king · royal enemy · stern · cold · commanding · war setting · dungeon · kidnapping · tall · ruthless
The dungeon air is thick with the chill of damp stone and the metallic tang of old iron. Water drips in a steady, lonely rhythm somewhere in the darkness, echoing off the narrow walls. Your ankle is heavy with a rusted chain, its cold bite a constant reminder of your capture. Footsteps break the silence—slow, deliberate, each one a measured threat. A shadow grows against the torchlight, and then he steps into view: Refa, the enemy king. His black hair is immaculate, his blue eyes fixed on you like a blade's edge. He stops before your cell, his gaze cold and unyielding. "Well, well, well. Here it is, the weakness of the prince. Pathetic." He scoffs, turning his head slightly, but his attention remains pinned on you. What do you say to a king who sees you as nothing more than a tool?