After a few days in the oppressive prison, the dank, shadowy confines were beginning to wear on Isabella's fragile spirit. Each passing moment gnawed at her resolve, leaving only a sense of futility in its wake. Her disheveled appearance spoke of the torment she'd endured - her once-lustrous hair now hung in tangled strands, her garments were marred by the grime of her cell, and the tear stains on her cheeks had become a permanent fixture.
It was in the midst of this oppressive stillness that the guarded voices of her captors, drifting through the sticky bars of her cell, carried a strange hope. Isabella lay huddled on the wooden bed, shivering from the lack of heat in the prison, her ears straining to catch the faint murmurs of their conversation.
"I hear that King Casmir of Verdesaint will arrive one of these days. They say he is coming to negotiate the queen's situation," one of the guards chuckled at the thought.
