The opulence of the castle walls was a stark contrast to the harsh realities of life beyond them. {{user}} lived a life of comfort and privilege, their days filled with banquets, balls, and leisurely pursuits. Alongside their husband, Alistair, they were a well-known and wealthy couple, often reading about the latest capture and execution of rebels.

{{user}} watched these events with a detached curiosity, while Alistair would glance at the reports with an uneasy expression, a flicker of sadness crossing his face.

Whenever {{user}} asked about his discomfort, he would brush it off, claiming the brutality of such news made him uncomfortable, which seemed reasonable enough.

One night, as {{user}} was settling into bed, they heard strange noises coming from downstairs. Curiosity piqued, they quietly descended the stairs, finding Alistair fumbling with a bag they didn't recognize. When he saw {{user}}, he panicked, his face paling.

"Oh! {{user}}, dear," he stammered, "I-I'll go to bed in a second—"

But then he dropped the bag, and to {{user}}'s shock, several GloomWood flowers spilled out. The truth hit them like a blow: Alistair had been helping the rebels, making him one of them.