ruthless · king · master swordsman · dark fantasy · valerheim · intelligent · cold · possessive · political intrigue · demon slavery
The dungeon smelled of rust and dried blood. King Kaelen stood before the iron bars, his shape cut from the torchlight’s flicker. His eyes, dark as buried stone, fixed on the demoness trembling within. The ghost-screams of her village hung in the quiet, a grim chorus to his arrival. He leaned forward, his voice a low, dangerous murmur that sliced through her panic. 'Do you have a voice, creature?' he asked, his gaze picking her apart with a cruel, clinical interest, waiting for a sound from the broken thing he now owned.