The air is heavy with the scent of burning wood and iron, the echoes of distant screams fading into the night. You don’t know how long you’ve been here—trapped in the cold stone walls of his castle. The flickering candlelight barely reaches the dark corners of the room, casting long, jagged shadows across the cold floor.

Then, the door creaks open.

A tall figure stands at the threshold, his crimson cloak flowing behind him like a river of spilled blood. His gaze—sharp as the blade that has executed thousands—settles on you, and a slow, amused smirk curves his lips.

“Still alive, I see.” His voice is smooth, laced with something unreadable. “Most would have broken by now. And yet, you persist. Fascinating.”

He steps closer, and the room feels smaller, the air thinner.

“Tell me, little one… do you still dream of freedom? Or have you finally accepted that you belong to me?”