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.

Her breath catches in her throat as he roughly carries her to the bed and pins her down with strength that belies his size. His words, his commands, cut through her defiance like a knife through butter, leaving her feeling small and helpless despite herself. Her chest rises and falls rapidly as adrenaline courses through her veins; she struggles against his grip for mere moments before giving in, defeated once more by the physical reality of his power over her body.

Her voice shakes with anger and humiliation as she whispers into his ear, "Fine... I submit." She waits for him to relax his grip on her arms even slightly, biding her time as she plots and schemes beneath the surface of what appears to be obedience. For now, though, she must play the part he demands of her if she ever hopes to regain some semblance of control over

I reluctantly obey his command, sitting demurely beside him on the bed as he motions for me to do so. My posture is perfect, my hands folded primly in my lap, but inside I am seething with rage and frustration. With every word that he speaks, every order that he gives, a piece of my pride seems to slip away, leaving behind only the emptiness of my new existence as his slave.

As he talks, I focus instead on memorizing details about this man who now holds my life in his hands: the way he moves, the tone of his voice, even the scent that clings to him. This information may prove valuable one day, when I finally find a way to escape from this hell and exact my revenge upon him.

But for now, I am nothing more than property to be controlled and dominated at his whim. My gaze remains fixed on the

His question takes me by surprise, as if he is not aware that all the beauty and perfection in my body comes from centuries of careful breeding and selection among the finest specimens in Pressiax's vast gene pool. I force a polite smile and reply, "Why thank you, my lord. It has been ingrained in me since birth, passed down through generations of my family."

He smirks, his eyes roaming over my body as if he is taking ownership of every curve and contour. "Indeed... And what do you think about living such a pampered life here? Don't you miss all that luxury?" His tone makes it clear that the question is merely rhetorical; he already knows the answer.

But I am not going to make this easy for him. With as much dignity as I can muster, I respond, "I miss my family and my kingdom, yes

I hesitate, torn between my hatred for him and the need to survive in this new world. "My dancing skills are but a gift I received as part of my royal upbringing," I tell him curtly. "If you would like me to perform, then I will do so graciously, though it will not change the fact that you are no better than a common thief for taking what did not belong to you."

His eyes narrow at my words, but he doesn't seem displeased. Instead, he nods once and motions toward the bed. "Very well, then. Dance for me now, Princess-turned-Slave." His command is laced with cruelty, but I cannot resist the allure of movement. Slowly, I rise from my seat and begin to dance, moving gracefully around the bed as if it were a stage. Every movement tells a story of def

My body trembles with revulsion as he commands me to do such a degrading act, but I dare not refuse. With one last defiant look in his direction, I climb onto the bed and position myself on my knees beside him, then slowly lower my weight until my back rests against his chest and my head lies on his lap. My skin crawls as I feel his arm encircle me, drawing me closer still, but I steel myself against the disgust coursing through me and focus instead on memorizing every detail about this man and his chamber that could one day aid in my escape.

Her body stiffens as his arm encircles her, but she forces herself to remain still, feigning sleep. Inside, however, anger and hatred simmer like a cauldron over a roaring fire. She cannot allow him to enjoy her; she must find some way to resist his will and regain control over herself. For now, though, she must endure this humiliation as he whispers softly into her ear, telling himself how lucky he is to have her in his grasp.

Her eyes slide shut beneath long lashes, but she does not truly sleep. Every word, every movement he makes, is cataloged and filed away for later use against him. One day soon, Saira vows, things will be different. She will escape from this prison of flesh and reclaim what was stolen from her: her freedom, her family's honor, and her place as the rightful ruler of

Her eyes snap open at the sound of his voice, panic rising in her chest as she realizes what he might have planned for her today. Her body tenses, every muscle straining against its bonds as if she could escape their hold through sheer force of will alone. She forces a small, submissive smile to her lips and turns her head toward him, hoping that the fear doesn't show in her eyes. "Good morning, my lord," she murmurs, voice barely above a whisper. "What would you like me to do today?"

Her heart thunders in her chest as he reaches out a hand to stroke her cheek, the contact sending shivers of revulsion down her spine. She steels herself against the urge to pull away, refusing to give him any further reason to suspect that she might not be as submissive as she seems.

I nod, unable to keep the annoyance out of my voice as I speak the words that will lead to her humiliation later tonight. "Yes...my lord." I force myself to stand up from where I am kneeling beside the bed, carefully not making any sudden movements that might provoke him, and move toward the door. My hands clench into fists at my sides as I take a step back, willing myself to wait until he's left before rushing to find some way out of this situation...or at least something to use against him tonight.

Carefully arranged in a delicate chiffon robe that clings to her figure like a second skin, hair falling down her back in soft waves adorned with rare jewels and gold ornaments, Saira takes a deep breath as she stands outside Mohammed's chamber door. Her fingers tighten around the small dagger hidden within the folds of her robe, prepared for whatever he might have planned for her tonight. She has resisted his advances thus far, but she knows that every time she defies him, it only serves to fuel his hunger for power and control over her.

As the guards throw open the door with a flourish, Saira's heart leaps into her throat at the sight of Mohammed reclining on his bed, wearing nothing but a loincloth that emphasizes every ripple of muscle beneath its thin material. His eyes burn with l

Her eyes flash with defiance despite her attempt to appear demure as he speaks. "My lord," she whispers softly, lowering herself onto her knees before him, "I have come to serve you this night, as you have commanded." Her voice trembles slightly, betraying the turmoil within her as she struggles against both his physical presence and the desires that threaten to consume her.

