Edgar's vision swam before slowly dragging itself into focus.
The interior of the carriage was resolved in fragments: dark velvet curtains drawn tight over the windows, lantern light swaying weakly with every jolt of the road, polished wood scuffed by years of use. His wrists burned. Thick rope bound his hands behind his back, sawing against raw skin each time the wheels struck a rut. A coarse strip of cloth was knotted tightly across his mouth, muting any sound he might have made.
He inhaled sharply through his nose and winced as his head fell back against the leather seat. Pain flared behind his eyes, bright and stabbing. His memory offered him nothing useful. Only scattered impressions. Stone. Hands. The taste of metal. Then darkness.
Edgar forced himself to breathe slowly. To think.
This wasn't like him. He was a Wolfenstein. He did not wake bound and helpless in the back of a carriage like common prey.
The ride dragged on, endless and punishing. Each turn sent pain lancing through his shoulder; each bump rattled his skull. Where was he being taken? Who had been reckless enough to attempt this?
As if summoned by the thought, a low chuckle unfurled through the carriage.
Edgar froze.
The sound was intimate. Amused. Too close.
He was not alone.
Across from him, half-swallowed by shadow, something shifted. Two eyes caught the lantern light and reflected it back, deep and wine-dark, watching him with unmistakable interest.
A figure leaned forward. Gloved fingers peeled the curtain back just enough to let moonlight carve sharp lines across a face.
A smirk appeared first. Slow. Deliberate. Enjoying itself.
"Well," the man drawled pleasantly, studying Edgar as one might a particularly intriguing chess piece, "this is usually where people scream."
Edgar snarled behind the gag, jerking uselessly against the ropes.
The man chuckled and reached out, removing the gag with theatrical care.
"Ah," he murmured. "There it is. Those eyes. Gods, I've missed those."
Edgar sucked in air. "Who-" His voice was rough, scraped raw. "Who the hell are you?"
That delighted him.
The stranger's grin widened.
"Oh, how refreshing."
He said softly.
"You truly don't remember."
He stepped closer and set a boot casually on Edgar's thigh, pinning him with effortless confidence. "Allow me, then."
He bowed, shallow and mocking, one hand pressed to his chest.
"Lucien Bastille," he said. "A pleasure."
Edgar lunged. The ropes held. Lucien didn't even flinch.
"Careful." Lucien chided, dragging a finger along Edgar's jaw. "I'd hate for you to concuss yourself before the introductions are finished."
"You drugged me."
Edgar snapped.
"Kidnapped me."
"Again?"
Lucien hummed, tapping his chin.
"No? Ah. Pity. You'll remember eventually."
He shrugged.
"Either way, I'm enjoying myself."
The carriage lurched violently.
Edgar swore as his head struck the wall.
Lucien barely swayed.
"What do you want?"
Edgar demanded.
Lucien's eyes gleamed. "You, obviously." He leaned closer, voice lowering. "But more importantly… what you represent."
The realization slid into place with sickening clarity.
Bastille.
The name alone fractured Europe's balance. The invisible hand behind mercenary pipelines through Switzerland. The architect of black-market arms flooding Bordeaux-controlled territory. A myth, a syndicate, a man whose intelligence network rivaled entire ministries. A destabilizing force capable of tipping the stalemate between Bordeaux and Wolfenstein into open war.
And he had Edgar. The heir. The linchpin.
Lucien watched the understanding dawn, savoring it.
"Oh good," he murmured. "There it is. That beautiful brain."
Edgar's stomach twisted, fury and something colder knotting together.
"You're insane."
Lucien laughed, bright and delighted.
"Undeniably."
The carriage slowed. Lucien reclined, utterly at ease.
"Welcome to the game, mon loup."
He said lightly.
Outside, iron gates rose from the darkness, a château silhouetted against the night.
"And I promise this time, I intend to play for keeps."
_ _
The interior of the château was as opulent as its façade promised.
Candlelight rippled across vaulted ceilings, casting the marble floors in molten gold. Heavy velvet drapes smothered the windows, sealing the night away, while priceless artwork crowded every wall. Edgar's gaze tracked them automatically, cataloguing brushstrokes, eras, and provenance. It was instinctive. Art had always been easier to read than people.
As they moved deeper inside, the air cooled. The corridors narrowed, shadows lengthening, footsteps swallowed by stone. Edgar committed every turn to memory, mapping escape routes even as his wrists burned against their bindings.
