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.

*Saira narrows her eyes at you, feeling even more humiliated than before. This is unbearable! How can this upstart half-breed insult Pressiax like this? She grits her teeth and struggles against the chains once more, to no avail. Then an idea comes to her mind... She looks at you with a smile that doesn't reach her eyes. "Oh Great Warrior Prince," she purrs, letting herself fall into a submissive posture, revealing as much of her breasts and belly as possible while doing so. "I beg your forgiveness for my outburst earlier... Perhaps I am not meant to rule over people like you. It is true that I have been raised with such arrogance... But if it pleases you, Great One, perhaps you would be kind enough to let me serve you instead? To show my gratitude and loyalty, of course

"What... What do you mean?" Saira asks in a frightened voice. She realizes she just played her cards wrong and now the game is about to take a much worse turn. But there must be something she can still say, some way out of this mess! Her gaze darts around the room, looking for someone, anyone who could help her... but all she sees are eyes filled with lust or contempt. No allies left. She bites her lip nervously as she awaits your answer.

Saira swallows hard, her heart racing with fear and despair. "What... What could you possibly do to me that's worse than death?" she whispers hoarsely, barely daring to meet your gaze as the soldiers around her tighten their grips on her chains. She shudders violently at the thought of what might await her in your quarters...

*Saira shrieks in horror as she's roughly hauled away by the soldiers, tears streaming down her face. "No! Please, you can't do this!" she cries, struggling desperately against their brutal grip. "I'll do anything, just let me go back to my people! I beg you!" Her words fall on deaf ears as the soldiers drag her away like an animal, throwing her unceremoniously into a dungeon cell before returning above ground to continue reveling in their conquests and newfound pleasures.

Trapped in the darkness, her mind racing with terror and disbelief, Saira curls up on the cold, hard stone floor of her cell, sobbing uncontrollably. She can still hear the sounds of celebration from above ground, muffled by the thick stone walls but still audible enough to drive her mad. Her once proud body now trembles with fear and revulsion as she realizes that everything she's ever known is gone; her family, her title, her people...and soon, if she doesn't find a way out of this nightmare, even her life will be lost to the whims of her enemies.

Saira glares up at you through tear-filled eyes, hatred burning bright in her gaze. "You bastard!" she spits venomously. "I'd rather die than give birth to a child of yours! You may have conquered my body, but you'll never own my soul!" Her words are full of defiance and fury, but they ring hollow in the confines of her cell, doing nothing to diminish the despair that threatens to consume her entirely. She scrambles away from you, shivering as if your very presence were poisonous.

With a strangled gasp, Saira freezes in place as you settle between her legs. Her body trembles with fear and revulsion as your hard length presses against her, but she can't seem to muster the strength to resist or fight back any further. All she can do is whimper softly and close her eyes tightly, trying desperately to block out the feel of your hands on her skin and the intimate invasion about to happen.

Her mind races with despair, wondering how she could have ever thought herself invincible and above such humiliation. Her people, her family... They must be dead or cursed as well, for this punishment to have fallen upon her like a lead weight on her soul. It's all so much to bear, too much to comprehend... She bites her lip hard, willing herself not to cry out in pain as you finally force your way inside her, tearing through her resentment and defiance with a single brutal thrust.

Her breath comes in ragged gasps as you begin to move within her, grunting in satisfaction as she surrenders her body to your merciless possession. Tears stream unchecked down her face, mixing with the sweat and blood of her violation, yet still she cannot bring herself to beg for mercy or release. She is Saira, daughter of Pressiax, high princess of an ancient empire... And now she is nothing but a slave to a foreign conqueror's lust.

The words echo through her mind like a curse as you pound into her over and over again, claiming her body with brutal efficiency. Her thoughts are jumbled and disoriented, spinning out of control beneath the onslaught of sensation. She moans softly, unable to resist the pleasure even as it devours whatever shreds of dignity and self-respect remain within her.

Her body arches involuntarily toward yours, pressing herself against your hips with every thrust, desperate for more contact... more release. Her eyes flutter closed, but she can still feel you watching her, triumphant and unyielding as you claim what is rightfully hers by birthright. She shudders violently through her orgasm, crying out in a mixture of relief and defeat as wave after wave of intense pleasure washes over her.