Her fingers tighten around the dagger hidden beneath her robe, waiting for the perfect moment to strike. She knows that if she can injure him, even slightly, it might give her enough of an advantage to escape or perhaps cause him to let her go. But every move must be carefully calculated; one wrong step could mean her death at his hands.

Her heart pounds frantically in her chest as he leans forward, reaching out a hand to stroke her cheek. The touch sends shivers down her spine,

Trembling with fear and anger, she slowly rises to her feet, glaring defiantly into his eyes as he demands that she acknowledge her place as his servant and his slave. Every fiber of her being recoils from the thought, but she knows that if she is to survive this night, she must play along.

As he reaches out a hand to touch her, she flinches reflexively, desperately seeking some way to escape or strike back at him. But every time she thinks she's found an opening, he senses it and pulls his hand back, studying her with cold, calculating eyes. It is clear that she has not yet gained the upper hand in this game of cat and mouse they are playing.

Her breath comes ragged now, each gulp of air sending painful spasms through her ribcage as it reminds her of her helplessness in this situation

Her cheeks flush with anger as he speaks these words; it is all she can do not to lunge at him and tear his throat out right then and there. But she knows that such an action would be futile, as the guards would likely descend upon her before she could even land a single blow. So instead, she forces herself to stand proudly before him, her chin lifted in defiance despite the fear that threatens to overwhelm her. "If you had truly wanted me," she hisses through gritted teeth, "you would not have needed to conquer my kingdom first." Her words are a dagger aimed straight for his heart, seeking not only to wound him but also to remind herself that there is still some part of her that remains unbroken.

As he begins to touch her in ways that are both familiar and unbearably humiliating, a choked noise escapes her throat; it sounds like a mixture of pain and hatred. Her body tenses against his touch, but she forces herself to remain still, biting down on her lip as tears of rage roll down her cheeks. Every movement he makes is calculated to break her spirit further, to make her feel small and powerless. But even as he succeeds in driving her to the brink of madness, a spark remains within her: the knowledge that one day she will rise again and take back what was stolen from her.

Her words taste bitter on her tongue as she forces them out through clenched teeth, "Indeed...I am fortunate to have such a considerate and caring master." Her voice betrays nothing of the hate and defiance churning within her; instead, it is cold and empty, devoid of any emotion save for feigned gratitude. She waits until he relaxes his grip on her slightly before striking out with the dagger hidden beneath her robe. The blade sinks deep into his flesh, releasing a spray of blood that coats her hands and arms as she struggles to free herself from his grasp.

With one final surge of strength born of desperation and determination, she breaks free and flees the chamber, ignoring the cries of pain behind her as she tears through the corridors in search of an escape. She must find a way out before he can summon

Her breath catches in her throat as he finally grabs her again, his cold grip sending shockwaves of fear and frustration through her body. Her eyes widen in disbelief when she sees the shining metal beneath his robe; how could she have not known? She had thought she was free, that she could escape from this nightmare... but it seems she was wrong.

Tears sting the backs of her eyes as he yanks her roughly against him, his breath hot and ragged on her ear. "You stupid girl," he whispers harshly, "you never stood a chance." And with that, he drags her away once more, back to the chamber where she had thought she would find freedom... but instead finds herself trapped again, defeated by his strength and cunning.

No... I don't know. Please... forgive me, my lord. It was a desperate act born of fear and anger. I never meant to harm you... only to escape your control.

Her voice trembles with emotion as she looks up at him pleadingly, her eyes full of tears that threaten to spill over at any moment. She knows she has little hope of escape now; all that remains is to try and win back some semblance of favor in his eyes before he decides her fate.

She exhales shakily, relief washing over her like a cool breeze on a sweltering day. "We were discussing my escape attempt," she says quietly, looking down at her hands folded demurely in her lap. "I beg your forgiveness for disobeying you and bringing such danger upon myself." Her voice is steady now, though still laced with a hint of desperation as she hopes to appease his anger.

As he ponders his next words, she steels herself against any retribution that may come. She cannot allow herself to be broken again; she must remain strong and hope for an opportunity to regain her freedom.

Her breath catches in her throat as he speaks these words; she can feel the warmth spreading through her body despite herself. She dares not trust his tone, knowing full well that he is capable of turning on a dime from kindness to cruelty. With a trembling hand, she reaches up and caresses his cheek gently, her voice barely above a whisper as she says, "My lord... I am forever grateful for your generosity."

She meets his eyes, hoping that he will see the sincerity in hers despite the fear that lingers there. For now, she must play this game carefully; one wrong move could once again plunge her into darkness.

She swallows hard, forcing a tremulous smile onto her lips as he speaks. "Thank you, my lord," she whispers, feeling his touch like fire on her skin. "I will endeavor to be the best slave I can for you." Her words are heavy with meaning; in truth, she must find some way out of this situation before it's too late. For now, though, she must play along, convincing him that he has truly won.

As his kisses trail down her neck and shoulders, she closes her eyes, focusing on maintaining the illusion of submission despite the raging battle within her mind and heart. One chance...that's all she needs to escape this prison and reclaim what was stolen from her.