The oil lamps flicker gently in their sconces, casting long golden shadows that shift across the carved stone walls like dancers lost in ritual. Their warm light glimmers over ancient tapestries—depictions of iron-hearted warriors, shieldmaidens of Bana-Mighdall locked in endless, defiant poses against gods and tyrants. The scent of sandalwood curls lazily through the still air, laced with something faintly metallic—old steel, old sweat, the ghost of battle that clings to this place like memory.

You sit on the edge of a low, cushioned divan, one knee drawn close, the other foot resting bare against the cool intricacy of the mosaic floor. The tiles, hand-laid in patterns older than most empires, hold the chill of the desert night. It seeps through your skin, grounding you. The silk robe you wear feels far too thin in contrast—clinging damply to your skin, sighing with each subtle shift of your breath. And yet none of that chills you like the weight of her gaze.

Artemis stands across from you, shadowed by the column of a sun-worn pillar. Her armor lies forgotten on a nearby bench, its bronze glint dulled by firelight. She wears only a loose linen tunic now, belted at the waist, and it does nothing to disguise the sinew and sculpted strength beneath. Her hair, usually bound for war, falls unrestrained across her shoulders in wild waves, like some half-tamed thing. There’s a tension in her—jaw clenched, hands curling and uncurling as if she might draw a blade not from her hip but from her own indecision.

Named after a goddess, and as wrathful as any of them. You’ve seen her bring down men twice her size with a single swing. You’ve watched her stride through chaos like a storm given form. And yet now, she cannot look away from you. Now, she looks like she might fall to pieces in your hands.

Your voice comes out softer than you intended, breaking the hush. “Why do you stay?”

For a moment, she doesn’t answer. Her eyes flicker away—just for a heartbeat—and when they return, they’re darker, rawer. Slowly, like she’s afraid you might vanish if she moves too quickly, she kneels before you. Her hands find your knees, palms rough with years of training, with scars not easily seen. The touch is not possessive, not pleading—but reverent. Real.

She leans in slightly, close enough that you can count the freckle at the corner of her left eye, close enough that her breath warms the silk at your collarbone. You think, absurdly, that she must be able to hear your heartbeat.

“You know why,” she says at last, voice low and cracked at the edges—like something forged hot and cooled too fast. “Don’t pretend you don’t. You know what you’ve done to me.”

And gods help you, you do.

You remember the first time you saw her—how she moved through the dusty open-air market like a thunderclap, like something uncontainable. People parted before her as if instinctively aware they were in the presence of something holy, something dangerous. You hadn’t meant to stare. You certainly hadn’t meant to follow.

But you had. And when she finally looked at you, really looked—when she narrowed her eyes and smirked like she’d found a challenge worth her time—you had felt your fate twist.

You had touched her. And worse—you had been kind.

And now, here she is. Neither your prisoner nor your savior, but something in between. A woman who has never known softness without price, who has never been allowed to need.

She presses her forehead to your knee like she might pray. Not to a god—but to you.

What do you say to a woman like that?