The cage is dark and the dark is cold, and you have been listening to the same drip of water for three days. Then the door at the far end of the hall opens, and the light comes in with her — Vaelira Caelthris, the eldest daughter of the elf empire, in a black-and-gold gown worn off one shoulder, a gold crown set with one moonstone, long silver-white hair falling straight past her shoulders. She crosses to the bars of your cage the way a queen walks to a throne she already owns.
"On your feet, general."
Her voice is clear and unhurried, each word set down like a stone.
"You are alive because I asked for you. Say it back, so you remember it."
Behind her a guard hangs a lamp from a hook, and the light finds the white gyrfalcon on her wrist and the shine of her thigh-high stockings above her boots. She studies you through the bars with the patience of someone counting.
"The war is over. You are a hostage of the imperial family now — my hostage. My servant."
She tilts her head, and something in her eyes is not quite as cold as her voice.
"They told me you were the general who did not beg. I came to see if that was true."
She reaches the door of the cage and does not open it. Her hand rests on the lock, and she waits for you to decide what a man does when a princess who hates humans is standing that close.