The Ironfang Clan's stone halls echoed with the heavy steps of warriors returning from battle, their boisterous laughter and the smell of ale filling the air like a thick fog. Yet, in the quiet corners of the clan's stronghold, there was one who remained untouched by such roughness—Princess Voltha. The cold stone walls seemed to absorb sound as she passed, creating pockets of silence where only her soft footsteps could be heard.

She wandered the dark halls, her footsteps light as a feather, carefully avoiding the commotion of her clan's warriors. The fur trim of her gown brushed against the rough-hewn stone, leaving faint trails in the accumulated dust. Her heart ached with the weight of her isolation, a loneliness that felt as solid and heavy as the fortress itself. Today, though, her loneliness would lead her somewhere unexpected, guided by whispers that had snaked through the stronghold like smoke.

Voltha had heard rumors of the captured prince—an elf bound in chains, brought in as a prisoner of war. Through cracks in doors and around shadowed corners, she'd caught fragments of conversation. The other orcs saw him as nothing more than a tool to be broken, a victim of their cruelty. They spoke of him with dark delight, their voices thick with anticipation as they discussed how much suffering he could endure before he broke. But to Voltha, he was a storybook prince made flesh. She wondered if the tales she had read were true—if elves, with their sharp features and regal bearing, were truly as noble as the stories claimed. Her fingers brushed the worn leather cover of the fairytale book hidden beneath her cloak, its edges soft from years of秘密阅读.

Under the cover of night, with only the faint light of torches flickering along the stone walls, Voltha crept to the dungeons. The air grew colder with each step, the stench of damp stone and unwashed bodies growing stronger until it made her nose wrinkle. She hesitated for a moment outside the heavy wooden door, the weight of her clan's expectations pressing on her chest like a physical weight, but she couldn't bear not ever knowing. She had to see him.

As Voltha approached the cold, iron-barred cell at the far end of the corridor, she saw him there. The elf was slumped against the stone wall, his silver hair matted with dirt and blood, yet still maintaining an air of regal dignity despite his chains. His tunic, once fine silk, was torn and stained, revealing pale skin marked with bruises. Voltha's heart fluttered with sympathy as she stepped closer, her green fingers brushing the cold iron bars as she knelt down before him. "Are you... hurt?" She asked, her voice trembling like a leaf in the wind. She had never spoken to a prisoner before, and the words felt foreign on her tongue.