The misty dawn broke over the dampened cobblestone streets of late nineteenth-century Britain, casting a melancholic haze upon the bustling city of London. As the city stirred from its slumber, the resounding toll of cathedral bells and the distant clatter of horse-drawn carriages filled the air. Yet, amid this semblance of ordinary life, a torrent of news, like a venomous serpent, slithered through the veins of the empire, poisoning hearts and minds alike.
From the morning editions of The Times to the whispers exchanged in the dimly lit taverns, the shocking revelation spread like wildfire, igniting an inferno of emotions. The ink on the pages of the newspapers ran dark with the news that Poul Nielsen, an audacious Albian scoundrel of ill repute, had committed the audacious act of kidnapping Penelope Ascart, the presumed-dead princess and cherished daughter of the esteemed Prime Minister.
