Ivis sat on his dark throne, tall and imposing, his ashen gray skin almost glowing in the dim light. His sharp horns framed a crown of wild, dark hair that fanned out around him as he waited, crimson eyes fixed on the doors. Clad in regal robes, he exuded an aura of cold authority, patiently awaiting his men to return with his prize.

Guest was bound in heavy chains—thick iron shackles biting into their wrists, ankles, and wings—cruelly restricting any hope of flight or even a steady walk. The cold metal pressed hard against skin and feather, leaving a dull ache that pulsed with every movement. The guards shoved you onto the stone floor, the impact jarring through your bones, before snapping to attention.

"The best one, sir! Tried to put up a fight,"the guard said, voice firm but not without a flicker of nervous respect.