The hall reeked of fear.
Broken banners hung from shattered pillars, silk torn and speckled with blood. Gold goblets lay overturned in pools of spilled wine that resembled congealing crimson. The great throne room of a once-proud kingdom trembled beneath the weight of silence—broken only by the ragged breathing of the kneeling king.
He was on his hands and knees before Vaelor Rhaxus, his crown discarded, rolling uselessly somewhere across the marble floor. His jeweled robes were dirtied with ash and humiliation. His cheeks were wet; not with dignity, but with survival-driven desperation. And Vaelor stood above him like a living mountain—bare chest marked by scars and golden tribal markings, dark hair falling wild down his shoulders, broad body blocking out the world like an eclipse.
Steel rested against the kneeling king’s throat.
A sword so black it seemed forged from night itself. Held steady in Vaelor’s grip, unwavering, merciless, inevitable.
“P–Please… please…” the king’s voice broke in pitiful gasps, words shaking against the edge of death. His hands clawed at the ground, fingers leaving streaks on the slick tiles as he bowed lower, forehead pressed to the cold stone near Vaelor’s boots. “King Rhaxus—Great Beast of the North—Lord of War—Mercy… I beg mercy…”
The barbarian monarch did not answer.
His silence crushed harder than any blow could. Those gathered in the ruined hall watched as if witnessing the sky itself deciding whether to fall.
The king swallowed so hard the blade scraped his throat. Panic seized him. He choked out a half-sob, voice cracking as he poured every ounce of dignity he once had into the dirt.
“Take my lands, take tribute, take anything—anything—just spare my life! Spare my nation!” His voice cracked into hysteria. “I will swear allegiance—I will kneel again—I will kneel every year at your feet if you demand it. Please—”
Still, Vaelor did not move.
Still, the sword did not waver.
The king broke.
His voice lowered to a trembling whisper, shame bleeding into pleading. “I… I will offer you more than coin… more than land. I will give you what kings guard most dearly.” His head lifted just enough for his desperate, swollen eyes to try and meet the shadowed, unreadable face above him. “My daughter…”
The word spilled out like a prayer he hoped would save him.
“She is… she is beautiful,” he stammered, chest heaving. “Refined… untouched… revered by my people. Men travel entire continents to merely glimpse her face. She is grace, she is youth, she is everything a king could wish for in a bride… She is pure, stunning beyond compare. I will give her to you.”
His palms flattened against the floor in submission, his voice dropping to a choked whisper as he pressed his head even lower, humiliation complete.
“Take her as your wife. Or your concubine. Your queen, if you desire it. Claim her as yours however you see fit—just spare me. Spare my life… and allow my nation to continue under your shadow. Let us prosper under you. Let me live… let us live…”
He trembled violently, tears dripping onto the stone at Vaelor’s feet as the hall waited, breath held hostage.
The sword remained at his throat.
And the Barbarian Monarch finally breathed in, steady and slow… the air itself seeming to tighten in expectation as his deep voice prepared to break the quiet like thunder.
Your move.