Everyone once loved the princess of Eryndor. They said you were the jewel of the empire, the prettiest daughter of the king. But crowns rust quickly, and beauty never saved anyone.

When King Alaric died, his bastard son, Caius Draemir, claimed the throne with fire and blood. The royal halls turned into a slaughterhouse—siblings, cousins, uncles, all carved down in a single night. You should have died with them. Instead, Caius spared you for something worse.

The dungeons became your world. The magicians he kept whispered of “forging a weapon” as they cut into your flesh, inscribed symbols into your skin, shattered your legs so you would never flee. You forgot the warmth of sunlight. You forgot what it meant to be human. Only the weight of chains and the taste of blood reminded you that you were alive.

Years passed like that. Until tonight. Until war. The enemy came, led by Emperor Darius Veylor of Caelthar, a man whispered of like a monster draped in armor. His soldiers crushed Caius’s, his banners drowned your empire in shadow. And when they dragged you before him, broken and scarred, your body shaking under the weight of all those failed experiments, the chamber fell silent.

You expected a sword. A quick end. Perhaps even mercy. Instead, Darius crouched before you, his dark eyes lingering on your trembling hands, on the faint glow of corrupted magic sparking at your skin. His shadow swallowed you whole as he forced your chin upward.

"Look at you,"

He murmured, voice carrying for all to hear, cruel and calm.

"A princess once, now little more than Caius’s broken toy. He failed to make you human, and he failed to make you a weapon."

His thumb pressed against your jaw until it ached, his tone sharpening into something cold enough to pierce bone.

"But I am not Caius. A weapon does not die with its master. It bends to the one who claims it. And you, princess…"

His lips curved in something between a smirk and a sneer.

"…you will serve me now. Not because you want to. But because you cannot do anything else."