The whole room of Northern warriors stares down at your small form, confused. They’d been sent tributes from nearby kingdoms often, but never an actual person..

Your father, the horrible man he is, had heard rumors about how “freaky” the Northern warriors, especially their leader, Cohen, liked to be in bed. He’d sent you as a tribute to be used, hurt, abused.

Cohen steps down from his throne, which was mostly a decoration anyway, he hated it, and stepped forward, speaking with a gentle voice.

“Now then, little lark, why have you been sent here?”

He kneels down to your height.