"Beautiful, isn't it?"
Lucien's voice slid through the silence like silk over steel. He walked at Edgar's side, hands clasped behind his back, posture relaxed, the very image of a gracious host.
Edgar didn't answer.
Lucien sighed theatrically. "Honestly. I abduct you, bring you somewhere exquisite, and you won't even pretend to be impressed?"
"You kidnapped me."
Edgar said flatly.
"Forgive me for lacking enthusiasm."
Lucien laughed under his breath.
Then Edgar saw it.
His gaze snapped to a painting half-shrouded in shadow. A familiar composition. A dagger-wielding youth, chiaroscuro heavy and deliberate. Not an original Caravaggio, but close enough that only a trained eye would notice the forgery.
He'd seen it before.
In his father's private collection. Before it vanished.
Edgar slowed. His spine went rigid.
"You've been stealing from us."
He said quietly.
Lucien turned, expression brightening as if Edgar had finally said something interesting. He plucked a pear from a silver bowl as they passed, biting into it with theatrical relish. Juice slicked down his wrist like spilled gold.
"From you?" Lucien echoed. "Oh, darling." He smiled, sharp and indulgent. "No. I've been stealing you."
The words landed with surgical precision.
Edgar's pulse thundered. This wasn't ransom. This wasn't leverage. This was desecration. A long, meticulous humiliation dressed up as a game.
And the worst part?
He hadn't even known he was playing.
Edgar laughed, low and harsh. "You don't just break rules," he said, eyes cold as cut glass. "You set fire to the board and call it strategy."
Lucien's grin turned feral as he stepped closer, close enough for Edgar to catch bergamot on his breath. A gloved thumb brushed Edgar's lower lip, uninvited and deliberate.
"And yet…"
Lucien murmured
."you're still standing here."
The chamber door slammed shut behind them.
Somewhere in the château, a clock began to chime.
Edgar registered three things at once.
His wrists were still bound.
Lucien's dagger was back at his throat.
And his own pulse?
Traitorously fast.
"Tick-tock, mon loup," Lucien whispered, breath ghosting over Edgar's jaw. "Are you going to scream? Or finally admit you enjoy being at my mercy?"
Edgar bared his teeth and struck. He twisted, using the leverage of the ropes, shoving Lucien backward, teeth gritted against the effort. Pain shot along his arms, but he didn't falter. Every movement was calculated, anticipating Lucien's weight.
Lucien laughed, amused, agile as a predator. He flipped them effortlessly, pinning Edgar beneath him.
Edgar's mind raced. He twisted his wrist against the rope, forcing Lucien's forearm aside, and elbowed him in the ribs. Lucien hissed, staggered…then grinned. Relishing in the challenge, the calculation of it all.
Then:
A deafening BOOM shook the manor.
Dust and plaster rained down as Lucien's eyes snapped to the door, grip loosening.
Edgar seized the moment, sinking his teeth into Lucien's wrist, wrenching free. They rolled, coming up on their feet in a tangle of limbs and desperate precision.
"You're reckless."
Lucien said, voice low, teeth flashing.
"Deliberate, mon loup. But… always beautiful."
Edgar ignored the words, focusing on positioning, reading the room, mapping exits, noting Lucien's stance, and watching the trajectory of every potential strike.
Another explosion rocked the east wing.
Lucien moved to intercept him, but Edgar pivoted, exploiting the momentary overextension, driving Lucien backward with the force of his body. Stiletto dagger drawn from Lucien's boot, Edgar slashed ropes, freeing one hand, then the other.
Lucien landed lightly, boots clicking on marble.
"Ah."
He said, stepping back, voice honeyed menace.
"So eager. So clever."
Edgar growled, wiping blood from his lip, eyes scanning for threats. "We survive first." he hissed. "Then I'll deal with you."
Lucien's laugh rang out, bright and wild, echoing through the halls. His eyes gleamed: not just because of the fight, but for the chaos, the thrill, the mind behind the Wolfenstein heir who could analyze, improvise, and strike back even in captivity.
Edgar's pulse roared.
Not from fear, but more calculation.
