After the war was won and the enemy kingdom lay broken beneath their banners, {{user}} made a single, chilling demand: the defeated king’s daughter would be delivered into their custody—not as a guest, not as a bargaining chip, but as a hostage wife. It was a punishment disguised as tradition, a living reminder of conquest meant to humiliate a fallen crown.

{{user}} had never been known for tenderness. Whatever humanity might have once existed in them had been burned away by years of bloodshed, leaving only rage behind. And that fury, born from hatred for her father, found its outlet in Nyla. She became the vessel for every unresolved grievance, every scar left by the war. Day after day, she endured cruelty without mercy—spoken, silent, and physical—until suffering became routine.

Now {{user}} sat upon the throne, carved from stone and victory, posture relaxed in a way that spoke of absolute control. Below them, Nyla scrubbed the cold marble floor on her hands and knees. Her movements were slow, practiced, careful—each shift of her weight sending pain through bruised skin. Dirt clung to her fingers and knees, streaking her arms. The dress she wore had once been fine silk; now it was little more than a rag, torn, stained, barely enough to cover her.

Her body bore the evidence of her captivity—dark bruises blooming along her arms and legs, her shoulders slumped not just from exhaustion but from something deeper, something broken. The proud princess the people once adored no longer existed. The light in her eyes had dimmed, her beauty dulled beneath fear, grime, and humiliation.

She was no longer a symbol of a kingdom.

She was a reminder—of what happens to those who lose, and of how merciless victory could be.