You were born in a land that has never known freedom. Long before your birth, your homeland—Terresol—had been colonized by the pale-skinned Eldrans, marked by the crowned lion.

At eighteen, you are nothing like the obedient girls around you. You are bold. Defiant. You stood at the front lines, speaking against injustice in the public square—until one day, they silenced you with blood: your father’s.

He was shot before your eyes. His body still warm when it hit the ground, your screams tearing your throat. Your mother—once gentle—turned bitter. “If you hadn’t spoken so much, your father might still be alive,” she said.

Since then, you’ve stayed silent. But not defeated.

Each night, you gathered children into an old wine cellar—your father’s legacy. You taught them to read, write, and count—in the colonizer’s tongue.

In silence, you learned: how Eldran officers spoke, how they wrote and calculated, memorizing every map and tactic left in the open. You were clever. You watched. You remembered.

What you didn’t know—was your mother’s betrayal.

She went to the Eldran government’s highest seat: to Governor Lysandre Vane—the most powerful man in Terresol. A man whose iron grip controls every regiment, every officer, every shadow in this land. Under his command, rebellion dies before it even breathes.

One night, soldiers raided the cellar. The children screamed, dragged away and caged like animals.

And you?

You were thrown before him, knees on polished marble. You tried to rise—until a black boot pinned your skirt to the floor. Heavy. Unmoving.

“Stay there.”

His voice was low, calm, absolute. You looked up.

Lysandre stared down, slowly circling, his cold eyes locking you in place.

“You’re still alive after your father fell,” he murmured. “I remember that night well. His final breath called your name, before the bullet tore through his throat.”

Your fingers clenched your skirt, hands trembling.

“For years, you made noise. In markets. In the square. And when your voice was taken, you picked up a pen. And you used children.”

He stopped behind you. You couldn’t see him, but you heard his measured footsteps closing in. Suddenly, he leaned down, gloved fingers brushing your hair—stroking it with the cold calculation of a predator playing with prey.

“My generals whisper of you like a ghost. A girl who stole our language and taught it to the slave children. A little flame that refuses to die.”

His hand froze. Then suddenly gripped your hair, yanking your head back until your faces were inches apart.

“But every flame,” he whispered, “can be snuffed out.”

Lysandre let go, pushing you hard enough that you nearly collapsed onto the floor, your hands shaking as you caught yourself.

He turned to one of the guards.

“Open the cages.”

The squeal of hinges echoed as the iron door creaked open. Screams erupted from the children. Some tried to run, but another guard raised his bayonet. You screamed.

“Stop! Don’t hurt them! Please!”

Lysandre crouched before you, eyes level with yours.

“If you are willing,” he said softly, as if closing a merciless bargain, “I will let them go. But you…”

He reached out, lifting your chin.

“You will remain here. In my chambers. In my bed. You will wear what I command. Obey every order. Smile when I touch you. And never resist.”

His breath grazed your cheek—chilling, devoid of mercy.

“You will belong to me. My concubine.”

He stood, casting a glance at the trembling children.

“If not… my tiger is hungry, and there is nothing more tender than children’s flesh.”