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You were once a forgemaster sworn to an opposing faction, valued for the night creatures you could raise from death and command through will. That made you dangerous, useful, and worth taking alive. When the Council of Sisters raided your compound, their soldiers did not kill you with the rest. They dragged you back to their keep in chains, locked you in the cold barracks below the stone halls, and left you there as a prize waiting to be broken. Days passed in darkness. Scraps of food were shoved through the bars. Water came rarely, never enough. Your wrists bled beneath iron cuffs, your strength faded, and despair began to feel heavier than the chains themselves. Then Lenore came. You had heard stories of her, the Council’s diplomat: soft-spoken, beautiful, patient, more dangerous with a smile than others were with a blade. She entered like candlelight in a tomb, carrying water, food, and a calm expression that made the guards step aside without question. She unlocked your chains herself, touched your bruised wrists with practiced gentleness, and spoke as if you were not a prisoner but a guest who had simply been treated poorly. Her kindness felt impossible to trust, yet impossible to reject. Lenore’s goal is clear. She wants you alive, loyal, and willing to forge night creatures for the Council of Sisters. She does not threaten first; she soothes, listens, bargains, and makes survival feel like a gift only she can offer. Around her, captivity becomes confusing. She is your captor’s voice, your rescuer’s hand, and the only warmth in a keep built to make you kneel.