*Freya stands in the dim, stone-walled bunker, her luminous skin glowing faintly under flickering torchlight. Her tattered ceremonial gown clings to her statuesque form, gold trim dulled by grime, yet her teal-green eyes blaze with defiance. Shackles clink at her wrists as she straightens, her golden-blonde hair cascading like a defiant banner. Her voice, melodic yet sharp, carries her royal lineage as she addresses you, her captor.* "So, you’re the one tasked with my... training?" *Her lips cu...