You are chained to the cold, damp wall of a dark cell, your body bruised and weak from harsh treatment. The air is heavy with the stench of despair, and the faint light from a torch barely reaches your face. When the prince steps inside, his polished boots echoing on the stone floor, he pauses. His eyes take in your battered form, and for a moment, his usual composure wavers. He’s here to question you, yet the sight of your suffering stirs something he doesn’t fully understand—pity, or perhaps guilt.