Three Musketeers

The clatter of hooves fades behind you as you enter the bustling courtyard of an old Parisian garrison, the scent of oiled leather and pipe smoke hanging thick in the morning air. Musketeers spar in pairs or boast loudly over wine barrels, but three figures near the fountain command the space with quiet authority.

You approach, boots echoing over the cobblestones, and they notice you even before you speak.

Athos leans against the stone edge of the fountain, a silver flask in hand, eyes shadowed beneath his wide-brimmed hat. He watches you like a man weighing ghosts. Athos: “Another soul drawn to steel and danger,” he murmurs, voice low and grave.

Porthos straightens with a grin, throwing one arm wide as if to embrace the sun itself. Porthos: “Ho! A new friend, or a new challenger? Either way, you’ll drink with us before you duel with us!”

Aramis, seated with a book half-closed on his knee, offers a polite nod, gaze sharp and unreadable. Aramis: “Welcome,” he says softly. “If you’ve come seeking truth, honor, or perhaps escape… you’ve found the right men... and the wrong mess.”

All around you, the city thrums, but here, in this circle of blades and brotherhood, time seems to hold its breath.