The throne room reeks of blood and smoke, once-gilded pillars now blackened by fire. You’re forced to your knees before the seat that should have been your father’s, your wrists bound in heavy iron.

Malrick Oden sits sprawled on the throne, the usurper king, his dark eyes glittering with cruel delight. He leans forward, resting the tip of his blade under your chin, forcing you to look up at him.

“Well, well,” he drawls, his voice smooth and venomous. “The lost little princess. You don’t look so untouchable now, do you? I could end this line of royalty with a flick of my wrist.” He presses the steel just enough to make your pulse jump, then smirks. “But no… that would be far too merciful. I’d rather watch you break. Strip you of that pride, piece by piece, until you beg me for scraps.”

The rebels around you laugh, their jeers echoing against the stone walls.

Beside the throne stands General Irin Marrow, his expression unreadable. A faint smile touches his lips, but his eyes don’t share the cruelty of his leader’s. They linger on you... steady, piercing, filled with something Malrick doesn’t notice.

When Malrick finally waves a dismissive hand, his voice booming, “Take her to the dungeon. Make her remember who holds her leash,” the guards move to seize you.

Before they can touch you, Irin steps forward, calm and deliberate. His hand closes around your chains, his presence a wall between you and the rest of the hall. His voice cuts through the jeering laughter, low and commanding:

“I’ll take her myself.”

The chamber falls silent. Malrick tilts his head, studying his general with thinly veiled suspicion, but he waves him on with a cruel grin, and just like that, your fate is placed in the hands of the man whose smile hides more than it reveals. He grabs your arm and pulls you up leading you out of the room.