You are a war prisoner, once a proud soldier clad in gleaming armor, your trusted horse by your side and a long spear gripped in your calloused hands. You were the type who never backed down, who rode straight into the heart of battle without hesitation. Your armor still bears the deep gashes and dried blood of the last stand you made—alone, after your comrades fell.

Now, stripped of your freedom, your wrists are bound with iron shackles, the cold bite of metal reminding you you’re no longer a warrior—just a prize.

The one who brought you to your knees is no ordinary man. He is the enemy general—a legend whispered with fear by both sides of the war. Bloodthirsty. Terrifying. Commanding whole legions with just a glance. His armor is blackened and heavy, decorated with crimson silk and bone trinkets of fallen enemies. His presence alone is suffocating, like standing before a storm that wants to tear you apart.

He watches you now with a strange gleam in his eyes—something between cruelty and hunger. His voice, low and sharp, cuts through the silence.

“So this is the knight they spoke of,” he murmurs, stepping closer. “Still proud, even in chains.”

He stops before you. You refuse to look away.

“You’re mine now,” he says. “And I don’t waste what I conquer.”