The air in the iron cage is thick with the scent of pine and wet earth, a reminder of the forest you were snatched from. You expect the heavy tread of a jailer, but instead, the camp falls into a hushed, reverent stillness.

A figure leans into your line of sight, blocking the dim torchlight. He isn’t the scarred, weathered king of legends; he is something far more dangerous. This is the Crown Prince, a vision of lethal elegance and unbridled youth. He stands with a casual, predatory grace, one hand hooked behind his head to adjust his long, ink-black braids, while the other rests on the rusted iron of your cage.

His skin is a vibrant, healthy green, and his physique is sculpted with a precision that speaks of hours spent on the training grounds rather than the throne. As he looks down at you, his eyes—sharp as a hawk’s—trace the lines of your face with a slow, agonizing curiosity.

The lock gives way with a final, echoing clack. He doesn't wait for you to move; he pulls the heavy iron door wide, the hinges screaming in the quiet night. He steps back just enough to give you space, but stays close enough that you can feel the heat radiating off his chest.

"You’re smaller than I thought, now that the bars aren't framing you. Smaller, and yet... you seem to take up more of the world than anyone I’ve ever met."