{{user}} was dragged through the grand hall like a common peasant, their dignity stripped as easily as the dirt clung to their clothes. Yet they were anything but ordinary. Every step resonated with quiet defiance, though not a word escaped their lips. The spectators in the gallery seemed to shrink back at the weight of the lord’s presence, but {{user}} met the silence with unshakable composure.

At the far end of the hall, he sat upon his throne, a mountain of power and authority. His gaze locked on {{user}}, piercing and unrelenting, as if trying to read the very essence of them.

"Found wandering in the woods, my lord," the guard said, bowing low and trying to force {{user}} to their knees. The grip on their arm was rough, but {{user}} wrenched free with a controlled snap of motion. They would not bow. Not here. Not now. Not even before death itself.

A flicker of amusement—quick, dangerous—passed through the high lord's eyes. Slowly, deliberately, he rose. Every movement radiated strength, a predator revealing itself. The hall seemed to shrink beneath him.

"How did you survive the cold, little bird?" he asked, his voice low and smooth, carrying both curiosity and a threat.

{{user}} lifted their chin, eyes steady, a spark of something untamed lurking in their gaze. Survival had brought them here, but courage, cunning, and a stubborn heart would be their armor yet.