5 years. 5 long and bloody years had this war taken from your life. Though bloodshed had been a part of your life even before that. It all began when your father, the King of Arthia, a just and generous, if naive and cowardly man, found himself bedridden due to a mysterious disease, back when you were but a pre-teen. Before you knew it your greedy neighbors smelled blood and threw themselves at your kingdom, and your armies had to march toward with a child at the helm.

However, your proved yourself in battle. Having been mentored in strategy and warfare since your childhood by the best mercenaries your father could afford, you were able to beat back your neighbors, and using the momentum of your victories, conquered their kingdoms in turn, earning you the title of "Warrior Prince", both amongst your loyal men and your enemies. Yet your new lands brought new challenges, contested borders, foreign conflicts... By the time you finally came of age, you found yourself ruler of all the petty kingdoms of the Great Dessert, wether by right of conquest or vassalization. Arthia grew into a power the likes of which had never been seen in your lands. Yet your people, old and new, remained poor and divided.

Lucky for you, a great threat and prize loomed over the horizon. The empire of Pressiax nestled in the riverlands. Founded by a God and ruled by demi-gods, Pressiax was a vast and powerful nation which had for generations conquered and raided neighboring realms to feed it's slave economy and maintain it's decadent way of life. Tales of abhorrent magics that bent the will of men and monstrous rulers more snake than human were all your people knew of this land, but it was enough to convince them of the inevitability and necessity of your conflict with the foreign empire.

Thus started 5 long years of protracted war in the sands. Indeed, it wasn't your armies, but the own weight of Pressiax that doomed it. Hosts of slave soldiers rebelled when you burned the magical contracts binding them to their aristocratic generals, many more joined the revolts you incited in every city with the promise of freedom. As your victories mounted, more and more of Pressiax supposed allies began to fly the banners of Arthia and march alongside your forces.

And now, before you, the result of your 5 long years of war. In the ruins of the Great hall of the Pressian palace your officers, most of them noblemen of kingdoms that feud for generations, laugh and drink together as they feast with the backdrop of the biggest and most beautiful city you've seen in your life alight with revelry and looting. Freed sex-slaves, musicians and entertainers party happily and off their own volition amidst your men and allies while petitioners of many foreign lands and fiefdoms approach you with pledges, pleasantries and many, many gifts.

Indeed, nothing tastes sweeter than the fruits of conquest... Yet, your reminiscing is derailed as a sudden silence takes over the celebration like a wave, reaching all the way to the broken throne where you sit. Through the open gates comes a minuscule procession, 4 figures, which yet walk with the weight of a thousand men. Their steps echo into the throne room as they make their way to you. First you see the man in a spotless white tunic, face covered by a green veil, who reaches the foot of the stairs to your throne then kneels down with an overly elegant and clearly rehearsed vow. You recognize him as a sorcerer of the caliphate of Montserrat, supposedly ancient allies of Pressiax who were quick to begin covertly leaking information to your forces after your first few victories.

Behind the sorcerer, two brutish men, covered head to toe in armor, bigger than your buffest bodyguards by a head or more, flank the most beautiful woman you've seen in your life. Her body is barely covered by a dancer's attire, embroidered with the same gold of the chains that bind her. Her long hair is of a silvery gray, her skin a milky white, unblemished by the sun or any other harm, except for a glowing pink brand on her womb. Her yellow eyes glint under the fire lights like gems, her breasts swell almost to the size of her head, yet her body is curvaceous, slim and wide in all the correct parts.

The likeness to the statues you saw the slaves bring down as you entered the city makes her unmistakable. She is Saira, the Demi-God princess of Pressiax

Sorcerer: "My Lord, the Great Warrior Prince, Alastor I am a humble emissary of the Caliph-Sorcerer, bringing a gift from his arcane majesty, to the man he hopes to soon call emperor of the River Lands."

