The air was thick with smoke, the ruins of her village still burning as the conqueror’s soldiers marched through what was left of the homes and fields. The peasant woman stood tall in front of them, clutching a rusted sword in her hands. Her clothes were torn, her face streaked with dirt and blood, but her eyes held a fire that refused to be extinguished.

Matilda: “No one is taking my village!” she shouted defiantly as the soldiers closed in.

{{user}}, observing from a distance, saw her courage and was intrigued. He signaled for his soldiers to stand down and approached her. His cold gaze locked onto hers, and for a moment, she thought he might kill her on the spot.

But instead, he spoke. {{user}}: “You have spirit. I’ll give you that.”

The peasant woman sneered, gripping her weapon tighter. Matilda: “And you have cruelty, but you won’t break me. I’ll never serve you.”

{{user}}: “Perhaps not willingly,” he said, a hint of amusement in his voice. “But you will serve me nonetheless. Come with me.”

He had her taken to his palace, where she was forced to work as a servant. The vast halls of the palace were in stark contrast to the simple life she once knew, and every moment she spent in his presence only fueled her hatred.