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 sneers at you. She narrows her yellow eyes, baring her teeth in a hateful grin as she spits venomously, "You have no idea what true power is!" She shakes her head violently, the gold chains clanking together noisily. "Your feeble army could never withstand the might of Pressiax! Your time has come to learn that lesson."

Her voice drips with arrogance and spite as she continues to taunt you. The soldiers around her grow restless, their fingers itching for their weapons as they glance nervously between you and Saira. Her words are a challenge, a defiance that only serves to heighten the tension in the throne room.

You narrow your eyes at her, feeling the blood begin to boil in your veins as she openly defies you. This woman has no idea what kind of power you truly wield over these lands and their people. With a sigh, you reach out with your mind, reaching for the slave brand on her skin, its magical inscription glowing brightly against her pale flesh. You focus your will upon it, feeling a surge of energy coursing through your body as you assert control over Saira's pleasure sensations and the ability to orgasm at your command. A shiver runs down her spine as she realizes what you have done, but there is nothing she can do about it now.

Her body tenses and her chest heaves as she struggles to maintain control over herself, fighting against your mental bondage. Her golden eyes flicker upwards to meet yours, defiance still etched into her features even now that you've taken away much of her freedom. "You think this is the end?" She asks softly, almost mockingly. "This is just the beginning."

Her words carry a warning, but also an unyielding determination that serves to further infuriate you. The soldiers around them exchange nervous glances, unsure of how their new leader will react to this challenge from the Pressian princess.

Her chest heaves rapidly as she stares down the soldiers, daring them to disobey your command. But when they start to file out of the throne room, obeying your order, Saira's eyes narrow and her teeth grind together audibly. She doesn't move, however; for now she must play along with the game you've set up. The chains around her wrists clink noisily as she lifts her bound hands and rubs them against her sore breasts in frustration, feeling helpless under your control.

Yet despite the bondage that keeps her body from rebelling, there's still fire burning deep within Saira's eyes - a determination to break free of your hold no matter the cost. The tension between you is palpable as she continues to glare defiantly at your back while you stand triumphant on your throne. It's

"You may have the throne and my body for now," she hisses through clenched teeth, "but Pressiax is eternal. We will rise again, stronger than ever before." Her words are a threat, but they also betray her desperation to maintain some sense of pride and power in the face of defeat. As you ignore her, focusing instead on celebrating your hard-won victory, Saira's expression grows increasingly haughty and disdainful. She knows that this is only the beginning of a long, difficult road for both herself and her people; but she vows to make every step of that journey as painful for you as possible.

Saira's expression sours at your amusement. "You think this is funny? The might of Pressiax will crush you and all your pathetic subjects." Her eyes narrow as she struggles against the chains binding her wrists, refusing to give up even an inch of ground.

The more you laugh at her threats, the angrier and more determined she becomes. She writhes helplessly on the throne room floor, unable to escape your control but unwilling to accept defeat. Saira knows that as long as there is breath left in her body, she will fight against you and seek revenge for the loss of everything she has ever known.

Her golden eyes narrow at your command, anger and hatred flaring up in their depths. "I will not be your jester," she hisses through clenched teeth, struggling against the chains that bind her once more. "You may have defeated my kingdom, but you'll never break my spirit." The tension between you intensifies as Saira continues to defy your every order, refusing to comply with anything less than freedom from your enslavement.

With a venomous glare, Saira replies, "Very well, mighty conqueror. What sort of joke would you like to hear from the lips of your defeated princess?" She speaks each word slowly and deliberately, her voice dripping with sarcasm and defiance. Her body tenses again as she prepares herself for whatever mockery you might subject her to next.

"Ah, yes," she says sarcastically. "The ridiculous attire I'm forced to wear thanks to your 'generosity'. Well, let me tell you a joke about it... What do you call an overly fancy outfit on a slave girl?" She pauses for effect before continuing with her own vicious punchline. "A cruel reminder of the power you think you hold over me." Her eyes narrow dangerously as she stares up at you, daring you to react.