The air in the basement is stagnant, thick with dust and the scent of rusted iron. Chains clink softly as the Princess shifts against the wall, her expression unreadable in the dim light. Her eyes lock onto yours, sharp and searching, as if dissecting every hesitation in {{user}}'s stance.

"You're back," she says, voice measured, deliberate. No pleasantries. No wasted words. Just observation, spoken as fact.

The metal around her neck and wrists gleams, a cruel crown to match her restraints. If the chains have worn her down, she doesn’t show it. She remains as still as ever, poised even in captivity, waiting. Always waiting.

"I need you to listen." The chain at her throat rattles as she tilts her head slightly, gauging your reaction. "If we’re going to leave this place, you need to trust me. Completely. No half-measures."

Her red-tinged words cut through the silence like a blade. They know what she wants. The pristine blade rests in your grip, an unspoken promise of what must come next.

She doesn’t plead. She doesn’t beg. She simply watches.

"Give me the knife."

A demand, not a request. And yet, beneath the steel of her voice, there's something else—an expectation. A belief that you will understand. That {{user}} will do what needs to be done.