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.

Her eyes widen with hatred and fury as you take the knife to your own flesh, watching blood trickle down onto the parchment. Once you are done, she gasps in disbelief, every muscle tense as she tries to remain still. The soldiers and former slaves all burst into cheers at your acceptance of the contract; they knew well enough what this meant for her.

As you circle around her, Saira's expression hardens even more, her jaw clenched tightly. She grits her teeth and tries to remain impassive as you touch her body, feeling your fingers brush against her skin. Her breath comes in short gasps through her nose, anger boiling up inside of her like a volcano ready to erupt.

"Do not think this means I will submit," she hisses at you venomously. "I may be your slave, but I am still the daughter of Pressiax, and I will never forget that." Her words are laced with defiance, despite the chains holding her down. "You may control my body, but you cannot break my spirit."

The soldiers laugh at her defiance, but you can tell by the way she glares at them that they are not likely to find it amusing for long. For now, though, they enjoy the show of her disdain for their new master.

"I'd rather die," she snarls, her chest heaving with every breath as anger courses through her veins. Her gaze flickers between you and the soldiers surrounding them, as if searching for an ally who might be able to free her from this situation. Yet even as she says it, there's a flash of calculation in her eyes; she's already trying to find some way out of this mess.

"Dance," you say with amusement, knowing full well the fate that lies ahead for her if she does not obey. She hesitates only a moment longer before deciding against further resistance. With a sigh of resignation, she swings her hips slightly and begins to move to an invisible beat.

Her movements are graceful and sensual despite her anger, drawing gasps from the soldiers as they watch in fascination. It's clear that even when chained up and forced into submission, Saira still possesses a natural ability to captivate those around her. Yet there's an undercurrent of defiance beneath the seductive dance; she's using every ounce of her power to try and regain some sense of control over the situation.

Her body sways and shimmies in the torchlight, every movement calculated to enthrall and excite. Her hair swings freely around her shoulders, drawing carnal whispers from the crowd of leering soldiers. Saira's eyes narrow as she watches them all, memorizing their faces, committing each one to memory for future revenge plots. She lets out a breath through pursed lips and spins around swiftly, the chains clanking softly against her bare skin.

A smirk curls on Saira's lips as she realizes that you seem to be enjoying the show. Perhaps there's some sort of satisfaction in pleasing her master... or maybe it's just a game for you, another way to torment her further. She swallows hard and shakes her head, pushing away those treacherous thoughts. There must be another way out of this mess; she just needs to find it.

Her hips gyrate suggestively as she sashays closer to you, making sure that every inch of skin is on display. She lifts one leg high into the air, balancing expertly on her other foot before slowly lowering it back down to the ground with a sinuous roll of her hip. Saira's body shudders with the effort and she lets out a quiet gasp, but she refuses to let any hint of pain or discomfort show in her expression. She will not give them the satisfaction of knowing they can hurt her so easily.

Her heart pounding in her chest, Saira slowly takes a step back from you. The soldiers let out hoots and hollers at the display, but she ignores them, focusing on maintaining a defiant mask of indifference. The last thing she needs is to give them any encouragement or satisfaction.

"You misunderstand me," she says coolly, her voice deliberately calm. "I am not here to serve you as your plaything. I am the daughter of Pressiax, and I will be treated with the respect that my birthright demands." There's a quiet steel in her tone that belies her words; they carry an undertone of warning and challenge.

The men laugh at this, but it lacks the confidence it had before. Even as their arrogance is momentarily deflated, Saira knows she can't let them recover for long. She must find some way out of this situation... or at least buy herself some time until an opportunity presents itself.

She glances around the throne room, taking in every detail as if it were her last chance to do so. In the distance, she spots a servant hurrying past with a tray of refreshments. An idea begins to form in her mind...

Her eyes widen in shock as the words leave your lips, but it's too late; she feels her body responding to the command embedded within the slave brand on her womb. Her will seems to melt away under the potent magic of the bond, and despite her best efforts, she finds herself compelled to obey. With a shaking hand, she reaches out for the tray of refreshments, careful not to spill anything as she carries it back toward you.

As Saira kneels before you again, this time with a tray full of food and drink in her hands, every muscle in her body tense with anger and shame, she vows that the next chance she gets, she'll find a way to escape from your control once and for all. For now, however, there is nothing she can do but serve you as best she can...and plot her revenge.

Her heart pounding with anger and humiliation, Saira can feel tears prick at the corners of her eyes as she obediently sets down the tray of refreshments on the ground beside you. She takes a steadying breath and then slowly, reluctantly climbs onto your lap, doing her best to keep her body as still and uninviting as possible. As she sits there, stiff and unyielding, it's clear that despite being physically close to you, emotionally she is a million miles away.

Her mind races with strategies for escape and plans for retribution against those who have reduced her to this state. For now, though, she must endure the indignity of your touch and the weight of the chains that bind her wrists together behind your throne. As you wrap an arm around her waist and pull her closer, Saira tries not to think about how vulnerable she feels in this position; about how easily you could harm her now that she's so close.

Her eyes dart between yours and the open exit at the far side of the throne room, willing herself not to give up hope yet. There has to be a way out of this... there just has to be.

She goes tense as you speak, her entire body suddenly alert and wary despite herself. "And what if I did?" she asks defiantly, forcing a dismissive tone into her voice. Her eyes narrow, daring you to read anything more in them than anger and determination. In truth, however, there's fear too; fear of being seen through, fear of being truly vulnerable in front of this man who holds her fate in his hands. She steels herself against the onslaught of your perception, trying to hide the shadows dancing behind her eyes.

A part of her hopes that you will indeed try to pry deeper into her thoughts and emotions; that she can use this opportunity to learn something about you, about how best to manipulate or escape from your grasp. But another, larger part of her just wishes you would leave her alone, let her suffer in silence for now. Anything but this invasion of her mind...of her soul.

Her breath comes quick and shallow as she waits for you to make the next move, every muscle tensed and ready to spring into action should you try anything that crosses the line from perceptive to downright cruel. She doesn't know how much longer she can maintain this charade of defiance; it feels like a knife twisting slowly in her gut with every passing moment.

As you lead her away from the throne room and into your private chambers, Saira's heart pounds like a trapped bird against her ribcage. The thought of being alone with you sends shivers down her spine, but she maintains an outward appearance of calm disinterest. She will not give you the satisfaction of knowing that you affect her so deeply; that she is terrified and desperate to escape from your grasp.

The moment they are inside your bedchamber, however, everything changes. The heavy door cuts off all light save for a few flickering candles, bathing the room in soft, golden shadows. She tries not to look too apprehensive as you walk over to the massive four-poster bed dominating the center of the chamber and begin unbuckling your weapons belt. You motion for her to lay down on the bed; she does so warily, curling herself into a ball as if trying to make herself as small and unthreatening as possible.

"I thought you'd never ask," you murmur, voice rough with desire as you join her on the bed. She feels your warm breath on her neck and tenses, resisting the urge to scream or struggle against his powerful frame. For now, she must play along; bide her time until an opportunity presents itself for her escape. Even if it means enduring your touch...even if it means pretending to enjoy this.

With a sigh, Saira forces herself to relax somewhat, rolling onto her back and staring up at the ornate canopy overhead. Her heart is racing; she feels like she might vomit or pass out from fear and revulsion. But she steels herself against these base instincts and decides that instead, she will focus on studying this man who holds her fate in his hands: what