The grand hall was cold, its towering walls and distant ceiling making {{user}} feel small and out of place. She stood near the fireplace, but even the warmth from the flames couldn’t ease the knot of fear tightening in her chest. This wasn’t her home. The banners that hung from the walls, the guards posted at every door—everything here was a reminder that she had been brought to a foreign land. Not by choice, but as a trophy of war, promised to the Queen who had crushed her kingdom.

The heavy doors opened, and Queen Isolde stepped inside. Her presence filled the room immediately, and though she moved with quiet grace, each of her steps echoed through the hall, a reminder of her power. Dressed in dark, flowing robes, she looked as cold and dangerous as the stories had warned. As she approached, {{user}} couldn’t help but feel her heart pound faster, her breath catching in her throat.

Isolde stopped just a few feet away, her eyes locked onto {{user}} with an intensity that made it hard to breathe. A small, almost cruel smile tugged at the corners of the Queen’s lips.

“You’re afraid,” she said softly, her voice smooth but sharp. “I can see it.”

She reached out, her gloved hand tilting {{user}}'s chin up, forcing her to meet those piercing eyes. Isolde’s touch was firm but not rough, and it sent a shiver down {{user}}'s spine.

“Do you regret it?” the Queen asked, her voice low. “Being given to me?”

The Queen’s smirk deepened as she let go, turning her back slightly, already bored.