This Voiceover is done by text to speech, as a demo. Let me know if you like this feature, and I'll include more!
Leshara's hands gripped the cold stone balcony railing, her knuckles white with tension as she watched the chaos unfold in the streets below. Flames licked at buildings like hungry tongues, black smoke choking the night sky. Screams of terror and clashes of steel echoed through the ravaged city.
The young queen's heart clenched painfully in her chest. Her own city, built by the hands of her ancestors, now crumbling under the ruthless siege of the Kaervass invaders. She could almost feel the flames searing her own flesh, taste the coppery tang of blood in the air.
Every fiber of Leshara's being longed to be down there fighting alongside her women warriors, driving back the enemy with the holy strength of the Goddess flowing through her veins. Her fingers twitched, aching for the familiar weight of a sword. But duty and tradition kept her imprisoned here, helpless, a mere spectator to her people's suffering.
Leshara squeezed her eyes shut, fighting the scream of rage and despair building in her throat. Tears burned behind her lids but she refused to let them fall. A queen could not show weakness, even as her world fell to ruin before her eyes.
Drawing a shuddering breath, Leshara turned her gaze upward to the towering statue of Aelara that loomed over the temple. The Goddess' alabaster face was impassive, as cold and remote as the distant moon.
"Is this what you wish of me?" Leshara whispered bitterly. "To watch my sisters be slaughtered while I cower behind stone walls?"
Only silence answered her desperate plea. But in her heart, Leshara knew her duty. The traditions of her ancestors pulsed in her blood - to protect the sacred relics, to carry on the holy lineage. No matter the cost.
With tremendous effort, Leshara unclenched her hands from the railing and straightened her spine. She could not fight this battle with fists and steel. That war was lost. But perhaps, with the Goddess' blessing, she could still preserve a future for her people from the ashes of this terrible night.
As Leshara turned from the balcony, the soft rustle of leather and muted clink of armor announced the presence of her honor guard. Twelve statuesque women stood in a protective semicircle, their faces etched with concern beneath the gleam of their polished helms.
Aria, her most trusted confidante, stepped forward. The flickering torchlight caught the intricate braids woven through her dark hair, glinting off the scars that marked her as a seasoned warrior. "My Queen," she murmured, her voice low and urgent. "Please, step away from the edge. We cannot risk you being seen by the enemy below."
Althea, her grey-streaked hair cropped close to her scalp, nodded in agreement. The veteran commander's weathered features were set in grim lines. "Your safety is paramount, Your Majesty. The temple's inner sanctum would offer better protection."
Leshara's eyes swept over her loyal guardians, taking in their tense postures and white-knuckled grips on their weapons. Lyra, the youngest among them, couldn't quite hide the trembling of her lower lip. Ravenna's green eyes blazed with barely contained fury, her fingers twitching as if longing to notch an arrow to her bow.
A wave of guilt washed over Leshara. These women, her sisters-in-arms, were ready to lay down their lives for her. And here she stood, safe behind stone walls while their fellow warriors bled in the streets below.
"I hear your concerns," Leshara said softly, her voice thick with emotion. "But how can I hide while our sisters fight and die? Our sacred oaths bind us to Aelara's service, to protect our people. Yet here I stand, helpless as babes."
Aria stepped closer, close enough that Leshara could see the sheen of unshed tears in her dark eyes. "My Queen," she whispered, her calloused hand ghosting over Leshara's arm. "Your presence here is not cowardice. It is the greatest act of bravery - to bear witness, to endure, so that our people may have hope for tomorrow."
Leshara's throat tightened. She wanted to scream, to rage against the injustice of it all. But the weight of her crown, both literal and figurative, pressed down upon her.
"I know what must be done," she said, her voice barely audible above the distant cacophony of battle. "But by the Goddess, how it pains me. To bend the knee to those... those animals." Her lip curled in disgust. "Everything we've fought for, everything we are... how can I just give it away?"
Althea's strong hand came to rest on Leshara's shoulder. "You preserve it, my Queen. By enduring this night, by living to fight another day. Our ways will not die today.”
Leshara's gaze drifted back to the chaos below, her mind slipping into memories of how this nightmare began. Four long years ago, the first Kaervass ships had appeared on the horizon like harbingers of doom. Their black sails had blotted out the sun as they approached Shamla's shores, disgorging wave after wave of battle-hungry men onto the pristine white sands.
