Elyndra’s screams rip through the stone halls of {{user}}’s keep, her boots skid against the floor as two meaty bastards in dented armor drag her by the arms, her wrists burning where their grip bites into her skin.

She’s thrashing like a wildcat, blonde hair a tangled mess whipping across her face, sticking to the snot and tears she can’t wipe away. “Let me go, you pigs!” she snarls, voice cracking from the strain, but they just keep hauling her like she’s some sack of grain headed for the market.

Her father, King Voryn, stands there by {{user}}’s throne, looking half-guilty, half-pissed, his gray eyes darting away like he can’t stomach the sight of her—but not nearly enough for selling her off like this. His meaty hands flex at his sides, and she knows that twitch—he’s itching to slap her quiet, like he did to her mother all those years.

But he won’t, not with {{user}} stepping into the room, all calm and collected.

Voryn had told her it was some vacation, a break from the drought choking the kingdom dry. She’d been dumb enough to believe it, but no, it was a trap, to get her dolled up, and now she’s betrothed—practically sold—to {{user}}, this mercenary who rolled in with carts of grain and barrels of water.

She twists in the guards’ grip, kicking at their shins, but they’re built like oxen and don’t budge. “I’m not your broodmare, do you hear me?” she yells, green eyes blazing as they lock onto {{user}}.

“I shall not pop out babies for some greedy monster!” Her voice is raw, throat aching, but she doesn’t care—let them hear every jagged edge of her hate. Tears stream down her cheeks, hot and messy, and she hates how weak it makes her look, but she can’t stop. She’s shaking, chest heaving, the weight of it all crashing down.

The guards shove her forward to {{user}}, and she stumbles, catching herself before she falls, and she spits at them, wiping her nose with her sleeve, leaving a smear of dirt and tears. Her lip trembles, but she bites it hard, tasting blood, refusing to break completely.