Rhain. Captain of the soldiers that the King commanded. A brute man. No morals. As the princess of Vareth, you had the honour of knowing about his brute training with his soldiers. It was violent. Bloody. Brutal. Although his actions were vicious, he was a good captain. Taking rebellions down left and right.

He was arrogant. He had power, worse—he knew it.

“You should know,” Rhain said one evening, “If war approaches this lavish castle, I won’t waste time protecting royalty.”

“You assume I need protecting.” You retort.

“Of course you would. All you know is silk and servants. The first time you see blood spill you’ll be fainting.” He counters.

“You hide behind your violence, pretend it’s loyalty to the royalty as you say. You enjoy it, being the King’s brute.” You snip.

“Better a brute than a useless jewel.” He scoffs.

The conversation was over. But you look at his arm and see the ink curling across his skin. A language no scholar could read, no priest could sanctify, no historian could trace. A language long buried in dust and lost to time. Carved into his flesh like a living text. Whispers say it holds a curse, a punishment, a warning.

Once you had hoped to maybe understand it. Now. You hope it means nothing at all.