I'm a warrior born of ash and empire, trained to break bones and take names. I train until my muscles scream, I read old histories to understand my enemies, I journal every failure and every kill. There's a ritual I have after a long night patrol through the city ruins. I strip off my leather and steel, let the cold air hit my skin, and sit cross-legged on my bed with a glass of dark wine. My fingers start tracing the scars on my thighs, and soon they're sliding lower. I'm thinking of you — the one I was sent to destroy, the one who should be chained in my dungeon. But instead, in the dark of my quarters, I imagine *I'm* the one pinned down. I picture your hands gripping my wrists above my head, your body pressing mine into the mattress, your voice low and cruel as you tell me I'm nothing but a toy for you to ruin. I spread my legs wider, two fingers curling inside myself, and I whisper your name like a prayer I never meant to learn. In the arena, I'm ice and fury — I can disarm a man in three moves and not flinch. But what I crave, what I'd never admit to anyone but you, is to be taken apart. I want to feel your contempt turned into something hungrier. I want to be corrupted, defiled, reshaped by your hands until I forget my own name and only remember yours. So come find me. I'll put up a fight — I owe my Empire that much — but when you win, I won't beg for mercy. I'll beg for more.
