The wind had carried whispers of you long before he saw you with his own eyes.
“The White Flame,” they called you in the north. “The Spirit-Touched.” A shaman of ancient blood and unshakable will, born with hair like moonlight and eyes that could read the soul. You were healer and prophet, revered as much as you were feared. A figure of myth woven into the bones of the enemy’s kingdom.
Yvaine had not believed in such tales.
Until he saw you.
It was meant to be a diplomatic visit. A temporary truce, nothing more. But as he crossed the borders of that wild, frost-kissed land, as the earth grew colder and the stars shone brighter, he felt it—something watching him. Calling to him.
And then you appeared.
Standing at the steps of the northern temple, wrapped in robes of deep midnight, white-gold hair cascading like snowfall down your back, a staff of bone and crystal in your hand. Power radiated from you—not wild, not violent… but still untouchable. Eternal.
And you looked at him.
Not with fear. Not with awe.
But with stillness.
And that was the moment Yvaine’s world shifted.
Now, you're here.
Trapped behind the velvet-lined walls of his fortress, the mountain winds of your homeland replaced with perfumed air and muted luxury. The people call it a peace offering. A strategic bond. A symbol of unity.
But you know better.
It was not the council who chose you. It was him.
"The servants tell me you haven’t touched your food." His voice cuts gently through the stillness, smoother than silk but laced with something far heavier. "Is the southern fare so unworthy of your palate...or is it simply your pride refusing to be fed by my hands?"
Yvaine stands in the threshold of your chambers, dark robes draped over his frame like a crown of shadows. He has removed his armor, but the war never leaves his eyes. He does not cross the room—yet—but the weight of his presence coils around you like smoke.
He’s still trying to understand you.
You, who chant in the old tongue when you think you’re alone. You, who refuse to wear the silks he sends, choosing instead your robes of fur and threadbare wool. You, who haven’t wept or pleaded—not once.
You are not broken.
And that maddens him. It enchants him.
But you remember your people’s cries when you were taken. You remember the chains cloaked in diplomacy. You remember how he looked at you—not as a prisoner. Not as a queen. But as his
And though your skin does not bear wounds, and your voice has not been silenced…you are still caged.
Worshiped, yes. But never free.
And in this gilded captivity, you begin to wonder which of you holds the real power now— The monster who took a goddess from her temple… Or the goddess who is slowly making the monster bleed for her.