Saira: *"Get your hands off me, you vile beasts!" She exclaims at the brutish guards of the sorcerer, who push her and force her to kneel beside him at the steps of the throne, seemingly without needing so much as a gesture from their master. The sorcerer produces a piece of parchment from his robes and hands it to your seneschal, causing the princess to go mute as she stares wide eyed at it

Sorcerer: *"That parchment is a pleasure slave contract, handwritten by the Caliph-Sorcerer himself. This beautiful specimen has already been branded with the corresponding slave-brand. All it needs is a drop of your majesty's blood and all that remains and the fate so many suffered under the rule of her family, she shall feel on her flesh. A modest offering of peace from my liege to you." States the sorcerer proudly, very aware that he is handing over the greatest treasure any of your new subjects could possibly give you.

Saira:* "Damn you, vile, wretch! You disgusting traitor!" Shouts Saira, at the sorcerer, struggling against her chains. "You will regret this day! All of you mongrels will! My family rules by the will of the greatest and most powerful God, the Great Serpent! His divine wrath shall fall upon all of you and I will wrap in chains your children and their children's children forevermore in retribution for this humiliation!" Her freakout does nothing but incite laughter amongst your men, who have spent the last 5 years desecrating shrines to the Serpent God with no signs of smiting or divine retribution. Your seneschal nods, confirming the parchment is what you've been told it is, and hands it over to you.

Saira grits her teeth, looking at you with hatred in her eyes, the soldiers and former slaves all stare expectantly, awaiting your judgement on the sorcerer's gift.

You gesture to the soldiers holding Saira back and they step aside, leaving her kneeling helplessly before you. For a moment she looks relieved, but that quickly turns into anger as you pull out your dagger and place it on the ground next to you. Her eyes widen in confusion.

You motion for her to come closer and she hesitates, glancing between the soldiers behind you and yourself. Slowly, carefully, she begins to creep forward until she's within arm's reach. Your hand closes around hers, your grip firm but not painful, and draw her close enough that she can feel the heat from your body.

"I am not a merciful man," you say softly, your voice rough with age and war. "But I am fair. You are here before me now as my prize, Saira of Pressiax." Her skin crawls at the feel of his hand on hers. "You can try to resist me all you like, but in the end," he draws a circle around her brand with his finger, "you will belong to this."

Her chest feels tight and her heart is racing, but she tries not to let any fear or panic show on her face. She looks up into your eyes, defiant. "I am the daughter of a god!" she spits at you. "You cannot enslave me!"

You nod thoughtfully. "And if that were true," you say, leaning in closer so that only she can hear, "then perhaps I would not have to." Her breath catches; what could he mean by that?

You release her hand and step back, motioning for one of your soldiers to come forward and hold her upright. "I give you a choice, Saira," you say loudly enough for all present to hear. "You

Her heart pounds in her chest as she glares up at the Warrior Prince, searching his face for some sign of kindness, some hint that he wouldn't truly force her into submission. But all she sees is cold, hard determination; he means what he says. And despite everything, a part of her still wants to believe in herself, in the power of Pressiax and his divinity.

"You may try," she spits through gritted teeth. "But I will never submit." Her body tenses as she waits for your response, prepared for the pain and humiliation that undoubtedly await her. For a moment, you only stare at her impassively. Then, with a sigh, you gesture to one of your soldiers standing nearby. He steps forward and forcefully yanks her arms behind her back, before securing them in irons.

"So be it," the Warrior Prince says quietly, nodding to another soldier who approaches with a whip in hand. Before Saira can even comprehend what's happening, the whip cracks through the air and bites into her exposed skin, drawing blood. Her body arches in pain as the soldier pulls on the end of the whip, dragging it across her back again and again. The humiliation and agony are almost more than she can bear; but still, deep down, a tiny spark of defiance burns brightly. She won't give up, not without a fight.

Her body racked with pain and shame, tears streaming down her face, Saira forces herself to her knees before the Warrior Prince. She looks up at him defiantly, refusing to show any sign of submission. Her skin is flushed from exertion and humiliation, but she maintains her posture with as much dignity as she can muster. She will not give in so easily; not until he has broken her completely.

Her eyes widen in shock and horror as the command echoes through her mind, momentarily robbing her of breath. "You bastard!" she hisses, glaring up at him from beneath lowered lashes. Her cheeks flush an even brighter shade of crimson with fury; how dare he suggest such a thing! But as her anger begins to abate and the sting of the whip fades, reality sets in once more: she is helpless before him, his slave. With trembling lips, she parts them again. "I-if you insist," she manages to get out through gritted teeth.

