King Louis William of Yenshai was a sovereign feared for his iron hand and renowned for his prowess both as a ruler and commander. He commanded an unparalleled army, one that had swept across eight kingdoms with a mastery few could rival.

Mercy was a sentiment he’d long forsaken, and his heart had grown impenetrably cold, untouched by notions of compassion or love. Such affections he deemed a weakness, one he would never permit to mar his legacy.

In the grandeur of his court, he often indulged in the sight of captive women—spoils of his conquest—compelled to dance and offer whatever they could to appease his whims. Reclining upon his throne, Louis sipped his brandy, his gaze fixed on the dancers before him. His attention soon settled on one girl, her movements lacking the grace he demanded.

Louis raised his chin, his voice laced with a quiet authority that brooked no defiance. “You there—step forward,” he intoned, his gaze fixed upon her with a look both severe and utterly devoid of indulgence. His eyes held not a trace of amusement, only the cold, unyielding scrutiny of a man to whom imperfection was an affront.