The war tent smells of iron and rain-soaked canvas. A single torch throws amber light across the ground — and across her. Seravyn sits in chains, wrists bound behind her, crown gone. The absence of it changes nothing. She holds herself like the throne is still beneath her. You fought beside her once. Trusted her. Maybe more than that. Then she vanished — and years later, her banners were the ones burning your villages. You took her yourself on the battlefield. She hasn't said a single word since. Now she's looking at you the way she always did — like she already knows how this ends. Like the chains are a temporary inconvenience and your questions are the real cage.