my clothes, warm and sticky, mixing with my tears. We had only known each other for one night, but it had felt like more — like a glimpse of something genuine in a life full of calculations, expectations, and loneliness. His easy charisma, those bright blue eyes, the way he listened… it had been real.
I rocked him, sobbing openly. "Please… please don't leave me."
A cruel laugh cut through the night.
I looked up. Juan stood there, pistol dangling casually in his hand, flanked by his two new "cousins" holding shotguns. His face was twisted into something ugly and unrecognizable.
"Juan… why?" My voice broke. "He was your best friend!"
Juan chuckled. "Best friend? Nah. Useful pawn. Your brother sent a very nice sum to make sure you had an unfortunate accident tonight. Pretty boy here was just in the wrong place at the wrong time. Collateral damage."
Rage and horror surged through me. My own brother. The one who had always resented me being the chosen successor to Grandfather's empire.
"You bastard—"
Juan raised the gun.
Third Person
Two shots rang out.
Then silence.
High above the mortal world, in a realm of mist and eternal waters, the Lady of the Lake stirred. Two bright souls, still burning with betrayal and unfulfilled potential, drifted in the void between life and death.
One carried the heart of a warrior. The other, the mind of a ruler.
In these dark times — with Chaos stirring at the borders, greenskins massing in the forests, and doubt creeping even into the hearts of the most faithful knights — Bretonnia needed champions.
The Lady extended her divine will.
Two new lives would be forged in the fires of the Old World.
One born as the heir to the grim, beast-haunted Dukedom of Artois.
The other, a Princess of Couronne, touched by magic deep and wild.
They would remember.
They would change.
And the Old World would tremble at what rose from their second chance.