A piercing cry echoed through the grand halls of Blackwood Manor. Inside a lavish bedroom, a woman lay motionless on a silk-covered bed. The sheets were stained with sweat and traces of blood, but in her arms, a newborn baby let out his first wails.
The midwife wiped the infant clean and wrapped him in soft linen. He was a beautiful baby boy—small, delicate, yet full of life. Sir Frederick Blackwood, the master of the house and one of England's most feared gunmen, could hardly contain his joy. For years, he and his wife, Carolina, had prayed for a child, and at long last, their wish had been granted.
He lifted his son gently, his strong hands cradling the fragile life he had helped bring into the world. His heart swelled with pride. "My son," he whispered. "Little Frederick."
But before he could cherish the moment any further, the sharp sound of gunfire shattered the peace.
Gunshots.
They came from outside the estate. The air was filled with the unmistakable sound of bullets whizzing past, ricocheting off the stone walls of the mansion. Sir Frederick's joyful expression turned grim in an instant. His years of experience told him that this was no ordinary skirmish—this was an ambush.
Without hesitation, he grabbed his pistol from the nearby dresser and rushed toward the entrance. The mansion, once a symbol of power, had become a battlefield. His men were already engaged in combat, returning fire from the balconies and windows.
Sir Frederick was no ordinary marksman. Stories about his deadly accuracy had spread throughout England. It was said that when he touched a gun, men fell like leaves in autumn. And yet, tonight was different. The attackers were relentless. The air was thick with gunpowder and the stench of blood.
A scream from inside the house made him freeze.
Spinning around, he rushed back toward the bedroom. A young maid lay lifeless on the wooden floor, blood pooling around her. A stray bullet had found her.
Sir Frederick clenched his jaw, his fury rising. But now was not the time for grief—his wife and newborn son were still inside. He turned to the remaining maids. "Take Lady Carolina and the baby. Head to the woods. There's a small cottage—go there and don't look back."
The women hesitated, but one glance at his hardened face told them there was no time to argue. Wrapping Carolina and the baby in thick cloaks, they hurried out through the servants' passage.
Frederick turned back toward the chaos. He was outnumbered. His men were already falling, and he could hear the triumphant laughter of his enemies. Who had betrayed him?
There was no time to dwell on that. He had to survive.
With a calculated breath, he engaged his infamous gun technique—his body moving fluidly as if the bullets themselves bent to his will. Each shot he fired found its mark. One man. Two men. Three. They dropped like marionettes with their strings cut.
But more kept coming.
Realizing he could not win this battle, he made a split-second decision. There was one way out—an underground tunnel beneath the house. Only he knew of its existence. He dashed toward the hidden entrance, slipping into the darkness just as the gunmen stormed his chambers.
Behind him, the mansion echoed with their mocking voices.
"Where is the great Sir Frederick now?"
They laughed, thinking they had won. But he was not dead. Not yet.
The cottage in the woods was a modest place, hidden away in the thick greenery that surrounded Blackwood. Inside, the baby boy was now washed and wrapped snugly in blankets, lying in a small wooden crib.
Carolina, still weak from childbirth, stirred awake. The sight of her child in the dim candlelight made her heart swell. For six long years, she had endured the pain of being childless, enduring whispers and pitying looks from society. But now, she was a mother.
She lifted her son into her arms, pressing a soft kiss to his forehead. "You are my miracle," she whispered, her eyes glistening.
The peace did not last long.
A sudden knock at the cottage door sent a chill through the room. The maids froze, their faces pale.
Who could it be?
They held their breath. Then came a familiar voice, weak but firm.
"It's me."
The door swung open, revealing Sir Frederick.
His once-pristine attire was torn and bloodied. Dark bruises marred his face, and his left arm hung limply at his side. He had barely made it out alive.
The maids rushed to his side, helping him into a chair. A mixture of relief and horror filled the small room as they tended to his wounds with herbal concoctions and clean bandages.
Despite his injuries, Sir Frederick's gaze softened when he saw his wife holding their son. A tired smile ghosted his lips. "He has your eyes," he murmured.
Carolina reached out, touching his battered face with gentle fingers. "And he has your strength."
For the first time that night, a quiet peace settled over them.
The night deepened, and the only sounds left were the soft crackling of the fireplace and the occasional coo of the baby in his mother's arms.
Though the cottage was safe for now, Frederick knew this was only the beginning.
Someone had betrayed him. Someone had sent those men to kill him, to wipe out his family's name. His enemies thought they had won. They thought he was dead.
They were wrong.
Frederick Blackwood had one last battle to fight.
And for his wife. For his newborn son.
He would not lose.He was determined to reshape himself, refusing to let age or injury define him. Sir Frederick was not a man who accepted defeat—he was a warrior, through and through. Protecting his family was his greatest mission, even if it meant laying down his own life. These thoughts consumed him through the night until, at last, exhaustion claimed him, and he drifted into a deep, much-needed sleep.