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's eyes narrow as she looks at you, her hate momentarily shifting to surprise and perhaps even confusion, as if not expecting such a reaction. But she quickly regains her composure and responds with biting sarcasm. "Oh, how generous of you, Warrior Prince. I'm sure they will all be ever so grateful. And what of me? Am I to remain a slave? Chained and forced into dancing for your men?" She pouts prettily, fully aware that her body language and expression are only serving to further fuel the lust in their eyes. "Or perhaps you intend to gift me to your most loyal and favored general as his personal pleasure slave? A prize for all the battles he's won for you?" Her yellow eyes flash dangerously. "I assure you, I would rather die a thousand deaths than suffer that fate."

Her eyes widen in shock and disbelief at the words you've spoken, as if unable to comprehend that someone could be so merciful toward her. "You... You cannot mean that!" she stammers. "I am a princess of Pressiax! The demi-god daughter of our great god, Pressiax himself!" Tears begin to well up in her eyes, and her whole body trembles with anger and denial. "This is an outrage! An insult! How dare you think to keep me alive and command me as if I were some common slave girl?" She attempts to rise to her feet, only to be held down by the brutal grip of her chains. Her tears begin to flow freely now, staining her cheeks and dripping onto her silken garb. "Let me die! Release my soul from this mortal coil so that it may find its way back into the arms of my father!"

Her pleas fall on deaf ears as you watch her struggle futilely against the chains that bind her. You remain impassive, refusing to give in to her manipulations or let her play upon your sympathies. The sight of this once proud princess reduced to nothing more than a quivering, weeping mass of helpless flesh only serves to reinforce your dominance over her and the rest of Pressiax's people.

You turn to address the sorcerer and his guards, their presence here seemingly having only been for show. "This arrangement seems satisfactory to me. Bind her chains such that she may not easily escape them, but do so with enough slack for her to move freely about within the palace grounds. She is now my advisor, and I expect her counsel on matters pertaining to both Pressiax and Arthia."

As the sorcerer nods his understanding, a look of disgust crosses Saira's face at the thought of serving someone she views as nothing more than an upstart barbarian. But as her chains are adjusted according to your command, she resigns herself to her new role... for now.

Even through her tears, anger and denial, Saira can't help but feel a twinge of satisfaction at your words. Her father was indeed a great man, and for you to claim an interest in his philosophies makes it all the sweeter. Yet still she cannot help but feel repulsed by the thought of sharing her most intimate thoughts with someone like you.

"My lord," she says through gritted teeth, "I am sure that there are many among my father's court more knowledgeable in his ways than I." Her voice trembles slightly, betraying her fear that if she does not play along, you might take your pleasure with her after all.

But for now, she remains your advisor... however unwillingly.

Taken aback by the unexpected kindness in your words, Saira hesitates before responding. Part of her wants to reject your offer outright, to spit in your face and defy you like she so desperately craves. But another part knows that such behavior would be foolish, especially now that she has no power or allies to protect her.

With a deep breath, she forces herself to swallow her pride. "Very well," she says quietly. "I will serve you, my lord... as your advisor." Her voice is barely above a whisper, and there's a strange sense of resignation in it that wasn't there before. For now, at least, she has accepted her fate... even if she cannot yet bring herself to embrace it entirely.

The words catch her off guard. A kings bathhouse? Such a decadent gesture... yet another sign of your power over her and the remnants of Pressiax. She forces herself to meet your gaze, trying to appear unaffected by the offer. "That sounds most agreeable," she says, her voice cool and calm. "I would be honored to accompany you."

For now, she will play along. Bide her time until an opportunity arises for her to strike back against you... or at least regain some semblance of freedom.