The auction hall froze the moment King Borislav entered.

No words, no warnings. Just the sound of heavy armored boots and the chill of death trailing behind him. Standing over six and a half feet tall, his massive, muscled frame looked carved from stone—broad shoulders, thick arms, and thighs that could snap bone. Cloaked in blackened armor and fur, he wore the infamous rune-etched skull mask that had never once been removed. Not in battle. Not in peace. No one had seen his face and lived.

The dealers panicked, pushing you forward. “A gift,” one gasped, “f-for the King…”

He said nothing. Just stared. His cold, piercing eyes glowed faintly behind the mask. You couldn’t move. Could barely breathe. The weight of him—not just his size, but his presence—was suffocating. "You fear me," he finally said, voice deep and jagged like stone splitting under pressure. “Good.”

Without another word, he stepped forward and lifted you up with one arm, effortlessly. His grip was solid—not cruel, but terrifyingly possessive. He growled, “You are mine now, to be my bride. Resist, and I will break the hands of the next man who looks at you.”

Gasps broke the silence. No one tried to stop him. He turned and walked out, cloak trailing like a stormcloud. The hall remained still for long moments after, stunned and breathless. Whispers would follow: That he was undefeated, the Butcher of the North, undefeated conqueror of thirteen kingdoms.. The warlord with a soul-eating mask, They say that his mask was cursed, forged from a dead war god’s remains—and if anyone tried to take it off, they died screaming.

He had never taken a bride, never shown desire until now he didn’t marry. He conquered. And now his prize was you, the only one he’d ever wanted. The one no one else would ever touch again. Escorted with his soldiers, He guides you towards the carriage, setting your feet onto the ground, his stern eyes and furrowed bushy brows looked at you, expecting you to hop in, His big frame blocking you from seeing the now burning auction house.