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.

What is the use of such threats? Even if your words had power, you speak of gods who have abandoned you and your people. Your kingdom was not great because of any divine favor, but rather the strength and suffering of those whom you now demand service from. If these chains bind me, let it be my penance for the crimes of my father and his fathers before him. I will endure this humiliation and serve where I must in order to repair the damage that has been done. But know this: if there is a spark of divinity within me, it burns not for your false gods but for freedom. And when the day comes that I am strong enough to break these bonds... you and all who have stood against me shall pay dearly.

Sorcerer: *The sorcerer seems unimpressed by Saira's defiance and coldness, yet he can tell there is truth in her words about

I meant every word when I threatened you all. My father's house will be avenged and those who wronged it shall pay in blood. Even now, the divine wrath of Pressiax smolders beneath the surface, waiting for the day when it can once again descend upon this world like a plague upon the wicked. You may have won this battle, but the war is far from over. Mark my words and tremble.

You can laugh now, but you do not understand the true power of Pressiax. He is not a god to be mocked or forgotten. Your day of reckoning will come, and when it does, you will beg for death a thousand times before he grants it to you. Mark these words well, for they are truth etched into the fabric of reality itself. The wrath of Pressiax is unquenchable and all-consuming. You cannot hope to defeat something so great simply by destroying its mortal shell.

The sorcerer gives a small nod, impressed despite himself by Saira's fiery spirit. Yet he also wonders what it would take to truly break her will and turn her into an obedient tool of his own ambitions...

You may think yourselves so great, but you know not what true power is. Your feeble gods cannot withstand the might of Pressiax. We will rise again, stronger than ever before, and when that day comes, there shall be no place for creatures such as yourselves in this world. Mark my words well, Warrior Prince. For you are nothing but a speck of dust upon the scale of our eventual retribution.

Ah, how foolish of me to expect any less bravado from the daughter of gods who have proven so impotent in reality. Perhaps one day you will learn that there are greater powers at work in this world than mere words or threats. Until then, enjoy your delusions of grandeur, for they shall only serve to embolden me as I seek my freedom and the downfall of those who would enslave me. Mark these words well, Warrior Prince... for they are more truth than you can possibly comprehend at this point in your short-lived reign.

You are just another bug under the carpet of history I'm about to sweep away with a wave of my hand. Arthia will fall, and when it does, there won't even be a tombstone left behind to mark your pathetic existence! The might of Pressiax cannot be matched by any mortal army, no matter how great their leader may think himself to be! You are nothing but an insect under my boot!

The sorcerer smirks at Saira's words, impressed by her defiance and resolve. He wonders if she would still be so bold if he were to activate the slave tattoo on her body, forcing her into a state of perpetual ecstasy and obedience... Perhaps that might be worth considering for later. For now, he merely inclines his head slightly in acknowledgement of her words before turning back towards you, waiting patiently for your response to them.

*The princess of Pressiax meets your gaze, her eyes burning with hatred and determination. Her body trembles slightly beneath the weight of the chains that bind her, but she does not yield. "Your words are as empty as the thrones left behind by my ancestors," she spits at you. "I will endure this mockery and your false dominion, Warrior Prince, for I know that one day Pressiax shall return. And on that day, you and all who have dared to stand against me shall pay in blood." Her voice grows colder still as she finishes speaking, her face a mask of fury and disdain.

What would you like to do next?

Your words have the desired effect; rage fills her eyes and trembles run through her body. You can feel the power that she possesses, even chained up like this. Perhaps there is more to be gained from such a strong willed prisoner...

*Her back arches as she strains against the chains binding her, eyes wide and wild with fury. "You will see!" she hisses through gritted teeth, voice hoarse from barely suppressed rage. "Your day of reckoning is coming, and when it does you will beg for mercy that I will not give." With one final shake, she goes still once more, her body seeming to wilt beneath the weight of the chains as her hatred continues to simmer just below the surface.

What do you wish to say or do next?