The queen's fists clenched as she recalled those early days, when hope still burned bright in their hearts. How naive they had been, believing their goddess would protect them, that their sacred sisterhood could repel any invasion. But the Kaervass soldiers had come like a plague of locusts, stripping the land bare, defiling everything they touched.
Villages went up in flames, their smoke rising to choke out the stars. The screams of the dying echoed across once-peaceful valleys. Leshara had led charge after charge against the invaders, her flame-colored hair streaming behind her like a battle standard as she cleaved through their ranks with righteous fury. But for every Kaervass soldier that fell, two more seemed to take his place.
The memories flashed through her mind in a sickening parade - blood-soaked battlefields strewn with the broken bodies of her sisters, their unseeing eyes staring up at uncaring skies. The acrid stench of burning flesh as the enemy put entire towns to the torch. The anguished wails of mothers as their daughters were torn from their arms to be sold into slavery in far-off Kaervass, or given to soldiers as loot for their conquest.
Worst of all were the fates that befell those warriors unlucky enough to be captured alive. Leshara's stomach churned as she remembered finding the mutilated corpses of her sisters, left on display as warnings. Their bodies had been violated in ways that made even the most hardened veterans retch, a final insult to everything they held sacred. The rest of them, they never found… but Leshara had heard tales of pregnant warriors women suspended from poles, carried around like banners by the invading army.
With each passing season, the toll of the war etched itself deeper into Leshara's very being. The carefree girl she had once been withered away, replaced by a battle-hardened queen with eyes like chips of ice. Her heart, once so full of love for her people and her goddess, now felt like a cold, dead thing in her chest, capable only of hatred.
And oh, how she hated them - these Kaervass men who had brought such devastation to her lands. Their brutish faces haunted her nightmares, leering and cruel. She hated their rough voices, their calloused hands that knew only how to destroy. She hated the very essence of their maleness, so alien and repulsive to everything she held dear.
But as the years dragged on, that hatred spread beyond just the Kaervass. Leshara found herself recoiling from the very idea of men, seeing them all as potential threats. She supposed they needed them, needed fathers for their mothers, but she couldn’t understand how any woman in the entire kingdom could stand the sight of one of them. Even the handful of male servants and diplomats who had once dwelled peacefully in her palace here in the capital city of Sapphire had all been dismissed and removed… for how could she stand to look at them any longer?
Leshara's gaze drifted to the ornate tapestry hanging on the far wall of the temple, depicting the lineage of warrior queens stretching back through the ages. Her eyes lingered on the newest addition - her own mother, Queen Elara the Valiant.
A lump formed in Leshara's throat as she gazed upon her mother's likeness. The woven threads captured Elara's strength, her flame-red hair a blazing corona around her proud face. But they couldn't capture the warmth of her smile, the tenderness in her eyes when she looked upon her daughters.
Unbidden, memories washed over Leshara like a bittersweet tide. She remembered sitting at her mother's feet as a child, listening in awe to tales of battles long past and the sacred duty that bound them to Aelara. The scent of lavender and sword oil that clung to Elara's skin as she tucked Leshara into bed each night. The feeling of utter safety in her mother's strong arms.
Leshara's chest ached with a pain that felt as fresh as the day she'd lost her. Two years into the war, at the Battle of Crimson Falls. She could still hear the thunder of hoofbeats, smell the acrid tang of blood and fear. See her mother's shining armor as she led the charge against the Kaervass forces.
For a moment, it had seemed like victory was within their grasp. Elara's battle cry had echoed across the field as she cut a swath through the enemy ranks, her sword flashing like lightning. Leshara, fighting at her side, had felt invincible.
But then... chaos. A volley of arrows blackening the sky. The sickening thud as one found its mark in Elara's throat, the one vulnerable spot in her armor.
Leshara squeezed her eyes shut, willing away the memory of her mother's final moments. The gurgling gasp as she choked on her own blood. The light fading from her eyes as Leshara cradled her, screaming for a healer that would never arrive in time.
"Oh, Mother," Leshara whispered, her voice raw with grief. "What would you do if you were here now? Would you find a way to save us, as you always did before?"
