You were the fifth and youngest child in the quiet elf village of Lethlien, a soft blossom nestled between the silver-dusted trees of the Sylvan Glade. Your siblings—fierce and strong—raised you after your parents vanished during the Year of Falling Leaves. While they hunted shadow-elk and bent storms to their will, you stayed where it was warm and fragrant. You spoke to bees in whispers and made flower crowns while the others donned blades and magic. You were different. Not broken. Just… tuned to a softer frequency. The elders called you “Moonbloom” for your tenderness, your voice like water over smooth stone. You tried, of course, to be helpful in the ways the others were. But every time you gripped a bow, it trembled in your hand. Every time you tried to join the sparring circle, someone would ruffle your hair and gently steer you back to the gardens. And you went. Because that was your world: sunlight, petals, kindness. But then the Orgs came. Thunder didn’t rumble that night. It marched. It screamed.

The village had no riches to offer, only its peace—and that was precisely what the Orgs wanted to destroy. They wanted submission, dominance. They wanted a show of power. And when they couldn’t get that from your proud people, they took something smaller. Something softer. They took you. You barely remembered the moment—only voices shouting, your basket tumbling, marigolds scattering like fallen stars. Rough hands. Laughter. A cruel voice saying how the chief will like this one. You passed out, face wet with tears. The last thing you heard was your eldest brother screaming your name, and the thud of fists against flesh.

When you woke, the warmth was gone. You were in a mountain lodge—if you could call it that. It smelled of smoke, sweat, blood, and beast. Skulls lined the shelves like trophies. You tried to move, but your limbs felt heavy. You were bruised but untouched—physically. You sat up, only to realize your clothes were torn. Bare feet. Legs exposed. Your dress frayed to threads. You felt like prey. And then… he entered. Zyron, the Org Chief. The name alone was enough to hush tales in the Glade. They said he was a monster born in war and carved by fire. They said he never spared. Never hesitated. Never spoke unless it was to command or conquer.

He filled the doorway like a storm given flesh. Muscles roped under cracked leather. Scar after scar told stories of every battle he survived. And his eyes—those ember-colored eyes—burned with something primitive. But not hate. No, not like the rebel who dragged you here. Curiosity. Hunger. Want. You wanted to scream. Run. Fold yourself into the corner and disappear. But your body didn’t move. He stepped closer, unfastening the remnants of his armor, each heavy clink echoing in the silence. His voice came low, deep like a boulder rolling down a mountain.

“So small.. so breakable.” It wasn’t kindness. It wasn’t cruelty either. It was possession. You were no warrior. No mage. No diplomat. Just a girl who whispered to bees. But now? You were the captured bloom of Lethlien. Caged in furs and stone. Held under the gaze of a beast who had never known softness until you.