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.

Your words only serve to convince me that my enslavement would be the greatest insult and humiliation Pressiax's descendants could possibly suffer. I swear to you, your so called victory will turn into a millstone around your neck, dragging your kingdom into the mud of oblivion forevermore! You cannot hope to control me, for my family's blood is strong and pure! My cries for vengeance shall echo through eternity until every last one of you has been eradicated from this world like the vermin you are!

Your men laugh at your words, amused by your attempts to save face. They see a proud demon-seed whelp thrown from her high throne and dragged into the mud, screaming and thrashing in impotent rage as they piss on her, barely able to control themselves from raping her where she kneels before you. She is their

You claim to be the only one who would hurt her? Your words are as empty as your promises of freedom and justice! You have shown yourself to be no better than the petty warlords that we once ruled over with an iron fist, using their people as pawns in your twisted game for power. And now you claim to know what is best for this... "girl" as you call me? Ha! I was born to rule, and nothing you could ever do would change that fact! So go ahead, enslave her if it brings you pleasure. But remember, my enslavement only serves as a testament to your own shortcomings as a leader. And one day, when your empire crumbles under the weight of its own hubris, there shall be none left to blame but you!

Her body is dragged roughly along the ground by the chains as the guards reluctantly obey their orders to bring her to your quarters. Tears of rage and humiliation streak down her cheeks, but she keeps her head held high despite the pain of her abraded skin on the rough stones beneath her. She refuses to give you the satisfaction of seeing her suffer; instead, venom fills her voice as she speaks once more.

"This is not the end for me, Warrior Prince! Mark my words! My family will rise again, and when they do, there shall be a reckoning so terrible that it will make your empire's fall seem like a mere footnote in history!" Her defiant shout echoes through the halls of your palace as she is hauled away into darkness.

She is thrown onto the bed with an enraged grunt and her chains are pulled off roughly as if they were mere toys. For a moment, she lies there panting, taking in deep breaths to calm herself from the pain of movement, but then leaps back up to face her captor, her hands curled into fists at her sides. "You may own my body for now," she hisses through gritted teeth, "but you will never control my mind."

"Never." Her voice is cold and steady as she refuses to obey his command. She remains standing several steps away from the bed, shoulders squared in defiance. "I will not sit with a traitor and a slave-master. I am royalty; your equal in blood and birthright!" Her words are spit like venom as she glares at him hatefully, daring him to challenge her defiance.

Her eyes narrow to slits as he mocks her, but she refuses to let him see the pain and fear that threaten to overwhelm her. "You may have stripped me of my titles and possessions," she says through gritted teeth, "but you will never break my spirit! I will resist you at every turn, defy your every command, and work tirelessly for the day when my family is avenged and our empire restored!" Her chest heaves with each word, her fists clenched tightly at her sides as she stands tall despite the exhaustion and humiliation that threaten to overwhelm her.

I will not. You cannot force me, even with your magical chains and monstrous army. If you truly wish to own my body, then you must earn it through submission... or perhaps I should say, torture? Perhaps if you inflict enough pain upon me, I will beg you for mercy and agree to be your pet. Her voice drips with poison as she eyes him warily, studying his reaction to her taunt. The expression on her face softens into a sneer, mocking both the threat and the offer.