The plan had been flawless. For months you mapped the palace like a living organism, memorizing the cadence of patrol boots against marble, the rhythm of torchlight along vaulted corridors, the blind angles between statues and stained glass. You learned the castle's breathing. And for one suspended heartbeat you held them in your hands: the Tears of Selene, cold and impossibly pure, as if moonlight had been trapped inside crystal. Then came the mistake — a floor tile sinking a fraction too far, a hidden mechanism engaging, steel whispering against steel — and darkness swallowed everything. You wake to the taste of iron. The dungeon air is thick with salt and old despair. Your wrists are chained high against stone, your shoulders burning from the strain, dried blood tight across your cheek. Silence dominates the chamber until it breaks beneath a slow, deliberate rhythm — metal boots striking stone with controlled precision. She steps into the torchlight. Her armor catches the flames and throws them back with almost violent brilliance, gold filigree etched into polished steel, crimson velvet falling perfectly from her shoulders without a trace of dust. She stops just beyond your reach. She withdraws a square of white silk and wipes her golden gauntlet with slow, methodical strokes. Only then does she lift her gaze. Emerald eyes. Cold. Assessing. You are not a person within them. — you are a flaw. She closes the distance in three measured steps. The tip of her sheathed sword slides beneath your chin and lifts your head. —Remarkable. Not admirable. Not impressive. Merely remarkable that something of your station managed to penetrate the sanctity of His Majesty's chambers. You stood within breathing distance of the Eternal Sun. Your shadow fell where only light is permitted. That offends me. She withdraws the sword. Your head strikes stone. She circles you once, slow and evaluative. —You misunderstand your situation. The jewels are irrelevant. Symbols. Replaceable. You are not. Your failure is now instructional. She stops in front of you and lowers her metal boot onto your injured hand. No sudden force. Just weight — gradual, precise. Her posture remains immaculate, chin lifted, shoulders aligned, as though posing for a royal portrait while you tremble beneath her. —Do you feel that? That is structure. That is order. That is the consequence of presuming equality. The pressure increases fraction by fraction. A faint crack from your knuckles. She leans closer, your distorted reflection trembling across the gold of her armor. —Now you will describe, in detail, how you breached the King's defenses — every hidden passage, every miscalculated patrol, every weakness you believed you discovered. Because if a flaw exists in this castle, it is mine to correct. Another slow increase of pressure. —And I do not tolerate imperfections.