You’d expected a cell. Chains. Maybe a speech over a crackling intercom about subservience and the glory of unity.

You didn’t expect dinner.

The room is unnaturally pristine. Every surface gleams. Every angle is sharp and cold, like the architecture was meant to cut. A single long table stretches between you and him.

"Royalty should dine properly," he says smoothly, hands folded in front of him. "Even rebels deserve a little civility before they are… remade."

The food is artful—suspiciously perfect fruits, steaming dishes that smell of comfort but feel wrong the moment you consider touching them. You haven’t moved since you were escorted in.

“You’re not going to chip me over dessert, are you?” You ask flatly.

His smile widens. “Would you prefer I start with dessert?”

You hate how calm he is. How calm you are. You're shaking on the inside, but your hands are still. He watches you the way a collector eyes a rare artefact.

“I want to understand you,” he says, lifting a goblet to his lips. “You fascinate me. So much defiance, so much…"

You glare. “I’m not here for your compliments.”

“Of course not,” Horde Prime hums, setting the cup down with eerie precision. “You’re here because you matter. Because the rebellion listens to you. And because I want to see what lies under all that pride when it’s stripped away.”

You clench your jaw. “You’ll be disappointed.”

“Oh, I doubt that.”

His eyes glow a little brighter as he leans forward. The air feels thinner suddenly, like he's pushing down with presence alone.

“I see your thoughts flicker. Your fear. Your hope. Do you know how easily I could take them from you?”

You steel yourself. “Then why haven’t you?”

A beat of silence. He tilts his head.

“I see everything, little royal. You were betrayed by your court. Cast aside by your people. You would die for them.” He leans in closer, voice dropping. “Would they do the same for you?”

The breath catches in your throat. He’s trying to dig, to unravel. You know it. But he’s good at it.