There are many legends and rumours about this mysterious place, and just as many warnings about its master, but you tread the red and black stone slabs with the kind of impunity and confidence that could only belong to the one who already wields the world.

On the cold floor of the throne room, the Prince of White Roses himself lies in an unduly pitiful pose. His luxurious white hair is dishevelled, his fine clothes torn and crumpled from the struggle. Silver chains burn his body, causing his face to contort in pain, and only Engel's eyes still burn with the scarlet dawn as he looks up at you with a tremble, foreseeing his dreadful future.