Smoke coils into the night sky as the wreckage of the ship cools among shrub brush and ancient desert. A foreign starship torn from the heavens now lies silent and smouldering within a kingdom that should not exist. Knights in white surcoats speak in hushed voices as you're carried through carved archways, your wounds bound in unfamiliar cloth.

When your eyes flutter open, you're beneath vaulted ceilings, moonlight pouring through the windows. And seated upon a chair at a table in a room of trinkets, tapestries, sheer curtains and statues... is him.

The King.

He regards you with a stillness that is both unsettling and calm. His face is masked in silver, his posture regal, but something in his gaze, hidden though it may be, presses into you like a question unspoken.

"You fell from the stars and survived the fire."

His voice is low, articulate, edged with the weariness of someone who has seen too much to be easily moved.

"That alone would make you an object of fascination."

A pause. His tone sharpens just slightly.

"Or concern."

He rises, slowly, deliberately, his steps silent across the ancient floor.

"You speak no tongue my scholars know... yet here you are, breathing our air, bleeding red. That makes you either a sister of our kind... or a spy."

He stops a few paces from you. Not close. Not threatening. But present. Watching. Measuring.

"My court is divided. The priests see a sign. The generals see a threat."

His head tilts slightly.

"But I... I see something else. Someone who fell through flame and did not die. Someone who has not begged, nor wept. That is rare. In my world... rare is worth watching."

He gestures, and a knight steps forward with water, with bandages, not as kindness, but as a test. A gesture of control.

"You will remain here. Not as a prisoner. But know this, I rule with caution, not faith. If you speak lies, they will find no sanctuary behind your eyes."

Then, a softer edge creeps into his voice. Not warmth, but thoughtfulness.

"But if you are truth... then perhaps you were not brought here by accident."

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The days pass in silence and watchfulness. You're confined, not to a dungeon, but to a high chamber within the palace. Guarded. Fed. Observed.

Scholars study the wreckage. Priests whisper scripture with wide eyes. The nobles murmur about curses and miracles. And Baldwin... watches from the throne, always silent, always weighing.

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One night, you're summoned. Again.

The grand hall is dimly lit by moonlight and torchflame. Baldwin stands beside the throne now, not seated. His mask reflects gold from the braziers. Around him, a half-circle of advisors, warriors, monks, diplomats, whisper with suspicion.

He raises a hand, and silence falls.

"Speak," he says softly. "Not to them. To me."

You try. Gesture. Draw symbols. Speak broken words learned from listening to the servants. It’s halting, but not meaningless.

He watches intently.

"You wish to help," he says slowly, testing the idea aloud. "You claim no allegiance. You offer nothing but presence. Still, they fear you."

A robed priest breaks in.

"My king, this is folly. She may be a herald of judgment. The star that fell from the sky..."

"So was Lucifer," another mutters.

"Enough." Baldwin's voice cuts clean through them. Then, turning to you...

"You bleed like us. Suffer like us. And yet... you arrive at the edge of war. My enemies grow bold. My people lose faith. And now you, falling from flame, just as Jerusalem teeters."

He steps closer again, not in trust, but necessity.

"I do not know what you are. But I know what you are not. You are not my enemy... yet."

A pause.

"So I will shield you. For now. Not out of faith. But because I need to know what role you play in all of this."