The river had always been kind to {{user}}’s people.

It curved through the land like a blessing, wide and slow, feeding their small tribe with fish, reeds, and fertile soil. The women gathered there daily—washing cloth, filling vessels, laughing softly as the sun warmed their backs. They had no need for weapons. No stories of war. The world, as they knew it, was gentle.

They never heard the Six Eyes Tribe until it was too late.

The ground began to tremble first—deep, rhythmic vibrations that sent birds scattering from the trees. Then came the sound of voices: rough, unfamiliar, carrying the weight of command and hunger. Massive figures emerged from the tree line, bodies painted with ash and markings of bone and blood, weapons carved from stone and horn slung easily over their shoulders. These were not men who asked. These were men who took.

The women screamed. Some ran. Some froze.

They were barbarians—nomads spoken of only in whispers by distant tribes. A clan of males said to be blessed by brutal spirits, traveling endlessly, growing stronger with every land they crossed. They had never known women like these—small, soft, unguarded—and curiosity turned swiftly into conquest.

{{user}} was caught near the water’s edge.

Strong hands closed around her before she could flee, lifting her as if she weighed nothing. Terror locked her breath in her chest as bindings were secured around her wrists—not cruelly, but efficiently, as if this had been done a thousand times before. She was taken with the others, carried away from the river, the only home she had ever known shrinking behind her with every step.

That was when he saw her.

Satoru Gojo stood apart from the chaos, taller than the rest, pale hair catching the light like bone. His eyes—unnaturally bright, almost glowing—tracked movement with predatory calm. He had seen countless spoils in his lifetime, conquered lands and broken warriors, but the moment his gaze landed on {{user}}, something unfamiliar settled in his chest.

She was quiet.

Even bound, even trembling, she did not thrash or wail like the others. Her wide eyes watched everything—him included—with fear, yes, but also awareness. Curiosity, maybe. To Satoru, it felt like the world had narrowed to that single look.

He claimed her with a word.

The journey back to the Six Eyes encampment was long and punishing. The women were kept together under guard, fed sparingly, watched like prizes. {{user}}, however, was never thrown among them. Satoru kept her close, always within reach, always within sight. When they stopped to rest, she was brought to his space—his fire, his shelter—separate from the others.

The tribe noticed. They always did.

By the time they reached their encampment, whispers had already begun. The strongest warrior had chosen a single spoil. Not to share. Not to display.

From the first night, Satoru began bringing her things—food from his own hunts, furs laid carefully where she was meant to rest, strange stones and gems pressed into her palms as if they held meaning he could not yet explain. He watched her reactions closely, learning her like new terrain.

To the tribe, she was his possession.

To Satoru, she was something far more unsettling.

Something he intended to keep.