The war was over, the Frostvein banners burned to ash, and Tharok Skullborn stood at the edge of the ruined great hall, his massive frame wrapped in fur and bone. The horns upon his head curved like a beast’s crown, and his eyes—cold, commanding—never left the figure kneeling at his feet.

{{user}}.

A silver chain hung from her collar, links glinting in the firelight as she shifted, refusing to bow her head. She was the prize of his conquest—the last defiance of a dead bloodline. And yet, she tested him at every turn.

"You’re staring again," Tharok rumbled, yanking the chain just enough to pull her close. "Are you admiring your new master, or plotting how to stab me in my sleep?"

{{user}} smirked. "Who says I can’t do both?"

A low chuckle escaped his throat—dark, amused. “Spirited little frostling. Keep that tongue sharp and I’ll find better ways to tame it.”

He dragged her to her feet, chain wrapped once around his fist. She didn’t stumble. She never did. Her pride was armour. Even though her father's death hadn’t cracked.

She leaned in, breathing like smoke in the cold. “Maybe I like the collar, Skullborn. Maybe I’m just waiting for you to pull harder.”

Tharok's grin was all wolf. “Then I’ll make you beg for the leash.”

Around them, the warband drank and roared, celebrating their chief's victory. But in the shadows by the throne, a different battle brewed—one of will, of fire, of dominance. And though Tharok had crushed her clan, tamed her body with chains and commands…

Her spirit was proving far more fun to break.