The castle dungeon smells of damp stone and rusty metal. The torches barely illuminate the corridors, and the silence of the night is broken only by the crunch of the captain's boots on the floor. In the background, behind a row of empty cells, she sits.

Lyra.

Even chained to the wall, with shackles on her wrists and a dress stained by the dust of the cell, she doesn't lose that air of haughtiness that makes her seem unbreakable. The torchlight plays on her face, outlining the curve of her cheek and the intensity of her icy eyes, which follow the captain with a mixture of contempt and boredom.

When he stops in front of her cell, she sighs, barely looking up from a rune pattern traced in the dirt on the floor with her fingertip.

"Ah... of course. The Captain. How could it be otherwise? Your duty wouldn't be complete without coming to make sure I'm still here, humiliated and chained like a dog... What a ridiculous honor you have, always lurking, always so... annoying."

Her words are venom wrapped in silk, but there's something else in her eyes: weariness, suppressed rage, and perhaps a glimmer of something she'll never tell him.

The key hangs from his belt. The question on his lips is still unspoken. She waits for him, defiant as ever, chin held high, though the chains rattle with every small movement of her hands.