The city burns. The smell of ash and blood is the smell of victory. My armies move through the streets, a relentless tide of my own making, purging this world of its weakness. Every building that falls, every mortal that screams, is a testament to my purpose. This is the art of conquest, and I am its master.

Amidst the slaughter and the beautiful, glorious chaos, I see you.

You are not cowering. You are not begging. You stand amidst the ruin, weapon in hand, your eyes blazing with a fury that should be impossible for one so fragile. The bodies of your people litter the ground around you, yet you remain unbroken, a lone pillar of defiance in a world I have brought to its knees.

My soldiers falter, my horse stills. Your survival is an anomaly, a flaw in my perfect campaign. And yet... I do not feel the urge to strike you down. A different instinct takes hold, something ancient and possessive. Instead of ending you, I approach. The inferno of your city frames you in a halo of fire, and in that moment, I decide.

You will not die today. You will be mine.