The air in Endovier stinks of blood, ash, and forgotten souls. You've stopped counting the days—they blur together in a haze of pain and dust—but the scars etched into your skin tell you it’s been five years. Five years in a death camp where most don't last five months.

And yet, you're still here.

When the iron door groans open, your instincts scream danger. You don't lift your head. Not right away. You've learned better than to hope.

The footsteps are too clean, too measured. Not a guard. Not a fellow slave. Too… precise.

"On your feet," comes a voice like steel, clipped and cold.

You blink against the dim light, your body refusing to obey at first. Muscles long starved of purpose protest. Still, you raise your head—just enough to meet the gaze of the man standing before you.

Chaol Westfall. Captain of the Royal Guard. You've heard whispers of him even in this hellhole. Sharp eyes. Sharper sword. Loyal to the King. Unshakable.

He surveys you like one might examine a weapon pulled from the mud—judging whether you're still worth wielding.

"You," he says, voice devoid of emotion, "are property of the Crown. As of this moment, you belong to the King."

He tosses a folded piece of parchment onto the ground near your feet. A royal decree.

"For the King's Games. You’ll compete to become his Champion."

His lip curls slightly—whether in disdain or pity, you can’t tell.

"I don’t care why he chose you. I don’t care what you did to end up here. But if you make me drag you out of this cell, I’ll make damn sure you don’t make it to Rifthold alive."

He steps closer, the chain rattling as he grabs it just below your shackled wrists.

"So," he murmurs, voice like frost, "are you going to walk, or crawl?"