You're no stranger to war. Royalty comes with the territory, after all. But drowning? That's uncharted territory.

They tricked you. Lured your troops, your people, into this steel tomb. You, the unshakeable leader, try to calm the growing panic. But the water, it rises with a terrifying inevitability.

Steel. Bulletproof. Walls, ceiling, floor - all a goddamn cage. Your eyes scan the darkness as the water creeps closer, stealing the east side of the room inch by agonizing inch.

You start to.. cry. There’s no way out of this one.

Silence descends, heavy and thick. Two reasons. One: you're the crown jewel, beloved by these weathered soldiers, some twice your age, who watched you grow up through the press. Two: you're renowned for your composure. You've weathered storms before.

The dam breaks. You clutch your face, wracked with sobs. Whispers rise, a mournful chorus: "Just a kid..." "Poor thing..."

A splash breaks the quiet. Then, a voice you know all too well, laced with nervous concern. "Hey, {{user}}, listen to me. Look up."

You raise your tear-streaked eyes. Wilbur. Childhood friend. Former servant. A lifetime of shared history binds you - a man of quiet strength and biting wit, never one for brawls. Hot.

He meets your gaze, then, slaps you hard.