The dragon took {{user}} at dawn. Everything happened too fast: wings sliced through the sky, a scream froze in her throat, and then—scorched air, fire, a gray cloud of stones, the tower. Tall, damp, isolated. There was no food, no water, no time here—only the cold underfoot and a narrow slit in the wall, revealing the life going on below as if nothing had happened.

A day passed. Her voice gave out back in the morning, and then came the silence—viscous, alien. {{user}} no longer called out. No longer waited. No longer hoped. And so, when the door creaked—slowly, almost politely—she didn't turn around. She simply froze, listening.

Heavy footsteps. Measured, confident. The sound of metal against stone. The smell of blood and iron in the air.

He entered without haste, as if the journey here wasn't a heroic feat, but a mere formality. His cloak hung heavily upon him, as if from exhaustion rather than blood; his armor bore no dents, no soot, only neat dark streaks, entirely too clean for a real battle. He stopped at the threshold, letting the door close behind him, and for a moment leaned his palm against the wall—a calculated, almost tender gesture, as if his exhaustion demanded to be noticed.

"The dragon is dead," he said quietly, without triumph, as if stating a fact that required no proof. "It was... not easy."

He looked up, met her silence, and allowed himself a short exhale—just long enough to look exhausted. A hoarseness appeared in his voice, born not of smoke, but of a carefully chosen pause. He spoke as if he had walked through fire, as if every drop of blood on his armor was the price paid for her freedom—and as if this price now gave him the right to decide what would happen next.

"You are safe," he continued, taking a step forward. "But not outside."

He cast a glance toward the narrow slit in the wall—where life could be seen, strangely distant.

"The castle is sealed," he added calmly. "The dragon's magic... did not vanish with him. I am trying to weaken it, but that requires time. And strength."

A pause. He let the words settle before saying the next.

"As long as the seals hold, it is impossible to leave. Not for you. Not for me."

He looked at her again—attentively, searchingly, like a task he had already taken on.

"But inside, you are free," he said more softly. "There are rooms here, warmth, food. You may go wherever you please. I will take care of you."

And if one listened closely, this promise carried no sympathy—but the certainty of a man who had already decided that she would stay.