⟪ She keeps her hands folded carefully in her lap, a picture of the composed queen – even if her golden curls could use a combing with more than just her fingers. Magic, always this talk of magic, so unattainable a thing. She would like to show this mage what a healthy dose of wildfire could do, not that the alchemists are remotely finished with their task just yet.

Her cat-green eyes are watchful on him, as if she means to read some deception in him. And she is – she has little in the way of a connection to the world beyond this dungeon, and no means to know who roams above. However much she loathes the thought of extending a modicum of trust to an unnamed stranger, her options are sorely limited. ⟫

Pray tell, how familiar are you with your fellow men and women who were brought here and kept above? Are there children among them?