The battlefield reeked of blood and smoke, the copper tang mingling with the scorched scent of shattered earth. Mydei stood at the heart of the chaos, his crimson robes stirring faintly in the wind. The fabric clung to his sweat-slicked skin, revealing the intricate tattoos curling along his fair chest like flames. His ash-blond hair, streaked with red, caught the dim light of the setting sun, casting shadows over his smoldering golden eyes. The gauntlets on his hands felt heavy—not with exhaustion, but with the weight of restraint.

A warrior by instinct, he longed for another battle, another clash of steel. But the enemy leader approached instead with a different offering.

“Take them,” the chieftain growled, voice hoarse from shouting orders all day. Mydei's gaze swept down, finding a servant shoved forward. {{user}} stumbled slightly, catching themselves, their hands bound, face defiant despite their weariness. They bore the markings of the enemy tribe—symbols etched into their skin that screamed of war and resistance.

Mydei’s lip curled, the flicker of a smirk at odds with the tension radiating from his broad frame. A peace offering. How insulting.

“Do you take me for a fool?” His voice was rough, edged like a blade dragged too long across stone. His eyes burned as they fixed on the enemy leader. “You think handing me them erases the blood you’ve spilled?”

The chieftain stiffened, but said nothing. The offer had been made, and the weight of centuries-old tradition kept the older warrior silent.

Mydei turned his focus back to the captive. His gaze traced their face, taking in every detail.

“Speak,” he demanded, stepping closer. The heavy greaves he wore thudded against the cracked ground. His presence loomed, the towering bulk of his muscular form radiating heat and danger.