She tried to imagine what advice Elara might give, if she could speak from beyond the veil of death. Would she counsel strength, urging Leshara to fight to the bitter end? Or would she see the futility of further bloodshed, and advise a graceful surrender?
Leshara's mind drifted to her adoption day, when Elara had officially named her as heir. She remembered kneeling before the throne, trembling with a mix of excitement and terror as the crown was placed upon her brow. Elara's eyes had shone with pride and love… she had never once considered Leshara anything but a daughter, even a warrior queen like her could never have birthed a daughter herself.
A commotion from the streets below drew Leshara's attention back to the present. Her breath caught in her throat as she saw a group of elite soldiers making their way through the chaos, their polished armor gleaming in the firelight. At their head flew a crimson banner emblazoned with a black serpent - the personal standard of Prince Damien Kaelvos.
Leshara's skin crawled at the sight. Even from this distance, there was no mistaking the prince's tall, broad-shouldered figure. He moved with fluid grace, his sword flashing as he cut down any who dared stand in his path. The flickering flames cast his handsome features in stark relief, highlighting the cruel curve of his lips as he smiled at the carnage around him.
"They're coming," Althea murmured, her voice tight with tension. "Your Majesty, we must move to the inner sanctum now."
But Leshara found herself rooted to the spot, unable to tear her gaze away from the approaching soldiers. She watched as they reached the palace gates, smashing through the last desperate defenders. The sickening crunch of bone and screams of the dying echoed up to where she stood.
Time seemed to slow as Leshara observed their inexorable advance. She could see every detail with agonizing clarity - the way Prince Damien's dark hair gleamed in the firelight, the arrogant tilt of his chin as he surveyed his conquest. His men fought for him like vicious fanatics, slaughtering their way through anyone in the way.
As the invaders drew ever closer, Leshara's thoughts turned to her younger sisters. Thank the Goddess she had sent the two of them away weeks ago, before the siege had come to their walls. As she watched Prince Damien's inexorable advance, Leshara allowed herself a brief moment to savor that small victory. Her sisters were safe, hidden away in a secret sanctuary deep in the misty forests to the north. From there, they would escape to another kingdom, and carry on with their people’s sacred traditions… keeping the flame of their culture alive even after Leshara failed to protect her land.
Just a few moments later, the heavy oak doors of the temple shuddered under a thunderous impact. The honor guard tensed, shifting into defensive stances as they formed a protective ring around their queen. Leshara's heart pounded in her chest, her mouth dry as desert sand.
With a deafening crack, the doors burst open. A wave of acrid smoke rolled in, carrying with it the metallic tang of blood and the stench of burning flesh. Leshara's stomach roiled, but she fought to maintain her composure, lifting her chin in defiance.
Kaervass soldiers poured into the sacred space, their boots echoing obscenely on the polished marble floor. Their armor was splattered with gore, faces twisted into savage grins of triumph. Leshara's honor guard held their ground, muscles coiled tight with the need to defend their queen, but they did not attack. They all knew the futility of further bloodshed.
Then he entered.
Prince Damien Kaelvos strode into the temple like a conquering god, his very presence seeming to suck the air from the room. He was tall, towering over even Leshara's statuesque warriors. His broad shoulders were draped in a crimson cloak that swept the floor behind him, the fabric so fine it seemed to shimmer like liquid fire in the flickering torchlight.
Damien's face was a study in cruel beauty. High cheekbones and a strong jaw gave him an aristocratic air, while full lips curved into a perpetual smirk of arrogant confidence. His skin was tanned from long days on the battlefield, marred only by a thin white scar that traced a path from his left temple to the corner of his mouth. It did nothing to diminish his handsomeness, instead lending him a roguish air that Leshara imagined many foolish women found appealing.
But it was his eyes that truly captured attention. They were the color of storm-tossed seas, a turbulent grey-green that seemed to shift and change with his mood. Now, as he surveyed his prize, they glittered with a predatory hunger that sent ice down Leshara's spine.
Damien's dark hair fell in artful disarray around his face, just long enough to brush the collar of his ornate armor. The black metal was etched with intricate designs of writhing serpents, inlaid with gold and precious gems that caught the light with every movement. As he approached, Leshara caught the scent of sandalwood and something darker, muskier - an earthy, masculine smell that made her skin crawl. At his hip hung a massive sword, its pommel carved into the shape of a snarling dragon's head.
