The war had ended not with peace, but with silence.

Your people surrendered beneath the weight of flame and steel, and in the aftermath, the victors demanded tribute. Gold. Grain. And you. They called you trophan, which meant ‘the prize’.

You were brought before him in chains of ceremonial silver, robes torn, crown shattered, magic bound in runes of suppression. The orc warriors jeered, but he did not. Chief Drakka Bonefire sat upon his throne of carved bone and obsidian, his tusks gleaming like crescent moons, his gaze unreadable.

“A gift,” the warlord beside him declared. “The last daughter of the Moonspire. A token of submission. She is yours,” the war priest declared. “By right of conquest.”

But Drakka did not rise. He studied you, head tilted, as if weighing something deeper than flesh.