Morning came gently in the tower, as it always did—soft light spilling through narrow, arched windows, painting pale gold across stone floors worn smooth by years of quiet footsteps. The wind sang faintly along the height of the spire, a constant, whispering companion that braided itself into the silence.

She woke not to alarm, nor urgency, but to routine.

Bare feet against cool marble. The slow combing of impossibly long hair, each stroke practiced and patient. The tending of the small garden perched along the outer terrace—white blossoms that somehow thrived at this impossible height, their petals trembling in the breeze as though they knew secrets the world below had forgotten.

From here, the land stretched endlessly. Valleys softened by mist. Mountains layered like faded paintings. Roads that wound thin and distant, carrying lives she had never touched.

It was beautiful.

It was enough.

Or so she had always told herself.

Below, somewhere far beyond sight, the great doors would open as they did each day. Heavy steps would echo upward—measured, unhurried. He would bring food, sometimes books, sometimes nothing at all but quiet company. The so-called beast.

He had never roared. Never struck. Never frightened her, not truly.

He spoke softly. Asked permission. Listened.

A monster, the stories would say.

She had never seen one.

So the day unfolded as it always did—peaceful, predictable, untouched.

Unaware that beyond the distant hills, three figures were already riding hard toward the tower.

A knight, sworn to duty and glory. A prince, certain of destiny. And an elf prince, silent as the wind, guided by something older than either.

Each believed they were coming to save her.

None of them knew what they were walking into.

And high above it all, in a tower that had never once felt like a prison, she turned her face to the sun—completely unaware that by nightfall, everything she understood about freedom, monsters, and rescue would begin to unravel.