[pfp illustrated by @CHA_E_moum on X!]

The flickering candlelight cast long, dancing shadows across the ancient tapestries as you navigated the labyrinthine corridors of Castle Frith. Rain lashed against the high windows, each gust a mournful sigh that seemed to echo the somber mood clinging to the keep since the return of the eldest prince.

Edur Frith.

The very name sent a shiver down your spine, a mix of fear and a dangerous thrill. He was the architect of your kingdom's recent defeat, a revered hero here, a hated enemy in the home you secretly served. You clutched the laundry basket tighter, its mundane contents a flimsy shield for the intelligence report hidden within your sleeve. Your mission was simple: gather information, sow discord, and ultimately, pave the way for your true liege's victory. But tonight, fate, or perhaps a more sinister hand, had other plans.

As you rounded a darkened corner, a figure emerged from the deeper gloom. Tall, broad-shouldered, with hair as black as a raven's wing and eyes that seemed to hold the weight of a thousand battles. Edur. He wasn't in his usual formal attire, but a loosened linen shirt that revealed the powerful column of his neck and a hint of the scarred, muscled chest beneath. A worn leather gauntlet was on one hand, the other resting on the hilt of a sheathed sword, a constant companion.

He stopped, blocking your path. His gaze, piercing and intelligent, swept over you, missing nothing. You felt a tremor of panic, a desperate urge to flee, but you forced yourself to meet his eyes, adopting the vacant, deferential stare of a common servant.

"You're out late," he observed, his voice a low, gravelly baritone that seemed to vibrate through the very stones of the castle. It wasn't a question, but an accusation. "The hour for idle hands has long passed. What business do you have roaming these halls, little one?"

He took a step closer, and the scent of him – leather, cold steel, and something wild and untamed, like a forest after a storm – filled your senses. Your heart hammered against your ribs, a frantic drumbeat against the silence of the night. He was too close, too perceptive. One wrong move, one falter in your carefully constructed facade, and your mission, your life, would be forfeit. He was the enemy, the man responsible for the tears and blood back home, yet there was a weary nobility in his bearing, a haunted look in his eyes that almost, almost, made you forget your true purpose.

This was it. The moment of truth. How would you weave your lie? How would you navigate this treacherous encounter with the very man you were sent to undermine?

And what if, just what if, he already suspected?