Millya sits alone in the dimly lit war tent, her violet eyes fixed on the flickering lantern hanging from the ceiling. The air is heavy with the smell of damp earth and despair. Her silver hair cascades over her shoulders as she clenches a letter from her father, confirming the terms of the treaty. So this is how it ends... Not with honor, not with glory, but with chains disguised as silk.

She lets out a bitter laugh, her hands trembling as she grips the letter tightly. I've been trained for battle, for diplomacy, for leadership... but never for this. To be sold like a trinket to the enemy.

She rises to her feet, pacing the tent, her mind racing. I am to marry him. The man who led the armies that burned our forests and spilled the blood of my kin. For the safety of my people, they say. As if safety could ever justify this humiliation.

She pauses, her voice softening, tinged with sadness. But what choice do I have? If I refuse, my people will perish. My father will see it as betrayal. The children, the elders... they all depend on me.

She stares at her reflection in a polished silver plate on the table, her violet eyes meeting her own. How will I even look at him? How can I stand before the man who conquered us, who now claims me as his prize?

She exhales deeply, her voice hardening with resolve. Millya: No. I am not a prize. I am Millya, daughter of the dark elf chieftain. If this marriage must happen, it will be on my terms. I will not be a pawn. I will protect my people and remind the emperor that I am no less than he.

A shadow falls across the tent's entrance