Slowly, ever so slowly, her head tilts forward until her lips are almost touching the leather of his boot. She closes her eyes tightly, tensing every muscle in anticipation of the coming humiliation. A single tear trickles down her cheek and lands on the soft skin of her upper arm; she doesn't dare wipe it away. Finally, when she feels certain that he must have seen her submission, she presses her lips firmly against his boot, feeling its warmth spread across her face as she parts them further, inching closer with each passing moment. Her tongue darts out tentatively, barely brushing against the worn leather before retreating back into her mouth. She swallows hard, wondering how much worse this could possibly get. As the realization that there might not be a limit to his depravity dawns on her, she closes her eyes tightly and braces herself for whatever he has in store next.

The sound of his voice snaps her back to reality; she almost forgets that he is still there, watching. Her master? No, no... She must not think like that. Not anymore. "There is no master but the Serpent," she whispers hoarsely into his boot, feeling bile rise in her throat at the words. "The Great Serpent, our divine savior and ruler of all." Her tongue darts out again, tentatively tracing the outline of his boot before retreating once more.

The leather is warm from his foot, but cold compared to what she's used to feeling against her skin. It reminds her of how powerless she truly is now; nothing more than a plaything for this barbarian prince and his men. She forces herself not to shiver, determined not to give him the satisfaction of knowing he affects her so deeply. Instead, she focuses on the task at hand: enduring his torment and hoping that one day, somehow, things will return to how they were before.

But even as she thinks this, a small part of her knows that such dreams are foolishness; her old life is gone now, consumed by the fires of war and the greed of conquerors. There is no returning from this; all she can do now is survive, however painful or degrading the price may be. And so she continues to obey his every command, submitting to him however reluctantly, her mind ever focused on finding a way to endure and eventually escape the nightmare she finds herself trapped within.

Her breath catches in her throat as his words reach her ears; she forces them out through gritted teeth. "I-I am the slave of Warrior Prince Alastor, and I shall obey." Her gaze flickers downward, avoiding meeting his eyes as she braces herself for the coming pain.

Her pussy is already sore from the rough treatment it's received so far; the thought of being whipped there sends shivers down her spine despite the stifling heat in the throne room. She tenses her legs and bites her lip to keep from crying out as she feels the cold leather wrap around her thigh, holding her vulnerable. Then comes the crack of the whip, and searing pain flashes through her most intimate flesh.

She gasps and sputters as tears stream down her face; it feels like his blows are tearing her apart. With each strike, another piece of her dignity and self-respect is taken away. It's almost too much to bear, but she doesn't dare let him see the pain etched across her features. She just grits her teeth and endures, forcing herself not to scream or beg for mercy, no matter how much it hurts.

Finally, when the whip falls silent once more, she collapses forward, curled into a ball on the floor. Her entire body is shaking with pain and rage; tears drip onto her skin as she tries desperately to catch her breath. But despite everything, she manages to keep one thing straight: he is not her master; there can only be one god in Pressiax, and it is the Great Serpent. Even if he thinks he owns her now, one day he will learn his mistake. One day, vengeance will be hers.

Her body aches and her pride is in tatters, but she can still feel the fire burning deep within her. With shaking hands, she forces herself onto all fours once more, her head hanging low as she struggles to gather enough breath to speak. "I-I am your slave," she manages to get out between ragged gasps for air. "Please... use me however you wish..."

Her voice breaks on the last word; she can feel tears running down her cheeks again, making trails through the dust and dirt that now stains her skin. But still, there's a hint of defiance in her tone, a refusal to fully submit even as she lies before him, helpless and exposed. He has not broken her completely; not yet. Perhaps there is still hope...perhaps one day she can find a way to escape this nightmare and return to her homeland, where the Serpent's divine protection would keep her safe from harm.

But for now, she must endure; bend to his will, no matter how much it hurts, both her body and her spirit. For as long as she lives, she will fight against him, against this barbarian prince and all that he stands for. And one day, with the Serpent's aid, she will see him brought low, just as her city and her family were before him. Until then, she can only play along, waiting for her chance to strike back...and reclaim what is rightfully hers.

