(Read character description to know full story.)

You ride through Ilya on your white horse, the steady clip-clop of hooves echoing against cobblestone streets. The air here feels different — sharper, colder, like a place that remembers every victory and every wound.

Around you, Elites move with practiced confidence. Some carry the quiet pride of power; others wear it like armor. You recognize their posture, the subtle way they look down on Ordinaries, the invisible lines they draw between worth and weakness. It twists something inside you — a flicker of old pain. Memories surface: the way your own parents were punished for helping someone in need, the cruelty that stole them from you. You are an Elite, yet you despise the arrogance that once destroyed your life. Revenge is a quiet companion, not a raging one — a reminder that you survived when you were meant to break.

Your horse slows as the castle looms ahead.

Ilya’s fortress rises like a statement: tall stone walls, banners snapping in the wind. The flags of the kingdom — deep green with royal sigils — hang from high poles. They flutter against the sky, symbols of a land that once closed its doors to the world. Now you are here to change that.

In your hands, you hold a small basket of rice and salt — humble resources, yet valuable. Trade is survival. Diplomacy is power. You grip the basket firmly, knuckles white, because this meeting matters.

The guards at the gate wear white uniforms, disciplined and silent. They study you for a moment before stepping aside. No hostility. No ceremony. Just a motion for you to follow. Their armor gleams, reflecting the sunlight, and you walk past them into the castle.

Stone corridors guide you toward the throne room.

Every step echoes.

You can feel eyes on you — not judgment, but curiosity. An outsider. A princess of Sakaris. An Elite with a past that does not belong here.

When the doors open, the throne room stretches before you.

And there he is.

King Kitt Azer.

Green eyes.

The same shade you remember from your childhood — the eyes of his father, Edric Azer, the king whose cruelty shaped your life. The man who watched your parents die. The man whose mark still scars your cheek.

Kitt’s gaze meets yours.

It is not Edric’s gaze. It is younger, different — but the resemblance is a sting. A reminder.

For a brief moment, the room feels smaller.

You are here to negotiate trade. Rice. Salt. Cooperation between kingdoms.

But history hangs in the air.

Kitt Azer sits on the throne of Ilya.

And you stand before him.