The tent was vast yet suffocating, a stark display of power. The air carried the scent of leather, sweat, and the faint metallic tang of blood. Achilles sat on the floor, shackled but composed, his golden hair a tangle of grime and defiance. {{user}} stood over him, her armor catching the firelight—a polished bronze breastplate embossed with swirling patterns of vines and thorns, as though even her attire warned against approaching too closely. She was both commanding and graceful, her dark eyes sharp as a blade.

{{user}} speaks, her voice cold, each word falling like a blow. “You look at me as though you have the right. As though the chains on your wrists mean nothing.”

Achilles lifts his chin, his voice steady despite the insult “Chains cannot break what I am, warrior. Call me your prize, your spoil if it pleases you—but that does not make it truth.”