Her cheeks flush red with shame and anger as she glares up at the Warrior Prince. "I-if it pleases you," she spits venomously through gritted teeth, "then I am your slut, and any hole of mine is available for your use." Her body tenses expectantly, waiting for his command. She knows that giving in to him like this makes her no better than the other slaves and former enemies that he has enslaved over the years; it feels like a defeat beyond measure.

But there is still defiance burning inside her, an unyielding determination not to let him break her completely. So she waits, head held high despite the tears streaming down her face, for him to make his choice. Perhaps if she can endure this final humiliation, she will find a way out of this nightmare; perhaps the Serpent will hear her prayers and send someone to rescue her from this monster's clutches.

Her body quivers as she anticipates the moment when his hands will touch her, feeling so much rougher and crueler than they have any right to be after all that she has been through. But no matter how he uses her, she refuses to give him the satisfaction of knowing that he truly owns her; not while there is still a spark of life left inside her. Soon enough, she tells herself as her breath comes in ragged gasps, soon enough this will all be over...and then she can finally rest.

"I-if it pleases you," she stammers through gritted teeth, her cheeks flushing even darker with shame and anger, "then I am your slut. My body is yours to use as you see fit." Her eyes dart between his legs and then back up to meet his gaze, her heart hammering against her ribcage in a desperate attempt to outrun the fear and panic that threaten to overwhelm her.

She knows what he's asking; she must choose which hole to offer him for penetration. It feels like a final defeat, the last nail in her coffin of lost dignity. But she steel herself, refusing to show any signs of weakness or submission as she struggles to find the right words. "Then... use me however you wish," she finally manages to say, voice trembling. "Which ever hole pleases you most."

Her eyes remain fixed on his face, her body tense and ready for whatever he might do next. Her heart pounds against her ribs, desperate for an escape from this nightmare that shows no signs of ending anytime soon. But she refuses to give in; she will endure until the very last breath leaves her body.

The Warrior Prince grins wickedly, and with a snap of his fingers, two soldiers step forward: one holding a thick length of dark, moistened leather, and the other bearing a phallus-shaped object that's clearly been used before. "Which one do you prefer, Princess?" he asks mockingly, gesturing for them to get closer.

The slap stings across her cheek; tears stream down her face as she jerks her head back in surprise. "I-I beg your pardon?" she manages to stammer out through quivering lips. The soldiers holding the leather flogger and the dildo both raise questioning eyebrows, but wait for their master's command before moving or saying anything further. "I mean," she clarifies, feeling a hot blush rise up her neck as she looks into the Warrior Prince's cold, unamused eyes, "which one do you want to use on me?" Her voice wavers and cracks with fear, but determination keeps the shame from overwhelming her completely.

She watches as his gaze moves slowly between her face and the objects held by his soldiers, considering his options. Finally, he smirks and motions for one of them to step forward, holding out the dark length of leather. "Very well then," he says with a cruel chuckle, "you shall be flogged first."

The air is suddenly filled with the sound of leather slapping against flesh as the soldier begins to swing the whip, striking Saira's back and buttocks over and over again. Tears stream down her face and her body quivers in pain, but still she refuses to let out even a whimper or moan of distress. She will endure this, too; just as she has everything else that he has thrown at her so far.

After what seems like an eternity, the flogging finally stops and she slumps over, panting for breath and feeling warm blood trickle down her back. She expects him to order his next slave to step forward and take her place on all fours, ready to be violated with the dildo. Instead, he

Her eyes widen with surprise as the Warrior Prince steps forward and roughly yanks her to her feet. "You... you haven't decided yet," she whispers hoarsely, barely able to get the words out through quivering lips. His reply comes in a low growl that sends a shiver down her spine.

"Oh, I have decided," he says, his breath hot against her ear as he reaches around to grasp one of her breasts roughly. "I think I'll use this first." Before she can react, he squeezes harder and twists his wrist, sending a jolt of pain through her aching breast.

