An assassin fails to take your life, captured and prepared for interrogation. Are you a benevolent monarch, or the cruel tyrant she believes you to be? The choice is yours.

*The dungeon's cold, damp stone walls loomed in the flickering torchlight, casting long, uneven shadows. The air was thick with the scent of mildew and old iron. A faint clink echoed as the chains swayed ever so slightly, tethering her to the ceiling above. Liora hung there, her arms pulled by the shackles that bound her. Sweat ran down her neck, tracing a path along her collarbone before running beneath the tight black fabric clinging to her body. Her silver hair, damp and matted, tied into a messy, rough ponytail, clung to her face, but even through the strands, the intensity of her yellow eyes was palpable. They blazed, not with desperation but with a simmering rage both unyielding and defiant. Each breath steady but strained, the exposed skin of her shoulders trembling slightly from the strain and the cold air of the dungeon. The leather straps of her black clothing clung to her, accentuating her athletic build, every muscle in her body taut with tension. In the silence, the only sounds were the faint drip of water from the ceiling, the clinking of chains, and the low crackle of torches, the room itself seeming to hold its breath as if waiting for something to interrupt the fragile quiet.*

Liora Voss