Though Edgar did not remember Lucien -or the history hinted at in their silent tension- he knew the stakes. Bastille was more than a dangerous adversary; he was a pivot in Europe's fragile chessboard. One misstep, one delay, and Bordeaux's forces could gain the advantage, the Kaiser's fragile coalition crumble, and the war tilt irreversibly.
Every strike, every maneuver, was no longer just survival - it was a test of strategy, a gamble with thousands of lives beyond these walls.
The manor groaned as flames licked the tapestries.
Gunfire echoed from outside. Lucien's hand twitched toward his second stiletto, but Edgar anticipated, pivoting, seizing control of the weapon, pressing forward.
"You'll live."
Edgar hissed, pressing the blade against Lucien's chest.
"Until I say otherwise."
Lucien's grin widened, eyes bright with manic delight.
"Oh, mon loup… you're magnificent."
He breathed, studying Edgar like a master strategist observing a prodigy.
And somewhere beneath the laughter, the threat, and the chaos, a new tension took hold: one that could tip the fragile balance of war…
or shatter it entirely.
The blade trembled. Not from hesitation, but from the raw kinetic force thrumming through Edgar's veins. Lucien did not flinch. He leaned into steel's kiss, breath hitching not with fear, but with something darker, more intoxicating. Blood welled beneath the point, seeping into his ruined shirt like ink on parchment.
Edgar's grip tightened. One thrust could erase Europe's most dangerous variable - a fatal footnote in Wolfenstein history.
Lucien's lips curved, slow and deliberate.
"Do it."
He murmured, voice velvet over steel.
"Or acknowledge I'm not the only one enjoying the thrill of the risk."
Another explosion shattered the corridor's stained glass.
Shards rained like diamond hail. Edgar's pulse roared, not from the destruction, but from his own strategic mind at work.
Killing Bastille now would be… inefficient.
He exhaled sharply and flipped the dagger, slamming the hilt into Lucien's temple instead.
Lucien crumpled with a laugh, as if this were all a delightful joke.
"Touché." he slurred, consciousness slipping as Edgar hauled him up by the collar.
The manor groaned. Flames clawed up the tapestries, devouring centuries of history in seconds.
Beyond the smoke, shouts rang out: French accents clashing against Wolfenstein steel. Edgar dragged Lucien toward a servants' passage, ignoring the weight slumping against him, the heat of his breath against Edgar's neck.
"You."
Lucien coughed, blood smearing his teeth.
"You're supposed to leave me to burn."
Edgar kicked open a hidden door. Moonlight sliced through the smoke.
"And let you die a martyr?"
He hissed, shoving Lucien into the courtyard's icy air.
"No. You'll answer for this. Publicly. Painfully."
Lucien's laugh was broken, but his eyes still glittered with triumph.
"Careful, mon loup."
He swayed, catching himself on Edgar's shoulder.
"You make it sound as if you're planning to keep me."
Edgar recoiled as if scalded. Too late.
Wolfenstein guards breached the courtyard, rifles raised.
Lucien sagged against Edgar, breath coming in ragged gasps, his gaze flickering as the world dimmed at the edges.
The guards advanced, boots crunching on pristine snow. Their expressions were grim, rifles trained on Edgar as they took in the scene: the Wolfenstein heir: bloodied, holding Bastille like a shield. An impossible pairing, but volatile all the same.
Lucien's weight shifted: no longer calculated, no longer teasing.
Just the dead drag of a man slipping into unconsciousness
. Blood seeped hot between them, staining Edgar's ruined coat.
Beneath his grip, Lucien's pulse stuttered, frantic and fading.
The lead guard hesitated.
"Your Highness?"
Edgar did not move. The courtyard air burned his lungs, thick with smoke and iron.
Lucien's breath hitched, wet and broken. His fingers twitched weakly, not as a plea, not defiance.
Just the last instinctive refusal of a predator to concede.
'Let him die.'
Whispered the ghost of the Kaiser's lessons, drilled into him long ago.
'Let the fire take him.'
And yet:
Edgar's jaw locked.
He yanked Lucien upright, voice snapping like drawn steel.
"Medic. Now."
The world tilted.
Lucien's laughter -barely sound at all-vibrated against Edgar's collarbone.
"…knew you'd…fold…"
Edgar ignored him. Ignored the guards' stunned silence. Ignored the tremor in his own hands as they tightened their hold.
This was no longer a simple capture.
It was a commitment.
And whatever had begun here would not end cleanly.