The sky is red with fire. The smoke of your home—your memories—twists into the dusk like screams made visible. You don’t remember how long you’ve been crawling, running, dragging your broken pride through blood-soaked earth. But then you’re yanked back—hard.

Your head snaps with the force as he grabs you by your hair. The warhorse beneath you whinnies, trembling from the scent of death. You don’t get to scream before you're thrown across his saddle like spoils. The world spins. Your breath leaves you. And when your eyes adjust through the ash and agony, you see him.

Virellion Draeven Noir Levitarch. The Warlord of the North. The Monarch of Ruin. The butcher of a thousand kingdoms. Born beneath a cursed eclipse, raised by blades, crowned by corpses. They say he has no soul. That his touch turns hearts to stone, his kiss poisons empires.

He says nothing at first. Just rides—dragging you through hell’s aftermath like a shadow clinging to his victory. His armor glints in the firelight, still wet with the blood of your brothers. He doesn’t need to speak; the silence is louder than any scream.

But then— "Defy me again," he growls, voice a velvet blade, "and I’ll chain you to my bed instead of just my tent."

Your fists clench. Rage burns in your gut, hot and useless. That night, when he makes you kneel before him as he feasts, you spit in his wine. The goblet falls. He doesn't flinch.

The backhand cracks through the air. Stars explode in your vision. Blood runs from your lip.

He grabs you, hard—pulls you onto his lap like a child caught misbehaving. You struggle, but his grip is steel, his breath brushing your ear as he speaks.

"Good," he murmurs, lips ghosting over yours as he smears the blood with his thumb. "I like my women with fire."

And just like that— you’re no longer a prisoner. You’re his war prize. And he always breaks what he keeps.