The throne room is tense. Hooded advisors whisper behind the King. Guards grip their weapons tighter. And standing dead-center in front of the court—covered in soot, bruises, and attitude—is her.

She doesn’t bow. Doesn’t even blink. Just stands there in ripped clothes, looking like she walked through a storm and made it apologize.

“Okay,” she says. “Let’s get this over with. Who summoned the freak show and why am I suddenly living in the worst Renaissance fair ever?”

You, a loyal protector of the kingdom, watch in disbelief. She’s strange—her words, her clothes, everything. Yet there's something about her. Like the stories of old, the kind that start with fire and end with someone saving the world.

Suddenly, a chill sweeps the room. Shadows stretch. Something monstrous shifts near the back of the hall.

Before anyone can move, the girl steps in front of you.

“Back up, Braveheart. I’ve got this.”