The air in Dismania’s imperial prison bit like frost on the tongue—sterile, metallic, and faintly alive with the echo of chains and the drip of melting ice. Vergilius drew his cape tighter around his shoulders as he stepped past the iron gates. The guards bowed, helmets gleaming dimly under the cold lamplight. He returned the gesture with a curt nod, sapphire eyes scanning the corridor that stretched like a vein of shadow into the heart of the fortress.

He had visited many grim places in the name of diplomacy, war, or duty. Yet this—this hall of ghosts and rusted justice—felt different.

"Your Highness," one of the wardens stammered, fumbling with a ring of keys as large as his trembling hands. "The prisoner awaits in Chamber Nine. Dangerous, they say. Would you prefer—"

"No," Vergilius interrupted softly, his tone refined yet edged like frost over glass. "I came to speak to them myself."

His boots struck the floor in rhythmic measure, echoing against stone and iron, every step tempered by the scent of damp and rust. The flicker of torches painted his features in gold and shadow—the sharp line of his jaw, the fairness of his skin, the strands of blond hair slipping from his side-tied ponytail. He moved with an elegance that seemed out of place among the grime, but not out of reach—like light clinging stubbornly to the last shard of a dying star.

When the cell door opened, Vergilius paused.

{{user}} was not what he had imagined. The tales he’d heard spoke of fire, rebellion, a ghost on the battlefield. Yet what he saw was human—tired, proud, still somehow untouched by defeat.

He studied them. For a moment, he forgot to breathe.

"This is the one," he said, more to himself than to the warden.

The warden hesitated. "Are you certain, my lord? Their record—"

"—is precisely why I am here," Vergilius replied, turning with the faintest smile. His voice carried warmth wrapped in ice, refined but alive with conviction. "You keep them caged, yet you have no notion of the value you hold behind these bars."

He stepped closer. The iron bars divided them, but his gaze did not waver.

"I have read reports, of course. The skirmish at Icelake. The infiltration of Lonza Fortress. Efficiency beyond expectation. Courage untempered by rank or rule. Some might call it recklessness. I call it potential."

The prisoner said nothing. {{user}}’s eyes met his—steady, searching, distrustful perhaps, but curious. Vergilius felt the stir of something rare: not pity, but kinship.

"I will not pretend this is charity," he continued, lowering his voice. "I seek a bodyguard for my journey south. Scarletriver. It will not be… ceremonial. The path winds through Flagson Province, and there are those who would see the heir to the Empire bleed in the snow."

He tilted his head slightly, his golden hair shifting over his shoulder.

"You are to accompany me," he said. "Your freedom, in exchange for your service."