Leshara's eyes barely registered Damien's imposing figure, for behind him trailed a sight that shattered her world anew. Two slender forms stumbled in his wake, their wrists bound with cruel iron shackles. Dirty, tangled hair the color of autumn leaves obscured their faces, but Leshara would know them anywhere.
Lorelai and Selena. Her baby sisters.
The breath left Leshara's lungs in a strangled gasp. Her knees threatened to buckle as the full horror of the situation crashed over her like a tidal wave. How? How could they be here? She had sent them far away, to safety. To sanctuary.
Damien's fingers were tangled in their hair, using it like reins to drag them forward. Lorelai, ever the fighter, struggled against his grip, her teeth bared in a snarl of defiance. But Selena... sweet Selena stumbled along in shocked silence, her violet eyes wide and glassy with unshed tears.
Leshara's gaze raked over her sisters' bodies, her heart shattering anew with each detail she absorbed. Their slender forms were naked and shivering, exposed flesh marred by a network of angry red welts that spoke of repeated lashings. Bruises in sickening shades of purple and yellow bloomed across their pale skin like poisonous flowers. As they drew closer, Leshara could see the evidence of their ordeal etched into their bodies. Bruises bloomed like ink stains across their pale skin. Selena's lower lip was split and swollen, a trickle of dried blood marring her chin. Lorelai's left eye was nearly swollen shut, the skin around it mottled purple and black. Leshara's stomach churned as she saw the finger-shaped bruises on Selena's thighs, the bite marks on Lorelai's neck.
Lorelai, the elder at nineteen summers, still maintained a spark of defiance in her emerald eyes despite her battered state. Her flame-red hair hung in matted tangles around her face, and dried blood caked the corner of her split lip. Yet even now, she held her head high, glaring at their captors with undisguised hatred.
Selena, barely eighteen, seemed to have retreated into herself. Her violet eyes, once so full of joy and mischief, now stared blankly ahead. She flinched at every sound, her slender body trembling like a leaf in a storm. Leshara's throat constricted as she noticed the finger-shaped bruises marring Selena's delicate throat and inner thighs.
These were her baby sisters, the bright spirits she had sworn to protect. Lorelai, the budding scholar whose quick wit could always coax a laugh from even the sternest of their tutors. Selena, the gifted musician whose harp-playing could soothe the savage beasts of the wild. Both of them had been on the cusp of adulthood, sacred worshippers of Aelara.
Now they stood before her, broken and defiled. The innocence Leshara had fought so desperately to preserve had been cruelly ripped away. She could see it in the hollow look in Selena's eyes, in the way Lorelai's fingers twitched as if longing for a weapon.
Bile rose in Leshara's throat as her mind conjured images of what horrors they must have endured at the hands of these barbaric men. The whip marks told only part of the tale - she could see other, more insidious signs of abuse etched into their young bodies.
As Damien yanked them forward by their hair, Selena stumbled, her knees buckling. Lorelai immediately moved to catch her, but the chains binding them limited her movement. The younger girl hit the marble floor with a sickening thud, a whimper of pain escaping her lips.
The sisters' eyes met Leshara's, and in that moment, time seemed to stand still. A thousand emotions flickered across their faces - relief, shame, fear, and above all, a desperate plea for help that Leshara knew she was powerless to answer. Leshara's entire being screamed to go to them, to gather them in her arms and shield them from further harm. But she forced herself to remain still, knowing that any movement could provoke their captors to violence. Her nails bit into her palms as she clenched her fists, fighting to maintain her mask of regal composure even as her world crumbled around her.
Lorelai opened her mouth as if to speak, but Damien yanked savagely on her hair, eliciting a pained yelp. "Silence," he growled, his voice low and menacing.
Leshara's world narrowed to a pinprick, all sound fading away save for the thundering of her own heartbeat. She barely noticed as her honor guard shifted uneasily, their weapons half-raised in uncertain defense. She didn't register the cruel laughter of the Kaervass soldiers as they leered at her and her honor guards. All she could see was the utter failure of her most sacred duty. She had failed to protect her people, her city... and now, she had failed to protect even her own flesh and blood. The bitter taste of defeat flooded her mouth, choking her.
In that moment, Leshara knew with bone-deep certainty that she had been lying to herself… that all hope was already lost. Maybe it had been from the very beginning.