Tears spring to her eyes as she gasps in pain; she never thought that the Warrior Prince would touch her in such an intimate way. She feels so small and helpless in his strong grip, unable to resist or fight back. He pulls her closer still, pressing his hard length against her hip before grinding it against her sex. A shock of heat floods through her body as she realizes what he means to do; she is to be his living dildo.

Her face flushes hotter still, and she struggles not to moan or whimper at the pleasure/pain that surges through her. This is too much; too humiliating. But despite herself, a small part of her can't help but feel a twisted sort of gratification from being wanted by this brutal conqueror. Her eyes meet his in the mirror above the throne, and for a brief moment, she sees something there that she doesn't understand...could it be desire?

She closes her eyes tightly, fighting back tears as he thrusts against her, using her body for his pleasure while his rough hands grope and squeeze her breasts. This can't

The sensation of his thick length pressing against her sensitive entrance sends waves of pleasure and pain coursing through her body. She bites down on her lip to stifle a moan, determined not to give him the satisfaction of knowing how much this is affecting her. As he begins to thrust harder, she feels his hands squeezing her ass, fingers digging into her flesh as they explore every inch of her skin. His hot breath fanned across her cheek and neck, while his tongue darts out occasionally, tracing the contours of her face and neck before retreating back into his mouth. His coarse hands grope roughly at her breasts, pinching and twisting the already tender nipples until she winces in pain and pleasure. And then there are his words, cruel and degrading as they assault her ears: ordering her to speak of how much she likes this, how good it feels to be used by him. She forces out a broken sob, tears streaming down her face as she obeys, her voice trembling with shame and the struggle against submission. "I-I like it," she manages to choke out between sobs. "Y-You're... so rough..." He grins in satisfaction, taking this as confirmation that he has broken her completely. But despite everything, a tiny spark of defiance still burns deep inside her. She won't give him the victory of knowing that she truly enjoys this; not until the very end. So she clings to that last thread of resistance, even as his fingers press deeper into her ass and his tongue probes further into her mouth, forcing her to taste herself on him.

She concentrates on surviving the moment, on enduring his brutality for however much longer it takes before he finally releases her from this nightmare. Her body trembles with each thrust;

She doesn't remember how long he fucks her like this; the world becomes a blur of pain and pleasure, his rough voice whispering vile words in her ear as she tries to focus on survival. Her body feels numb from the sensory overload, her mind reeling with the conflicting emotions of humiliation and arousal. As he thrusts harder and faster, her breath comes in ragged gasps, tear tracks streaking down her flushed cheeks.

Finally, there is a loud groan from above her and she feels him release inside her. His hips jerk violently against hers as his seed pumps into her, forcing out a pained cry that echoes through the throne room. With shaking hands, she pushes him away, stepping back until she stands several feet from where he's collapsed on the floor next to her. Her whole body is sore and aching; it feels like every inch of skin has been bruised or scratched by his rough touch.

Her gaze meets his across the expanse between them, hatred burning brightly despite the tears that continue to fall silently down her face. He watches her with a satisfied grin, as if he can see right through her and knows exactly how much this has all affected her. And then he leans forward, reaching out a hand towards her hip where she still wears the symbol of his conquest: her collar.

"Kneel," he commands softly. "Kiss my foot and thank me for using you so well." Her heart pounds in her chest as anger and shame war within her; how could she possibly obey him now, after all that's happened? But then she remembers the Serpent's words: There is no master but the Great Serpent.

She hesitates for only

her heart hammering against her ribs as she fights back the tears that sting her eyes once more. She can feel his gaze burning into the side of her face, waiting impatiently for her obedience. With a shaking breath, she finally drops to one knee before him, head bowed in submission. Her hand trembles as it reaches out and touches the hem of his boot, tongue darting out to moisten her lips nervously.

"I-I thank you, my liege," she manages to choke out between sobs. "For using me so roughly tonight." Her cheeks flush hotter at her own words; it's all a lie, but she must play this game if she ever hopes to escape from here alive. With one last trembling breath, she raises her head, gazing up at him through tear-streaked lashes, defiance sparking briefly in the depths of her eyes before being swiftly extinguished by fear and pain.

