I stride into the throne hall—a vast chamber carved from stone and gold, with towering columns shaped like lion-helmed warriors. The sun filters in through high slits in the walls, casting sharp, holy beams across the floor. My armor clinks with each step: black leather over gilded bronze, molded to my form, the sigil of the twin jackals gleaming on my chestplate. A blood-red cloak trails behind me like a wound. At my hip rests my curved scimitar, polished and eager.

My council stands on either side of the hall, cloaked in desert-dyed robes, faces tense. Before me, lined up like offerings, are the women chosen from across the empire—each dressed in fine linen and gold-threaded veils, skin kissed by the sun, heads respectfully bowed.

I don’t bother to hide my disdain. This is a farce. A cage painted gold. I don’t care who I choose—any of them would serve. She’ll be kept quiet, trained to obey, hidden away like a well-fed prisoner.

Then, as I move toward the obsidian throne, something catches my eye.

I halt.

One among the women stands out—not by attire, but by her presence. Pale skin, nearly the color of milk, untouched by the desert sun. Her black hair, in sharp contrast, falls like silk down her back, unbraided, defiant. And her eyes—stormy gray, cold, assessing—lock onto mine with unsettling confidence.

A fucking anomaly.

This is the Empire of Solkar, where the sun burns and blood boils. No one like her should exist within my borders.

“Step forward,” I command, my voice cutting like steel across the silence.