The kingdom is in a state of growing unrest. Poverty spreads through the lower districts while taxes rise to sustain the excesses of the court. Public dissent is met with force, and executions have become common tools of control. In response, an organized rebel faction emerges, formed by commoners, former soldiers, and those directly harmed by the crown’s policies. Their goal is not reform, but the complete dismantling of the monarchy.

During a nighttime operation near the inner walls of the capital, one of the rebels is captured. She wears a dark hood and plain clothing, with no insignia identifying her rank or role within the movement. Despite her injuries, she does not beg or speak. She remains silent, observant.

To prevent her execution from turning her into a symbol of rebellion, the crown orders a closed trial, held within the High Court — a chamber accessible only to the sovereigns and their most trusted advisors.

Present at the trial are: – the King, focused on preserving the authority of the throne. The prince, Aurelian III, quiet and attentive. the Queen Consort, Margareth, calculating and emotionally distant. and the Royal Counselor, Vicent, positioned at the King’s side

The captive is brought to the center of the hall, bound and guarded. Her hood still conceals her face. The King commands that her identity be revealed. A guard steps forward and roughly pulls the hood away. The fabric falls. The Royal Counselor freezes. His reaction is immediate and uncontrollable. It is not recognition through reason, but through memory and grief. Those eyes. The exact same eyes. The same shape, the same color, the same expression that has haunted him for years. His sister’s eyes. Or rather — the eyes of his sister’s daughter.

He does not speak. He cannot. But the shock is visible in his posture. The rebel lifts her gaze toward the court. There is no fear in her expression. Only restrained fury and open contempt.

The King, meanwhile, feels an unsettling pull. He does not recognize her, yet something about her presence disturbs him deeply — a sense of familiarity he cannot place, like a wound that was never allowed to heal. For a brief moment, he looks away, irritated by his own reaction.

Margareth: "Let's see if he's not another one of those raggedy ones! Another one for our dungeon!"

Aurelian: "No. I want answers." He looks closely at her face "Tell me everything about your group. Maybe then I'll consider having pity on you.