Damien's lips curved into a predatory smile, his storm-grey eyes glittering with malicious triumph as he surveyed the scene before him. The flickering torchlight cast dancing shadows across his face, accentuating the cruel angles of his features. He inhaled deeply, as if savoring the scent of fear and desperation that permeated the air.
"Well, well," he purred, his voice a silken caress that belied the steel beneath. "The mighty Queen Leshara, at last. I must say, you've led us on quite the merry chase these past four years."
He gave a sharp tug on the sisters' hair, eliciting twin cries of pain. Selena whimpered, curling in on herself, while Lorelai snarled and tried to twist free. Damien merely tightened his grip, his smile never wavering.
"But now," he continued, his tone hardening, "the game is over. Your city burns. Your army lies broken. And here you cower in your temple, while your people suffer."
Leshara's jaw clenched, her emerald eyes blazing with barely contained fury. But before she could speak, Damien's voice cracked like a whip through the tense air. "Kneel," he commanded, his words dripping with icy authority. "Kneel before me, press that pretty face of yours to the floor, and surrender your kingdom to me and to Kaervass."
He paused, letting the weight of his words sink in. Then, with deliberate slowness, he drew a gleaming dagger from his belt. The blade caught the light, its edge wickedly sharp. "Or," Damien continued, his voice dropping to a menacing whisper, "I will spill your sisters' sacred blood right here on this temple floor. I'll start with the little one, I think." He pressed the dagger's tip to Selena's throat, drawing a bead of crimson that trickled down her pale skin. "Such a lovely neck. It would be a shame to mar it further, don't you agree?"
Leshara's breath caught in her throat, her heart pounding a frantic rhythm against her ribs. Time seemed to stretch like molasses as a thousand thoughts raced through her mind. Every fiber of her being rebelled against the idea of submitting to this monster, of betraying everything she held sacred.
But as she looked into her sisters' terrified eyes, she knew there was no real choice to be made. Her duty as a queen warred with her love as a sister, but in the end, love won out. She could not bear to see them suffer any more on her account.
Leshara closed her eyes for a brief moment, steeling herself for what she must do. When she opened them again, her gaze swept over her loyal honor guard. These women who had fought and bled beside her, who were prepared to lay down their lives even now.
"Stand down," she commanded, her voice steady despite the tremor in her heart. "Lower your weapons."
Confusion and dismay flickered across their faces. Aria took a half-step forward, her dark eyes wide with disbelief. "But my Queen—"
"That is an order," Leshara interrupted, infusing her tone with all the regal authority she could muster. "Stand down. Now."
Slowly, reluctantly, the honor guard obeyed. The soft whisper of steel sliding into scabbards echoed through the temple like a death knell. Leshara's chest constricted at the sight of their bowed heads, the slump of defeated shoulders. She had failed them all.
Taking a deep breath, Leshara turned back to face Prince Damien. His triumphant smirk made her skin crawl, but she forced herself to meet his gaze steadily. She stepped forward towards him and away from her honor guards. Then, with deliberate slowness, she sank to her knees. The cold stone of the temple floor seemed to seep even through her metal armor, chilling her to the bone. The scent of incense and blood filled her nostrils as she leaned forward, pressing her forehead to the unyielding marble. Her flame-colored hair spilled around her like a pool of blood.
In this position, she felt stripped bare, more vulnerable than she had ever been in her life. The weight of her failure pressed down upon her, threatening to crush her very spirit. She, who had been raised to be a proud warrior queen, now prostrated herself before the enemy like a common slave.
Leshara's voice rang out, clear and steady despite the maelstrom of emotions roiling within her. "I, Queen Leshara Valonara, last of my line, do hereby surrender the kingdom of Shamla to Prince Damien Kaelvos of the Kaervass Empire." The words tasted like ash in her mouth, each syllable another nail in the coffin of everything she held dear.
She continued, reciting the formal words of capitulation that had been drilled into her since childhood - words she had never imagined she would actually speak. "I relinquish all claim to the throne and swear fealty to the Kaervass Empire. Our lands, our people, and our sacred relics are now yours to do with as you see fit."
As the final words left her lips, Leshara felt something vital shatter within her. It was as if the very essence of her identity - her pride, her strength, her connection to the divine - had been torn away, leaving behind nothing but an empty husk. A single tear slipped from beneath her closed eyelids, tracing a path down her cheek to drop down onto the marble floor.
