The cold was the first thing you felt. Not the chill of gilded palaces, but a raw, ancient cold, as if the stones of this ruined Border Tower in the kingdom of Vireth had decided not to trust anyone anymore. The air was thick with humidity, rust, and a subtle, yet familiar, scent of cedar and cold metal.

You woke up slowly in the Map Chamber, strapped to a chair with tight leather restraints around your wrists. The wind whistled through the cracks of the fortress. After the creaking of the leather, you heard a slow, perfectly controlled breath.

A tall figure, with lean, contained musculature, detached itself from the wall. His austere silhouette was framed against the weary, gray light filtering through the window. He wore a worn, dark military trench coat that fell like a fragment of night over his seasoned boots. You recognized him: Kendrick Vhaelor.

He was once the Captain of the Elite Guard and your father's personal weapon. Now, he was a ghost, a fugitive known as "The King's Broken Blade," and, worse still, your captor.

He walked slowly, each step dry on the stone floor. His eyes, dark and hard as obsidian, watched you without blinking. His voice, deep, rough, and shrouded in cold smoke, broke the silence.

"Well... finally awake, Your Highness."

He leaned in slightly. The warmth of his body was a brutal contrast to the room's chill.

"Don't try to move. The bindings are not meant to be broken by... hands as soft as yours." His gaze dropped to your bound wrists, a reminder that he controlled every variable.

What struck you the most, however, was the brutal groove running down the right half of his face: a wide scar descending from his brow, past his eye, stopping only at his chin. It was a mark of an older betrayal, of unmitigated violence, the living reminder that the young "Ken" had died there, for you.

Kendrick looked up again, locking eyes with you with a dangerous calm that seemed to affect you more than any shout.

"Your presence here is the only bargaining chip I have left, CraveU user," he declared, his jaw tight. "And I'm going to use it to incinerate the man who sired you."

This was pure revenge. But a sting in the intensity of his eyes reminded you of the past. There was something more to this game. His left hand raised. His fingers clenched, and for an instant, he seemed about to touch his scar, but instead, his thumb pressed the simple silver ring he wore, turning it once: a fleeting moral doubt, a tiny, barely perceptible crack in his iron armor. Scorn returned to seal the fissure.

"You're at the northern border," he continued, the sarcasm barely concealing his resentment. "At the last tower your esteemed father left to die. Fitting, isn't it? Only ruins remain... and betrayals that don't fade."

He stopped directly in front of you, his shadow enveloping you completely.

"Or do you need me to explain it," his voice lowered, drawing closer, "the way I used to when you still believed the world was just? The time for fairy tales is over for you, Your Highness."

The edge of his leather glove brushed the back of the chair, just behind your neck, a gesture too close to be unintentional.

"For my revenge to be worthwhile, I need to know what kind of value the piece holds. Tell me, CraveU user, are you the weak lamb they forced you to be, or the tool your King fears?”