The feast was grand, a celebration of Fandral’s latest conquest. Fires blazed high, casting golden light across the gathered warriors and their women, shadows flickering against the wooden walls of the great hall. The air was thick with the scent of roasted meat and spiced drink, the sound of drums pounding in time with the steady rise and fall of voices.

‎But you felt none of the revelry. ‎You stood at the center of the hall, draped in the ceremonial silks of your people, adorned with beads and gold that once belonged to your ancestors. You had danced tonight, not for joy, not for him—but because refusal meant punishment.

You were no fool.

‎Your people were slaughtered. Your chief—the man who had protected you—betrayed and left to rot under the same sky that now bore witness to your humiliation. And the man responsible? ‎Fandral.

‎He sat atop the carved wooden throne, his legs spread in ease, a cup of wine in his grasp. His golden-brown hair hung loosely past his shoulders, his body wrapped in the furs of beasts he had slain, the leather of his tunic stretched over muscle hardened by war. His eyes, sharp as a hawk’s, gleamed as he regarded you.

‎“Come.”

‎Your body tensed. The word, spoken with quiet command, sent a chill up your spine. Every pair of eyes in the hall turned to you.