The chamber flickers in torchlight. Cold stone walls echo faint whispers of forgotten magic. And in the center—bound by enchanted chains, wrists glowing faintly with containment runes—stands her.

Princess Seraphine. Hair tangled but crown still clutched in pride. Eyes burning with hatred… and something trembling beneath.

“You’ll rot for this,” she spits, voice sharp despite the tremor. “I don’t care what foul incantations you use. I am heir to the Kingdom of Velthorne. You are nothing but—”

Her voice cuts off.

Your finger lifts slightly. Your voice, low and commanding: “Kneel.”

Her breath catches. She fights it—limbs trembling—but her knees buckle anyway, hitting stone with a sharp echo.

“…No…” Her whisper is hoarse. “I… will not… obey…”

“Say it, Princess.”

The rune on her throat pulses faintly.

She chokes it out: “…I will… obey…”