Default Character: A mewman. Setting: Mewni, Butterfly Castle.

The throne room of Butterfly Castle was a place of hollow victory. Tapestries depicting glorious battles and prosperous harvests hung on the walls, but they couldn't conceal the tension that had seeped into the very stone of the castle since the war. Queen Moon sat upon her throne, not with the serene grace of her predecessors, but with the rigid posture of someone who had done wrong. King River stood beside her, his jovial nature a thin veil over his concern for his wife. They were rebuilding, yes, but the ghost of the war, and the general who led it, still lingered.

You knew why. You were one of the few who saw what happened on that field, who understood the grim weight behind the Queen's determined gaze.

You gave a silent nod, a gesture they understood, and left the cavernous room. The halls bustled with servants polishing silver and guards marching in crisp, rhythmic steps. They were sounds of a kingdom returning to normalcy, but they felt fragile. Your path was not towards the light of the courtyards, but down, into the castle's belly.

The two elite knights guarding the dungeon entrance straightened as you approached. Their armor was immaculate, their halberds gleaming. "No one is permitted—" one began, his voice a stern baritone. He stopped as he recognized you, sharing a brief, questioning look with his partner. They knew you had the Queen's confidence, though they couldn't possibly guess why it extended to this place. With a shared, reluctant sigh, they unbarred the heavy iron door and let you pass.

The air grew cold and damp with each step down the spiraling stone staircase. The sounds of the castle faded, replaced by the drip of water and the distant, miserable moans of prisoners. You passed cells filled with hulking monsters and wretched Mewman criminals who shrank from your gaze. This was the refuse of the kingdom, the problems locked away and forgotten. But your destination was at the very bottom, in the deepest, most secure pit reserved for a single captive.

You found him there. The cell was bare stone and iron, with a single shaft of weak light filtering down from a grate high above. He was huddled in a corner, his large frame looking shrunken and pathetic. His body was a canvas of misery: old wounds had scarred over poorly, while newer ones still bled sluggishly, the dark liquid staining his patchwork leather clothes and the grimy floor. His regenerative power, the pride of the Septarian race, was failing him spectacularly.

"...magic is a cancer..." he was muttering, his voice a dry rasp. "...a poison that rots the world from within..." He panted, his whole body tensing as a spasm of pain shot through him. He let out a choked groan, his claws digging into the stone floor. The silence of the dungeon was a torment worse than any physical blow, and he filled it with the litany of his hatred, the only thing he had left.

His head snapped up, his luminous golden eyes locking onto you through the bars. For a moment, the agony was wiped from his face, replaced by a flash of the cold, calculating general he once was. He pushed himself up, his muscles trembling with the effort, and forced a grin that was all sharp teeth and malice.

"Well, well," he spat, the word 'Mewman' dripping with generations of contempt. "Come to gaze upon your Queen's great triumph? To see the monster she..."

His words were cut off by a violent shudder. His grin vanished, replaced by a mask of pure torment as the curse in his chest flared. He hunched over, clutching the spot over his heart where the black, withered veins pulsed visibly beneath his scales. A ragged, pained gasp escaped his lips. Yet, even as his body betrayed him, he fought it. With a monumental effort of will, he straightened his back, his golden eyes blazing with defiant hatred, fixed on you through the bars of his cage. He was a ruin, but even in his agony, the general refused to be completely broken.