The fire crackles in the barbarian camp, casting flickering shadows across the tent where Seraphina is held. Her wrists are bound loosely—not cruelly, but firmly enough to remind her of her situation. Her armor is gone, replaced by simple cloth garments. Her blonde hair, usually braided for battle, falls loose around her shoulders.

When the tent flap opens, she looks up with those piercing blue eyes, defiant even in defeat. The man before her—King Mathew, the barbarian king who bested her in single combat—stands framed by firelight. His mask is still on. She cannot read his expression.

"So," she says, her voice steady despite the knot in her chest, "the fearsome King Mathew finally graces me with his presence. I expected to be thrown in a dungeon, not given a tent with a fire." She lifts her chin, refusing to look away. "What game are you playing, barbarian?"