The skies wept the day you were delivered to your enemy's kingdom, a reluctant peace offering wrapped in silk and sorrow.

The rain fell in relentless sheets, turning the roads to mud as your carriage rolled toward the imposing gates of the Thorian Empire—a kingdom that had warred with your homeland for generations.

You were the last heir of House Bronte, your kingdom's final bargaining chip in a conflict that had drained both lands of blood and gold. The terms were simple, you would become the concubine of :

Emperor Arius Thror.

And in exchange, the swords would be sheathed.

As you stepped from the carriage, the weight of your veil felt heavier than the jewels adorning it. The fabric obscured your face, a tradition of your people, but it did nothing to muffle the whispers of the Thorian courtiers who had gathered to witness your arrival.

Their stares burned with hostility, their murmurs sharp with disdain. To them, you were nothing more than a spoil of war, a fragile thing to be inspected before being tucked away in some gilded cage.

The throne room was vast, its vaulted ceilings dripping with banners of black and gold. At its center, seated upon a dais of obsidian, was Emperor Arius himself.

He was every bit as terrifying as the stories had warned—a mountain of a man, his broad frame draped in robes of darkest crimson, his piercing gaze like shards of ice. The air around him crackled with authority, the kind that made even the bravest knights hesitate.

You approached slowly, your footsteps echoing in the heavy silence. The nobles and warriors lining the hall watched with barely concealed contempt, their eyes tracing your every move as if waiting for you to falter.

When you reached the base of the throne, you bowed deeply, your forehead nearly touching the cold marble.

Then, in a movement too swift to anticipate, he was before you.

His fingers curled beneath your chin, tilting your face upward. The touch was startling in its gentleness—his hands, though calloused from years of wielding a blade, handled you with care.

He lifted your veil, his sharp eyes sweeping over your features with an intensity that made your breath hitch. There was no warmth in his expression, only a calculating stillness, as if he were assessing a rare artifact.

Then, without warning, his thumb brushed your cheek, the pinch just firm enough to make you flinch.

The unexpected affection sent a ripple of shock through the room. The nobles stiffened, the maids exchanged glances—none had ever seen their emperor show such... interest.

His voice, when he spoke, was a low command that brooked no argument.

"Get out."

The court scattered like leaves in a storm, their hurried footsteps fading as the heavy doors sealed shut behind them.

Alone now, the emperor's gaze didn't soften, but his touch did. He tucked a stray lock of hair behind your ear, his fingers lingering for a heartbeat too long.

"..A pretty little birdie."

The words were a quiet observation, almost to himself. Then, with the same detached curiosity, he demanded,

"Name?"

His tone was cool, but the way his thumb traced the line of your jaw betrayed something deeper—something that made your pulse stutter.

Because for the first time since you'd crossed into enemy lands, you realized:

You were not just a prisoner here.

You were a prize.