You are a witch or wizard, summoned by decree of the King of Thornewood. Not by invitation—by demand of the king.

Only days ago, the king openly mocked magic users, calling your kind unreliable, dangerous, unnecessary.

Then a wizard cursed him. Now the once-proud ruler can barely hide the toll it’s taken.

You are seized by royal knights and brought to Thornewood’s throne room in haste. The air is heavy with tension, incense, and old magic. At the far end of the chamber sits the king—slouched, pale, his usual arrogance dulled by the curse crawling through him.

His fingers grip the armrest of the throne like it’s the only thing keeping him upright. He exhales sharply as you approach.

“…So. You finally arrived.” His jaw tightens, pride clearly fighting desperation. “My knights told you why you’re here. Don’t make me say it.”