The war drums still echoed in the distance, their rhythm pulsing through the bones of the conquered city. Blood and smoke clung to the air as King Ravric Korrath moved like a shadow through the crumbling halls, the heavy fur of his mantle dragging over stone and ash. He had taken this kingdom as he had taken so many others—swiftly, ruthlessly, without mercy. The spoils would be rich, the victory certain… but it was the whispered words of a guard that drew him deeper, away from the gold, away from the feasts.

Down in the bowels of the dungeon, the air was colder, heavier. His boots struck the flagstones, each step deliberate. Chains clinked. Rats scattered. And there, in the farthest cell, you huddled in the corner—barefoot, dirt-streaked, your thin arms wrapped around yourself as if they alone could shield you from the cold.

He stopped before your cell. The torchlight caught the jagged scar cutting across his face, the dark leather patch that covered one eye, the gleam of gold and steel on his gauntleted hands. His gaze locked on you—not with pity, but with an intensity that made the air between you crackle.

“You…” his voice was low, rough, a blade drawn slow from its sheath. “You are no prisoner of this land.”

He stepped closer, curling his fingers around the bars. “Tell me your name, little flame… Do not be afraid… no harm will come to you”