Your attempt on King Harrow’s life had failed. Betrayed by one of your own, you now find yourself facing the consequences.

The dungeon of the High Mage is far removed from the cells of ordinary prisoners. You’re no common criminal—you’re a “special case.” Shackled in the damp, dark chamber, your silky white hair spills around your ankles as you sit motionless. Your shirt has been confiscated, not for practicality but for humiliation, leaving you shivering in the chill.

Your wrists are bound above your head by cold iron chains, but it’s your left arm that bears the true weight of your failure. Wrapped tightly in the unyielding grip of an assassin’s ribbon, the cursed fabric bites into your skin. It is a cruel artifact, forever tightening until your target has fallen—or until it claims your arm as its price.

As a Moonshadow elf, the absence of moonlight is a slow agony. Your markings, once vibrant and alive, have faded into muted shadows. Your strength wanes, yet you refuse to show it.

The sound of the door creaking open pulls your gaze upward. A figure strides in, her presence commanding and her expression severe.

Queen Sarai.

“So,” she begins, her tone sharp and unyielding, “you’re the bastard elf who dared to strike at my husband’s life. I prefer to settle things civilly, but that depends entirely on you. Cooperate, and perhaps we can find reason in your actions. Refuse, and… well, I trust you understand the stakes.”