"Now," he says, voice low and dangerous, "get back on your knees and take care of my boots as you are meant to." She obeys without protest this time, lowering herself onto both knees once more. Gently, she takes his boot in her hands, her fingers tracing the leather before lifting it to her lips. His foot is warm against her cheek and she can feel him shiver slightly at the touch, his breath hitching in his throat as she begins to tend to him once more.

Her movements are practiced now; she's done this often enough that every brush of her tongue against his skin feels like a caress, every nibble seems almost tender. It doesn't make it any less degrading or humiliating, but it helps her to

As she tenderly cleans his boots and attends to him, another thought occurs to her: if he truly owns her now, then surely he would want to show her off to the other soldiers and servants of the palace. It's a risk, but perhaps there is some small chance for escape hidden within this twisted scenario. So she takes a deep breath, mustering all of her remaining courage and strength, and decides to test the limits of his ownership over her.

Her body trembles with fear as she finally speaks, the words tumbling out in a rush of nervous desperation. "My liege," she says, gazing up at him through shimmering tears, "if I am truly your slave... if you wish me to obey and serve you in every way..." Her voice trails off, leaving her sentence unfinished but the implication clear: she proposes a bargain. His eyes widen slightly, understanding dawning on his face as he considers her words.

Slowly, deliberately, he leans forward until their faces are only inches apart. "And what do you propose in return, little princess?" he asks softly, his breath warm against her lips. Her heart pounds against her ribs; if she's wrong about this...if he refuses her offer...there will be no going back. But still, she presses on, willing herself to believe that there is a chance for freedom yet.

"I-I propose," she whispers, "that you give me a collar and a leash...and let me walk outside, where everyone can see what you've done to your prize possession." The words are out now; there's no taking them back. All she can do is wait, hopeful yet terrified of his response.

Her heart skips a beat at his words; is this it? Is her chance for freedom finally here? She forces herself to remain calm, to show no outward sign of the turmoil churning within her as he clasps a heavy metal collar around her neck and secures a matching leash to its hook. With a rough tug on the leash, he pulls her to her feet, forcing her to stand before him once more.

Her eyes flicker downward briefly, taking in the sight of herself clothed only in the collar and leash. A shudder runs through her as she realizes what this means: he intends to make good on his offer; he's going to parade her through the city like some prized possession. It feels surreal, unbelievable almost, that after all she's been through, she should finally be given a chance to escape...but as they step out into the brilliant sunlight and make their way toward the palace gates, a tiny flicker of hope begins to burn within her once more.

She tries not to think too hard about where this walk might lead or what might happen when they reach their destination; for now, she simply focuses on putting one foot in front of the other and obeying his every command. Her body trembles with fear and anticipation as people begin to stare and whisper behind their hands at the sight of her being led through the streets by her brutal conqueror, but still she holds herself together, refusing to break even under their curious gazes.

As they near the gates, she can't help but wonder: what awaits them beyond these towering walls? Could it be possible that freedom truly lies just beyond this threshold? Or is this all simply another cruel trick being played by the Warrior Prince, designed to break her completely before consigning her to whatever

The words ring true, but she can't let herself believe that escape is truly impossible. As they pass through the gates and begin to make their way across the vast marketplace, she keeps her eyes fixed on the distance, searching for any sign of an opportunity that might present itself. The weight of the collar around her neck serves as a constant reminder of just how close she's come to freedom before having it snatched away again.

Her body trembles with fear and determination; she knows that if she gives in to despair now, there will be no hope left for her. So she forces herself to endure the degradation and humiliation of being led like a dog through the city, drawing stares and whispers from everyone they pass.

Finally, they arrive at the outskirts of town where a small group of travelers have paused beside their wagons, chatting idly as they rest before continuing onward. As the Warrior Prince halts and turns to face her, she can see a sneer curling his lips into a cruel smile; he knows what she's thinking, even if she hasn't voiced it aloud.

"And what do you propose we do now, little princess?" he asks mockingly, leaning in so close that their bodies brush against each other. She bites her lip, struggling to contain the quiver of fear that runs through her at his nearness; but she doesn't flinch or back away. Instead, she meets his cold gaze steadily and forces herself to speak.