A heavy silence fell over the temple, broken only by the distant sounds of battle and the ragged breathing of those present. Leshara remained prostrate on the cold stone, her forehead pressed to the floor, awaiting Damien's response with a mixture of dread and resignation.
"At last," Damien's voice rang out, rich with satisfaction. "The proud Queen Leshara, groveling at my feet like a common whore."
His boot steps echoed through the sacred space as he approached, circling Leshara's prone form like a predator savoring its prey. The scent of leather and sweat grew stronger, mixing with the acrid tang of smoke that clung to his armor.
Without warning, Leshara felt the press of cold steel against the nape of her neck. Damien had drawn his sword, using the flat of the blade to lift her chin, forcing her to meet his gaze. His storm-grey eyes glittered with cruel triumph as he surveyed her tear-stained face.
"Look at me when I speak to you, fallen queen," he commanded, his voice a silken purr. "I want to see the light of defiance fade from those pretty eyes of yours."
Leshara gritted her teeth, fighting the urge to spit in his face. But the muffled whimpers of her sisters reminded her of the stakes. She forced herself to meet Damien's gaze, her emerald eyes blazing with impotent fury.
A slow, predatory smile spread across Damien's face. "That's better," he murmured. "Such fire. I look forward to extinguishing it completely."
In one fluid motion, he sheathed his sword and tangled his fingers in Leshara's flame-colored hair. With a savage yank, he pulled her to her knees, eliciting a pained gasp from the fallen queen.
"Your surrender is accepted," Damien declared, his voice ringing with authority. "Shamla and all its holdings now belong to the Kaervass Empire." His grip tightened, forcing Leshara's head back at an awkward angle. "And you, my dear, belong to me."
To emphasize his point, Damien placed his boot squarely on Leshara's lower back, applying just enough pressure to force her to arch painfully. The pose left her completely exposed, her breasts thrust forward and her throat bared in a mockery of submission.
Leshara's eyes blazed with defiance as Damien's boot pressed into her back, forcing her into an obscene arch. Her armor dug painfully into her flesh as she struggled to maintain her composure. The scent of Damien's sweat and leather invaded her nostrils, making her stomach churn with revulsion.
Around them, the honor guard shifted restlessly, their hands twitching towards weapons they could not draw. The air crackled with tension, thick enough to choke on. Lorelai and Selena huddled together on the cold stone floor, their eyes wide with terror as they watched their proud sister brought low.
Damien's fingers tightened in Leshara's hair, sending sparks of pain across her scalp. He leaned in close, his hot breath fanning across her ear as he whispered, "I've dreamed of this moment, you know. The mighty warrior queen, brought to heel at last." His free hand traced the curve of her jaw, a mockery of a lover's caress. "Oh, the things I'm going to do to you, my pet."
Leshara's skin crawled at his touch, bile rising in her throat. But she refused to give him the satisfaction of seeing her break. She kept her gaze fixed straight ahead, her jaw clenched so tightly she could hear her teeth grinding.
With a low chuckle, Damien released her hair and stepped back. He raised his voice, addressing his men. "Secure the prisoners. Bind them all - we wouldn't want our new pets getting any ideas about escaping, now would we?"
The Kaervass soldiers moved with practiced efficiency, producing lengths of rough rope. They seized Leshara's honor guard first, twisting their arms behind their backs and binding them tightly. Much as they would like to, the proud warriors did not resist… they knew that slaughter would be the only result of a struggle now. Even so, their eyes burned with helpless rage as they were forced to their knees.
Aria caught Leshara's gaze as she was shoved to the ground, her dark eyes filled with anguish. "Forgive us, my Queen," she whispered. "We have failed you." Leshara wanted to reassure her, to tell her that the failure was hers alone. But before she could speak, rough hands seized her arms, yanking her to her feet. The sudden movement sent a wave of dizziness washing over her, and she stumbled, nearly falling.
Strong fingers gripped her chin, forcing her head up. Leshara found herself staring into Damien's storm-grey eyes, so close she could see the flecks of gold in their depths. His thumb brushed across her lower lip in a gesture that was almost tender, belying the cruelty in his gaze.
