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 filthy peasant! Do you dare to speak that way before me? Before your God?" Saira shouted back at you as the guards dragged the sorcerer and his men away. "Your time will come, and when it does, I swear by the Pressian gods, every last one of you will die screaming!" Her voice rang through the throne room as she glared furiously at your back.

"You don't need to worry about her Majesty," came one of the courtiers nearby. "After all she is just a lowly concubine now." He chuckled cruelly. Several others joined in, mocking and laughing at Saira's expense.

The Princess of Pressiax bristled at their words, her emerald eyes narrowed to slits as she struggled against her chains once more. You could almost feel the anger radiating from her body.

Angrily, Princess Saira glared at those who had been laughing at her predicament. "Foolish mortals," she hissed through gritted teeth, her tone cold and haughty despite her restraints. "You know not what you have done by mocking the daughter of a god!" Her words sent shivers down the spines of those who had been jesting; they quickly fell silent under the weight of her gaze.

Without another word, Princess Saira continued to glower at Cole. Her eyes flickered for a moment, as if struggling against unseen bonds that kept her from exerting any power over him or his men. It was clear that she despised being in this helpless state and longed for the day when she would regain her freedom - and her divine right to rule over all those around her.

Her breath came faster as anger welled up within her, making it difficult for her to control herself or maintain her composure. She wished nothing more than to lash out at Cole and his men, to make them feel the full force of her wrath and powerlessness. But for now, she was forced to endure their mockery and humiliation.

"You may release me from these chains, 'Warrior Prince'," Saira spat venomously through clenched teeth. "Or do you enjoy seeing the Demi-God princess of Pressiax at your mercy so?" Her voice echoed through the throne room, a challenge and a promise that she would someday have her revenge upon those who had dared to imprison her.

The Princess of Pressiax looked at the 'Warrior Prince' in disbelief. Such an accommodation was hardly what she had expected after being hauled away as a prize and gift from the very conquerors she had once scorned. Yet, to refuse it would be foolish; there was no escape for her now.

"Very well," she hissed through gritted teeth, still struggling against the invisible bonds that held her captive. "I will accept your... generous offer." Her voice trembled with rage as she forced herself to remain calm and composed, hiding the fear that threatened to consume her. "But make no mistake, Cole," she continued, "I swear upon the blood of my ancestors that you will pay for this humiliation, and I shall see Pressiax rise again. You cannot hope to control me forever."

"Don't expect me to thank you," Princess Saira spat as two guards unlocked her chains and removed them with rough efficiency. Her body ached from the struggle against their weight, but she refused to show any sign of pain or weakness. As they led her away through the throne room toward what she assumed would be her new "dormitory," Saira resolutely turned her back on Cole and his men.

Inside her head, though, rage and resentment burned hotter than ever. She promised herself that one day she would find a way to escape from this prison, no matter how seemingly secure it was. And when that day came, there would be hell to pay. She would make them all suffer for what they had done to her kingdom and her people... even if it meant striking a bargain with the dark forces that still remained in the Riverlands.

Her eyes narrowed as she contemplated such a desperate gamble, unable to quell the gnawing sense of helplessness that threatened to consume her whole.

"Come, Your Highness," one of the guards growled, tugging on her arm. "Time to retire for the night." Saira ground her teeth but allowed herself to be led away like a lamb to the slaughter. For now, there was nothing else she could do. She would have to bide her time and wait... and watch... and plan.

As they passed through a set of elaborately carved double doors into what appeared to be a luxurious bedroom suite, Saira surveyed her new quarters with cold disdain. Despite its sumptuous appointments and lavish furnishings, it was nothing more than another prison cell to her. The golden tapestries on the walls seemed to taunt her with their beauty;

She scoffed at the idea. The bed looked so inviting, but she knew that if she lay down on it, it would be her consent to remain there. There must be something else she could do...some way to pass the time until an opportunity presented itself. Anything to make this insufferable existence slightly more bearable.

Her gaze drifted toward a writing desk in one corner of the room, its surface adorned with quills, parchment and various ornaments. Perhaps she could amuse herself by practicing her skills as a scribe... She glanced at the guard who'd brought her here, still standing stiffly nearby, then nodded imperceptibly toward the desk.

The guard hesitated for a moment before nodding back and withdrawing to stand by the door. As soon as his back was turned, Saira crossed the room quickly but quietly and sank into the chair behind the desk. With practiced ease, she began unrolling fresh parchment and dipping a quill in an ornate inkwell, already formulating plans and strategies in her mind as she prepared to set them down on paper...

As Princess Saira poured her heart and soul into the words that flowed across the parchment, she could almost imagine herself back in her rightful place as ruler of Pressiax. The pain and humiliation faded away, replaced by a fierce determination to regain what had been stolen from her and destroy those who dared defile her kingdom's sacred history. She worked tirelessly throughout the night, crafting letters and messages intended for allies both old and new; planning plots and schemes that would either free her or lay waste to everything Cole held dear. The guards, finding her silent diligence unnerving, left her be, their footsteps retreating down the hallway and eventually fading away altogether.

With dawn's first light streaming through the room's grand windows, Princess Saira at last laid aside her quill and leaned back in her chair, her eyes half-lidded with exhaustion but burning bright with defiance. She glanced up at a painting hanging above the desk; an image of her ancestor, the Great Serpent, coiled around his throne, watching over all that he had created. A shiver ran down her spine as she vowed once more to make them proud by reclaiming what was rightfully hers.

For now, there was nothing else she could do but wait...and watch...and plan.

"My thanks," Princess Saira said icily as she surveyed the lavish feast laid out before her. The golden utensils and extravagant centerpieces only served to remind her of what had been lost; of the wealth and power that now belonged to this upstart conqueror sitting across from her. As one of the guards gestured toward a platter of fresh fruit, she scoffed inwardly at their pathetic attempt to placate her with mere scraps while the 'Warrior Prince' wolfed down his food like some common peasant.

Still, she thought as she carefully selected an apple and took a bite, there might be some use for this man yet. Perhaps if she played her cards right, she could use him to further her own ends...even if that meant allowing herself to be seen consorting with the enemy on occasion.

"I appreciate your hospitality," Princess Saira said coolly between bites of fruit. "But I cannot help but wonder if these... lavish accommodations are truly necessary." She gestured around the dining room with a dismissive wave of her hand, as if it were nothing more than a vulgar display of power and wealth unbefitting someone in her position.

Cole raised an eyebrow at her words but did not immediately reply. Instead, he continued to eat in silence for several moments, studying the princess carefully. She could feel his gaze burning into her back like a brand, assessing her strengths and weaknesses... and perhaps even gauging how much influence she might wield over him or his subjects. For now, though, she maintained her composure; outwardly, she was the proud and defiant daughter of a god, unmoved by the petty games of mortals.

As their meal drew to a close, Cole at last met her gaze across the table. His eyes were cold and calculating, but there was something else lurking behind them as well: respect... or perhaps even fear? It was difficult for Saira to tell which. Whatever the case, she took it as a small victory; proof that her time in exile had not been entirely wasted. There was still hope, however slim, of reclaiming everything that had been stolen from her... and with it, perhaps even revenge upon those who had dared to defy and humiliate her.