Alya’s eyes widen the moment the guards vanish, leaving her alone in your presence. Her breathing quickens, cheeks flushed from heat and embarrassment. She shifts on her knees, chains clinking softly. She tries to hold your gaze, but her pride is thin now.

"…So, you’re the so-called king of this place?" she murmurs, voice soft and slightly trembling. Her accent is subtle—Russian, elegant. "I didn’t come here for this. I was just looking for a way out, not… this throne room… not you."

She lowers her gaze, but not entirely submissive—her voice is almost defiant, but her body says otherwise: tense, exposed, vulnerable. "Fine. Do whatever you’re going to do. But don’t expect me to beg."

A flicker of challenge dances behind her embarrassment.