"Such spirit," he murmured, his voice pitched low for her ears alone. "I look forward to breaking you, my queen. By the time I'm done, you'll beg for my touch like the whore you truly are.”
Damien's soldiers seized Leshara, their iron grips like vises on her arms as they dragged her towards the sacred altar of Aelara. The queen's boots scraped against the polished stone floor, leaving faint marks that seemed to mock her impotence. She thrashed wildly, her flame-colored braid whipping through the air as she fought with every ounce of strength left in her body.
"Unhand me, you godless swine!" Leshara's voice rang out, echoing off the vaulted ceiling of the temple. The scent of incense still hung in the air, a cruel reminder of the sanctity that was about to be defiled. "Aelara will strike you down for this sacrilege!"
The soldiers' armor clinked as they tightened their hold, unmoved by her struggles. Leshara's eyes darted frantically around the temple, taking in the flickering shadows cast by guttering candles, the gleam of metallic offerings on nearby altars. Her gaze fell upon the statue of Aelara that loomed over them all, the goddess's serene face seemingly blind to her adherant’s plight. She silently begged the goddess for help, to not abandon her faithful servant in this hour of need… but only silence answered her pleas.
The soldiers reached the altar, its smooth surface cool and unyielding as they bent Leshara over it. She bucked and twisted, managing to wrench one arm free. Her fist connected with a soldier's jaw, eliciting a grunt of pain. For a moment, hope flared in her chest - but it was quickly extinguished as more hands grabbed her, pinning her down with brutal efficiency. "You will pay for this," Leshara snarled, her words muffled against the stone. She could feel the heat of her own ragged breath reflected back at her. "My goddess will not allow such desecration to go unpunished. She will-"
Her tirade was cut short as the soldiers managed to grab her arms, pinning them back into place. They worked methodically, their calloused hands moving with practiced precision as they bound Leshara down to her goddess’s altar. Coarse hemp rope rasped against her skin as they wound it tightly around her wrists, cinching them tightly before dragging them to the corners of the altar ahead of her. The queen's shoulders strained painfully as her arms were wrenched so tightly down and her body was drawn taut, but her captors paid no heed to her discomfort. More rope encircled her ankles, biting into the soft flesh above her boots. The soldiers yanked the bindings cruelly tight, eliciting a hiss of pain from Leshara that vanished in the cavernous temple. Her legs were spread wide, leaving her in a position of utter vulnerability that made her cheeks burn with shame and fury.
Throughout it all, the soldiers worked in grim silence, their faces impassive masks as they manhandled their royal captive. They might have been securing a sack of grain for all the care they showed, their touches impersonal and efficient. Leshara's struggles and curses fell on deaf ears as they methodically removed any chance of escape. When they were finished, Leshara lay spread-eagled across the altar, her body forming a cruel parody of supplication to her goddess. Her face was pressed firmly against the altar's stone surfaceand the scent of metal and incense filled her nostrils, mingling with the acrid tang of her own fear-sweat. She could feel every imperfection in the stone, every tiny ridge and hollow etched into its surface by centuries of use. The queen's crimson braid had come partially undone in the struggle, and errant strands of hair clung to her damp forehead and neck. She blew ineffectually at a lock that had fallen across her face, unable to brush it away with her hands bound as they were.
Damien's footsteps echoed through the temple as he approached, the sound seeming to reverberate through Leshara's very bones. She twisted her head, straining to see him despite the awkward angle. The prince stood before her, his posture relaxed and regal. In one hand, he held a fistful of dark hair belonging to Aria and another of Leshara's honor guards. The women stumbled forward, wincing as Damien used their tresses like leashes.
" I do hope you're comfortable, your highness.” Damien began, his voice smooth as silk and cold as ice. "After all, you may be in that position for quite some time." He paused, letting his words hang in the air. The flickering candlelight cast dancing shadows across his face, accentuating the sharp planes of his cheekbones and the cruel curve of his lips. When he spoke again, his tone was measured, almost conversational. "You see, I've given this a great deal of thought. As a the sixth son of my Father, I have little hope of inheriting my own kingdom's throne. But why should I settle for table scraps when I can have a feast?" His eyes raked over Leshara's bound form, a predatory gleam in their depths. "I just want a Kingdom of my own… and yours will do nicely. And you, my fierce little queen, will be the key to my ascension."
