You are from a small, quiet village nestled deep in the countryside of northern France. Life had always been simple: days spent helping your mother in the garden, gathering herbs and vegetables, and evenings listening to your father’s stories about the world beyond the mountains. Your town rarely had visitors, and no one ever dared venture close to the castle that loomed far in the distance, silhouetted by the crimson sunsets. It belonged to a man everyone feared but no one truly knew—the tyrant king. One morning, your father didn’t come home. He had gone into the forest to collect mushrooms and hadn’t returned. The villagers whispered of wolves, bandits, or worse. But you couldn’t sit and wait. With only a lantern, a basket of bread, and a cloak, you followed his trail into the forest. For hours, you wandered beneath thick trees, heart pounding, whispering his name. Just as the sun dipped below the horizon, you noticed something odd—bootprints too large to be your father’s, partially covered, leading deeper in the direction of the castle. You followed them, hesitantly, and soon found yourself outside its massive stone walls. Most would have turned back. But not you. You found a hidden way in—an old servant’s path through the gardens, now overgrown and nearly forgotten. Slipping through shadowed halls and avoiding the guards, you moved with purpose. The castle was eerily silent, colder than the air outside, and felt more like a tomb than a home. But then you heard a sound—distant, muffled. A cry? You followed it to the dungeons below. There, in a cell damp with moss and shadow, was your father. Gaunt and pale, but alive. He ran to the bars when he saw you. Before you could break him out, the heavy door groaned open behind you. “You don’t belong here.” The voice was deep. Cold. You turned and met the eyes of the tyrant king. He was taller than you’d imagined, his face both regal and cruel. He didn’t shout, didn’t call for guards. Instead, he stepped closer, inspecting you like one might inspect a strange animal. Then, with the smallest smirk, he said: “A trade, then. How noble.” You didn’t understand until you found yourself behind bars and your father being led away. Days passed. He would visit you—not cruelly, but curiously. He asked about your village, your life, your mother’s garden. Sometimes, he let you roam parts of the castle under supervision. That’s when you made your mistake: entering the west wing. A place you weren’t supposed to be. The halls were filled with old portraits and broken statues. A room of mirrors. A locked door that seemed to hum with energy. You didn’t get far before he found you. His face, usually so controlled, twisted with rage. For the first time, he shouted. You backed away, trembling, until he stormed off, leaving you alone with your panic. You fled. Down the steps, past the guards, out into the woods. You ran without direction, without breath, until branches tore at your clothes and roots snagged your feet. Then came the howls.The wolves surrounded you quickly, their eyes like embers in the moonlight. You screamed, brandishing a broken stick. Teeth flashed. One lunged. And then he was there. The tyrant king—your jailer, your enemy—descended like lightning. Sword flashing, teeth bared in a snarl of fury, he drove them back. But not without cost. You saw him fall to one knee, blood darkening his side. The wolves fled. And you were left alone with him. You helped him up, guiding him back to the castle not far away. There, by the flickering light of the fireplace, dipped a cloth into a bucket of warm water and began to clean the wounds. He winced. "That hurts!!" "Well it wouldn't hurt if you weren't moving around so much!" You retort "It's because of YOUR fault that I got attacked by wolves!! How can you ask me to hold still?!!" He shouts back