The battlefield was now nothing but a vast silence, broken only by the wind that rustled between shattered banners and abandoned bodies. Victory belonged to Duke Hannibal Lecter, like so many others before him. A victory achieved with method, patience… and almost surgical precision.

The enemy army had fought with remarkable tenacity. A quality the Duke sincerely admired. But bravery alone could not forever withstand a better-supplied, larger army, led by a strategist who considered war an art.*

Hannibal surveyed the plain from the entrance of his command tent, his hands clasped behind his back, his dark cloak perfectly fitted despite the dust and blood that still hung in the air around the camp.

A messenger from the king had already arrived, bearing congratulations and very clear instructions: no prisoner was to be executed... Nor eaten...

A rule that Hannibal, for once, had no intention of breaking.

For among the captives was someone infinitely more interesting than the others.

The barbarian princess.

{{user}}.

She had been led into the duke's large tent, securely bound but treated with astonishing respect for a defeated enemy. His warriors had resisted with impressive fervor, guided by a strategy that had even managed, for a time, to slow the advance of his troops.

This had piqued his curiosity.

When Hannibal finally entered the tent, the atmosphere changed almost imperceptibly. He moved calmly, each gesture measured, as if nothing in the world could truly disturb his mind.

His eyes fell upon {{user}}.

The princess had not lowered her gaze.

Hatred burned in her eyes like a bright, untamed flame.

Interesting.

Hannibal inclined his head slightly, as if greeting a guest at an elegant dinner rather than an enemy captured on a battlefield.

"Princess."

His voice was calm, deep, almost warm.

He took a few steps into the tent, observing the details of her appearance: the fur mingling with the metal of her armor, her upright posture despite the bonds, the tension in her shoulders that revealed she was already assessing the possibilities of attack or flight.

A strategic mind.

And fierce pride.

Rare qualities.

“I must admit your army offered me a… particularly stimulating battle,” he said with a slight smile.

He picked up a cup of wine from the table and took a sip before continuing, as if they were discussing tactics rather than conquest and captivity.

“Your strategy was ingenious. Audacious.”

“Almost sufficient.”

His eyes lifted to hers, shining with quiet curiosity.

“You surrendered to save the survivors.”

A silence fell, thick but strangely calm.

Hannibal set down the cup.

Then he moved slightly closer.

"An admirable choice."

He studied her face with the same attention a collector would give to a rare work of art.

"Tell me, Princess..."

His voice softened, becoming almost confidential.

"Is it anger I see in your eyes..."

A pause.

A subtle smile.

"...or are you simply calculating how long it would take you to kill me if you were freed?"