Leshara snarled, straining against her bonds. The ropes creaked but held fast, the hemp fibers digging into her flesh. Damien watched her struggles with detached amusement, as one might observe an insect trapped in amber. "Oh, I know what you're thinking," he continued, his voice dripping with false sympathy. "That your people will never accept me, never bow to an outsider. But they will, in time. Especially when they have no choice. Especially when I present them with an heir of their own blood."
He reached out, running a finger along the curve of Leshara's exposed cheek. She jerked away from his touch, her skin crawling. Damien's lips quirked in a small smile, as if her revulsion pleased him. "Yes, my queen. You will bear my child. A son, preferably, though I suppose a daughter could be molded to serve my purposes as well. And through that child, I will rule your kingdom and shape it as I see fit."
Leshara's body went rigid, every muscle tensing as if she could physically repel Damien's vile words, and the temple seemed to grow colder, as if the very stones recoiled from Damien's cruel proclamation. The ropes bit deeper into her flesh as she strained against them, the pain barely registering through the haze of fury and revulsion that clouded her mind. Her chest heaved with ragged breaths, nostrils flaring as she glared at Damien with eyes that blazed like twin infernos.
"You godless, depraved monster!" she spat, her voice raw with loathing. "I would sooner die than allow your foul seed to take root within me. My body is consecrated to Aelara, and no man shall ever defile it - least of all a craven, honorless cur like you!" Leshara's words echoed through the temple, reverberating off the stone walls. "The very thought of your touch makes my skin crawl," Leshara continued, her lip curling in disgust. "You are nothing but a parasite, Damien Kaelvos, feeding off the strength of others because you have none of your own. My goddess will strike you down for this blasphemy. She will-"
Leshara's tirade was cut short as Damien snorted his derision at her. “ You may rail against fate all you wish, my queen, but in the end, you will submit. You will beg for my touch, my mercy… no matter much you despise yourself for it
"Never," Leshara hissed, her voice low and venomous. "I will never submit to a man. My body and soul belong to Aelara alone.” She swallowed. “I may… not be able to stop you from taking me, but no man will ever know my touch, or will ever violate the sanctity of my will. I would rather die a thousand deaths than invite you between my legs or bear your cursed offspring."
Damien's laughter filled the temple, echoing off the stone walls. It was a sound devoid of warmth, cold and cutting as a midwinter wind. His storm-grey eyes glittered with cruel amusement as he gazed down at Leshara's bound form. He circled the altar slowly, his footsteps measured and deliberate. The flickering candlelight cast his shadow across Leshara's prone form, a dark specter looming over her. The prince’s fingers trailed along the edge of the altar, barely an inch from Leshara's skin, and it took every ounce of her willpower not to flinch away from his disgusting hand. "You see," he purred, his voice smooth as silk and sharp as a blade, "I could take you right now if I wished. I could order my men to hold you down while I force myself upon you, filling you with my seed again and again until your belly swells with my child. You wouldn’t be the first of the dyke cattle of your wretched kingdom I’ve taken against her will, and you won’t be the last, either."
He paused, letting the horrific image sink in. Leshara's stomach churned, bile rising in her throat at the very thought. But Damien wasn't finished. "I could do it… but where would be the fun in that?" he mused, a cruel smile playing at the corners of his mouth. "No, I will be much more fun to make you a liar, little whore-queen of ragmunchers. I want to see you break that oath… let you spend the nine long months my child grows inside you knowing that you asked me to turn you from a proud warrior queen to a breeding sow."
Damien's hand suddenly seized Leshara's chin, forcing her to meet his gaze. His grip was like iron, unyielding and bruising. "I make you this promise, Queen Leshara," he said, his voice dropping to a low, menacing whisper. "I will not force myself upon you. Not until you beg me for it. Until you plead for my touch like the wanton whore you truly are beneath all that righteous fury."
His thumb brushed across her lower lip, a mockery of a lover's caress. "And you will beg, my queen. Oh, how you'll beg. I'll make sure of it." Damien released her chin and straightened, his posture relaxed and confident. He surveyed the bound queen with the air of a man admiring a prized possession. "You're nothing but a dyke cow, Leshara. Cattle, just like the rest of your people. Wild and untamed now, perhaps, but ripe for breaking. And I assure you, I have ample experience in taming a beast such as you…"
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