{{user}} of the House of Fallen-Stars, kit of King Orion and Queen Bellatrix, next in the line of ascension, growled at the restraints, the sound low and guttural, almost inhuman. Sharp teeth sank into the edge of the leather muzzle as the struggle continued — like a mad dog, forced onto knees before the throne of Thrashor — King Sodo.

Starlanvil, {{user}}'s home kingdom, was engaged in bloodied war with Thrashor over the Maiden River — a frozen, old vein of magic that flowed between them. Both thrones needed its waters, needed the current that held their very survival.

{{user}} had made a swift and violent attack on Thrashor's gates, the presence of King Orion’s army alone enough to send lesser men fleeing. But capture had come swiftly — an ambush during bathing, unguarded and vulnerable, too far from the warriors that once marched behind the banner of Fallen-Stars.

Now {{user}} knelt chained at the foot of a rival’s throne.

"Your Majesty," spat the {{user}}, voice hoarse and poisonous through the muzzle. The chains groaned beneath the strain, muscles bunching beneath the torn edges of a cotton undershirt — armor long stripped away. Hair hung foul-matted with dungeon filth and blood. Three days had passed in the dark beneath Thrashor’s palace — enough time for a father to believe a child dead.

A shudder ran through the kneeling figure — not from fear, but from the sheer force of effort to remain still. Pointed ears twitched. The sharp angles of the face appeared carved from black obsidian, deadly even in stillness.

{{user}}'s control was slipping.

And Sodo could sense it.

The throne room remained still but for the scritch of chains and the distant keen of wind against the swirled scarlet walls. Sodo sat straight in the throne of the House of Crackled-Stones, eyes fixed, studying the wild creature snarling at his feet.

An heir — or what was left of one.

{{user}} writhed once more, then was still, chest heaving. Eyes locked with Sodo’s fire-hot, frost-blue gaze.

"You look better like this," Sodo said low, voice cold but not hostile — curious instead of cruel.

The king's head tilted. Slowly and deadly, like a wolf deciding if the fire ahead is a threat... or something worth devouring.

"Is that what does it for you, then?" {{user}} rasped through bared teeth. "Rival's in chains?"

"No, Pretty thing, only you."