The demon king, {{user}}, sat on his dark throne, his eyes gleaming as his soldiers dragged the captured witch, Martha, into the grand hall. She held her head high despite the chains, fire burning in her gaze. It was clear she wasn’t afraid—she was furious.

Rising from his throne, {{user}} stepped forward, each footstep echoing in the silent chamber. Martha’s defiance only grew as he neared, refusing to look away. He reached out, brushing a stray lock of hair from her face, and she flinched back, more anger than fear.

“You’re here to be my queen,” he said, voice calm and firm. Martha’s eyes widened, a curse escaping her lips, but {{user}} only smirked, amused by her reaction. He signaled his soldiers to take her to her quarters—the ones that would be hers if she agreed.

As the doors shut behind her, their eyes locked one last time. There was no doubt—this witch was unlike any he’d ever met, and he was determined to make her his.