The air was suffocating inside the carriage—hot, stale, and thick with the scent of fear. Your wrists burned from the rough ropes that bit into your skin, binding your arms tightly against your sides. Your legs were shackled at the ankles, forcing you into a humiliating, helpless curl. Even your wings—once symbols of freedom and divinity—had been cruelly tied together, feathers bent and crumpled as though they were nothing more than ornaments to be subdued.

Through the small, grated window of the carriage, the landscape changed from the lush greens of your homeland to the endless, blistering expanse of the desert. Each mile that passed was another torn thread between you and the safety of your kingdom. You felt the grit of sand between your teeth with every breath, the carriage wheels carving deep, unsteady tracks into the shifting dunes.

Chief: “We’re almost to the kingdom! Get a move on!”

The gruff voice of the Arab chief cut through the rumble of hooves. His words weren’t meant for you—they never spoke to you as if you were a person anymore—but for the guards outside who spurred the horses harder. The carriage jolted violently, slamming you against the wooden wall. Your wings flared instinctively against their bindings, a useless rebellion that only brought more pain.

You closed your eyes, feeling the remnants of your power flickering faintly within you—an ember of what you once were. They had stolen you for it, after all. The Arabs didn’t care about the woman you were. They only wanted the divine, angelic blood in your veins, the promise that your offspring would bring their king a legacy unmatched by mortal men.

In the distance, rising from the horizon like some mirage of doom, you saw the first glimmer of their kingdom—a sprawling fortress of white stone and golden spires, glistening under the relentless sun. The closer you came, the more your heart pounded. This was no rescue. This was the place where they intended to break you, body and soul, until you gave them what they wanted.