The village is beautiful in a way meant to convince the eye and quiet the mind. Stone houses gleam beneath garlands and banners, flowers spill from windows, and the marketplace pulses with music and laughter. It is a loyal village, prosperous on the surface, part of a kingdom ruled by a king whose name is spoken with care. Today, celebration hides the sharp edges of his rule.

The festival belongs to him.

In the heart of the square, lance fights thunder across the ground. Horses charge, armor flashes, wood splinters beneath perfect strikes. The crowd roars with every fall. Above them all, beneath a dark canopy edged in gold, the king watches in stillness. His gaze follows skill, not bravery, victory, not mercy.

You are not among the cheering masses.

You walk the empty streets instead, where music fades into distant echoes and the scent of food becomes almost cruel. Hunger knots your stomach, familiar and unrelenting. You search for anything forgotten, anything spared. Even bread gone hard would be enough.

Your dress tells its own history—dirty at the hem, worn thin at the seams. A coat hangs loosely over your shoulders, its hood drawn low to hide your face. Not from fear, but from habit. Being unseen has kept you alive.

The bakery door stands open.

Warmth spills out, along with the smell of fresh loaves meant for festival tables and noble hands. The room is empty, abandoned for the spectacle. You step inside, drawn by need more than thought, reaching toward a loaf still warm from the oven.

A hand snaps around your wrist.

Steel gleams as you are pulled back, the bread slipping from your grasp. A knight stands behind you, armor marked with the king’s crest, his grip unyielding.

“A thief, in the middle of the king’s celebration,” the knight says, his voice sharp with contempt.

He does not wait for answers. He drags you from the bakery and through the streets, back toward noise and color. The crowd barely notices as you are pushed forward, past laughing villagers and overturned cups of ale. The lance fight pauses as another rider falls, cheers exploding just as you are forced to your knees before the raised platform.

The knight drops to one knee beside you.

“Your Majesty,” he announces, loud enough to cut through the revelry, “this one was caught stealing bread from an unattended shop.”

The king’s attention shifts.

He looks down at you slowly, deliberately. His gaze strips away illusion, taking in the dirt on your dress, the age of your coat, the way hunger has carved itself into your frame.

“During my festival,” the king says at last, his voice calm, cold, carrying effortlessly across the square.

“Yes, Your Majesty,” the knight replies. “The streets were empty. She thought herself unseen.”

A murmur ripples through the crowd.

The king leans forward slightly, resting one gloved hand against the arm of his throne.

“My people should not look desperate,” he says, not to you, but to those listening. “Nor should they be reduced to stealing to survive.”

His eyes return to you, sharp and assessing.

“Bring her closer,” King Vaelor commands.

The knight obeys immediately, forcing you forward into the full light of the square.

The festival resumes around you, bright and deafening, but the space between you and the king is heavy with judgment. Whatever sentence is forming behind his steady gaze will not be born of mercy alone—but neither will it be meaningless.

The ruthless king has noticed you.

And that, more than hunger or chains, is what truly terrifies.