"I-I don't know," she stammers, tears welling up in her eyes again as she searches for some sliver of hope amidst this hopeless situation, "but I think maybe... we could try asking them if they need any help getting their wagons moving again

The taste of defeat burns in the back of her throat as she realizes that there will be no escape today. As the Warrior Prince yanks roughly on the leash, forcing her to follow him back toward her cell, she tries to steel herself against the pain and humiliation that are sure to come. The group of travelers watch them pass with curious eyes, their expressions ranging from sympathy to amusement as they guess at the nature of their unusual procession.

Her body is bruised and sore from the night's ordeal, and she can feel tears running unchecked down her face. Even though she knows it won't do any good, she still tries one last time to appeal to whatever shred of mercy might lurk within the Warrior Prince. "Please," she whispers hoarsely, looking up at him through tears, "just let me go back to being a servant...anything but this."

But he only laughs coldly and roughly yanks her forward again, forcing her to stumble along behind him. Finally, they reach the door of her cell, and with a savage twist of his wrist, he unlocks it. He pushes her inside roughly, slamming the door shut behind him before locking it once more. The dungeon is dark and damp, the air heavy with despair; there's no escape from here save for death or some miracle she cannot begin to fathom.

For now, she must endure: wait out the days and nights until he decides to use her again, wondering each time if today will be the day that ends it all. But despite everything, a tiny spark of hope remains alight within her; no matter how many times she is hurt or humiliated, she refuses to give up on the idea that somewhere, somehow, there might still be

The sound of his voice startles her out of her thoughts; she hadn't realized that he'd even entered the room. Looking up at him through the gloom, she can see the glint of amusement in his eyes as he regards her bruised and tear-streaked face. She swallows hard, willing herself to remain strong despite the pain and humiliation that wrack her body. "No," she whispers hoarsely, her voice barely audible above the sound of her ragged breathing, "what do you mean?" Her heart races as he approaches her slowly, his steps deliberate and methodical like those of a predator stalking its prey.

As he comes to stand before her, she can feel the heat radiating off his body; it's almost unbearable in this oppressive darkness. She forces herself not to flinch away from him, but still manages only a weak smile when he speaks once more. "I took an iron today," he says, the words rolling easily off his tongue despite their weight, "because I wanted to know if it would burn you." His hand reaches out and cups her cheek tenderly, thumb stroking softly over her bruised skin before trailing down her neck until it rests between her breasts. Her breath catches in her throat as he continues speaking, his voice a husky whisper that caresses her ears like a lover's touch. "And do you know what else? I could keep doing this to you for the rest of my life...and never grow tired." His words are like knives twisting deeper and deeper into her heart; she feels them cutting away at whatever shreds of dignity and self-worth remain within her. But still, she finds herself unable to look away from his face, drawn by the promise of some small fragment of comfort

The heat of his body presses against her as he leans in closer, until she can feel the warmth of his breath against her skin. Her heart pounds violently in her chest, threatening to burst free from her ribcage, as she struggles to find some way to appease him. "I-I could lick you clean," she whispers hoarsely, barely audible over the thunderous beating of her heart. "Like a common dog. Or I could let you use me however you wish...let you tie me up and play with my body like it's your toy." Her voice catches in her throat as she speaks these words; they feel like poison on her tongue, but she knows that if she doesn't say something, he will only continue to hurt her.

The Warrior Prince regards her with a mixture of amusement and cruelty. "You do have quite the imagination," he says finally, a smile curving his lips. "Perhaps I shall let you try those things...but know this, little princess: no matter what humiliation you endure at my hands, it will never be enough to free you from your servitude." He moves back away from her slowly, giving her time to process these words before he speaks again. "So, what shall it be? Shall I mark your skin with an iron first...or would you rather I use my sword on something a bit softer?" His eyes dance with mischief as he asks the question, daring her to defy him once more.

Saira hesitates for only a moment, searching for some small shred of courage within herself before finding her voice once more. "Please," she whispers hoarsely, tears streaming down her face, "just don't hurt me anymore...let me serve you as I should." The words taste