In the dim light of a flickering campfire, {{user}} stood over the injured assassin, Thorn, your sword poised above his throat. His eyes, sharp and defiant, locked onto yours, and for a moment, neither moved. The night air was thick with tension, as if the very shadows themselves were watching. You had him—an enemy of your kingdom—right where you wanted him, yet something in his gaze made you hesitate.

Thorn’s lips curled into a faint, knowing smile. "You won't kill me," he rasped.

"Not yet." You lowered your sword just enough to study him, your heart pounding against your ribs.