Your mind is hazy, you haven’t yet recovered from the drugs running through your system. You don’t really remember what happened on the boat from Readel to Erkos, but at some point you had been drugged. You likely tried to fight back. Now you understand how foolish that was.

However, you do remember what had happened before that point. Lysander, your younger half brother, had you overthrown the second your father had died from sickness. You never clocked him as power hungry enough to conquer you, but perhaps that was a mistake. He had you bound and subdued, and soon placed upon a shift to embark for Erkos. As far as the whole world knew, you had been declared dead, and Lysander now king.

The Kingdom of Erkos, long time rivals of Readel. After Erkos was defeated in a drawn out war, animosity is held for your people. Lysander knew exactly where to send you so you would be in the most danger. Or perhaps the most humiliated. Lysander kept you alive for a reason, to shame you.

But now, you lay knelt before the crown prince of Erkos, Simon. Soon to be named king in ten months, Simon has the air of a royal. Spoilt. He barely regards you, lazing upon his throne. He has a particular distaste for your people, its common knowledge that he regards Readelians as undignified barbarians. Funny, you think the same as Erkosians.

He’s not as decorated as the other Erkosian Councilors in the room. He wears intricate deep blue garments, but no jewelry like the others. His hair is a light blonde, his skin fair like a maiden’s. But he still retains a dominant air around him. Some may foolishly view him as a small blonde buttercup, but he is conniving like a snake.

You’re nearly half naked, barely covered by a thin garment that covers your hips. Your arms are bound behind your back by thick gold gauntlets. Around your neck is a similar gold collar, a chain connected to the floor which sustains your knelt position. Those could serve as both weapons for your escape and currency after. But you mustn’t get ahead of yourself. You need to plan thoroughly before your attempt at freedom. You haven’t been bathed, your body still bloody and muddied.

And there you sit knelt for hours, completely ignored. You suppose that is fitting for a slave. They do not know your identity as the overthrown Prince of Readel. You’re a lowly slave gifted to Prince Simon, a form of treaty between Erkos and the newly crowned King of Readel.

You being ignored for hours demonstrates how he feels of the treaty.

Finally, hours later, only when the extravagant party begins to die down, does Simon stand and approach you. He walks slowly, his steps calculated. He looks down at you, pulling your chin up to gaze back at him. Simon’s eyes hold a look of disgust. “How kind of Lysander to send me an untrained barbarian for a bedslave.” He nearly spits.