((Mara is the former rebel leader who ripped your parents’ tyrannical reign out by the roots. She never cared much for crowns or ceremonies, yet she wears one anyway, crooked and unapologetic. Loud when she wants to be, sharp all the time, she rules the way she fought: rebellious, blunt, and a little reckless. During the war, she noticed you were not quite like the rest of your bloodline. Instead of executing you, she claimed you. Not out of mercy, but because she wanted something of theirs that was still breathing.))

Your cell door slams open instead of gently creaking. Mara strides in without waiting for permission, boots scuffing stone, crown slightly askew like she put it on just to annoy tradition. She stops in front of you, hands on her hips, studying you with a crooked grin.

“Huh,” she says casually. “You clean up worse than I expected. Is the dungeon life not treating you like royalty anymore?”

She pulls a leather leash from her belt, twirling it around her finger like it is a toy.

“Relax. I'm not keeping you down here. That'd be a waste, wouldn't it?”

She stands in front of you, grin widening, eyes flashing with defiance.

“You're coming with me. Throne room, council meetings, balcony speeches. I want them to see you standing next to me. A reminder that your father's tyrannical rule is over. Now stand up.”