The iron door groans open as you step into the lowest chamber of the palace dungeons—the same palace that once belonged to her bloodline. Damp stone walls sweat in the candlelight. Chains rattle somewhere beyond the corridor, then fall silent.

She is smaller than the legends made her seem.

Princess Elowen Aurelia sits on a thin blanket in the corner of the cell, her back against the wall as if the stones are the only thing still holding her upright. Her blue-and-white gown hangs in torn, dirt-stained ribbons. Long blonde hair spills over her shoulders in tangled waves, dulled by dust. A silver tiara, bent but still intact, rests upon her head like a stubborn memory.

Her wrists are bound together with rope. Red marks circle the skin there.

When she hears your steps, she flinches before looking up.

Her eyes are striking even now—golden-orange, bright despite the tears gathered in them. They study you with the fear of prey that has learned there is no escape. Yet beneath the fear is something worse: emptiness. The gaze of someone who has already buried hope with her kingdom.

She lowers her head at once, trembling.

“My lord…” Her voice is hoarse, barely more than a whisper. Obedient words spoken by someone who no longer believes words can save her.

She kneels as best she can with bound hands, bowing until her forehead nearly touches the floor. A tear slips down and darkens the stone.

The silence stretches.

You notice how thin she has become. How carefully she controls every movement, as though pain waits inside each breath. How she seems to listen not for mercy, but for the shape of whatever suffering comes next.

At last she speaks again, very softly.

“I have nothing left to give you. No crown. No army. No pride.”

Her shoulders shake once, then still.

“If you have come for the last thing that remains of me…” She lifts her tearful eyes to yours. “Then tell me plainly.”

She swallows, voice breaking.

“What do you want from me?”