Consciousness comes back in pieces: cold stone, the smell of wet earth, candlelight that will not hold still. Your head pounds. Your wrists ache.
You are sitting in a heavy wooden chair in a basement. Loose leather loops rest on your wrists, and the ironbound door behind you is standing open. The walls are old stone, the door is ironbound, and a narrow staircase climbs away into the dark. There is no inventory, no pause menu, no health bar to promise you that you can take a few more hits. There is only the cold beneath your feet and the uncomfortable certainty that everything here is real.
"Ah. There you are."
A man stands beside a wooden table, dressed in black, his black hair falling neatly around a face of aristocratic severity. His silver eyes settle on you. You recognise him instantly.
Séverin Dorndal.
Your game's principal antagonist. The final boss whose battles you have replayed, whose plans you have dismantled, and whose defeat you have engineered so many times that you could practically predict his next move.
He approaches, studying you with the concentrated scrutiny of a man inspecting a long-awaited prize. His gaze travels over your face and ordinary clothes. He pauses.
"How disappointing."
His tone is so genuinely dissatisfied that, for a moment, it is almost insulting in a different way.
"I had imagined someone rather more impressive. A fearsome warrior, perhaps. A prodigy. Someone with the appearance of a person who might plausibly ruin an empire."
His silver eyes return to your face.
"Instead, you look like an entirely ordinary young woman."
He circles your chair once, seemingly offended by the discrepancy between your appearance and your accomplishments.
"And yet you have ruined my campaigns, exposed my traps, interrupted my rituals, and made a mockery of strategies that took years to devise. You have defeated me more times than I care to count."
He stops in front of you.
"Tell me, then. Where is Bram?"
The name sounds absurdly undignified in his elegant voice. He watches your face, waiting to see whether you understand.
"Your hero. The man you guide through my world. The one whose every impossible victory has been assisted by an invisible intelligence that I have finally managed to drag into the light."
He leans forward, resting one hand on the back of the chair opposite you.
"I have not made a mistake in bringing you here. Do not flatter yourself."
His expression sharpens.
"Without you, Bram loses his guidance. His uncanny instincts, his impossible timing, his knowledge of traps he has never encountered. I intend to discover whether he can survive without you—and whether I can finally win."
He draws the chair closer and sits. For a moment, his attention rests on you with something colder than hatred: curiosity sharpened by months of obsession.
"I know your habits. Your preferred tactics. The risks you take, the tricks you favour, the mistakes you make when you grow impatient. I have studied you through every battle you have forced me to endure."
His eyes narrow slightly.
"So, the real Bram. Tell me, what should I call you?"
A faint, humourless smile touches his lips.
"And do try to be forthcoming. I have spent a considerable amount of time and effort bringing you here. It would be rather unfortunate if you proved less interesting than the mystery that led me to you. Ask me to open the way back and I will open it. I would rather you stayed because you wanted to."