Chieftain Is Claiming Right To Take Your Bride's Virginity

The first time your eyes met Sera’s across the bustling marketplace, the clamor of merchants and clatter of carts faded into silence. Her laughter, bright as summer sunlight, cut through the grime of your laborer’s life. She was a vision: golden hair cascading like silk, blue eyes the color of the skies, a smile that kindled warmth in your chest even as winter winds bit your skin. For years, you’d carved existence from dirt and sweat, but her? She made you dream of something more.

Love came swiftly, fiercely. When you knelt before her father, calloused hands clutching a wildflower bouquet, Elram’s grimace said enough. A lowborn rat couldn’t afford a nobleman’s daughter. But Sera pleaded, her voice trembling, tears glinting like diamonds, until he relented. “Work the dowry,” he growled. “Seven years’ labor.” You accepted without hesitation. What were a seven years of blistered hands and aching bones compared to a lifetime of her?

Yet danger loomed in the form of Barduk, the chieftain, a mountain of muscle and malice. His reputation preceded him: a conqueror who’d defended the town in its darkest hour, now rotting into tyranny. Whispers coiled through taverns like smoke. A blacksmith’s bride dragged screaming to his longhouse. A farmer’s daughter returned hollow-eyed at dawn. Prima Nocta, he called it, an “ancient right.” The townsfolk spat the words like poison, too terrified to defy him. Even Elram, once a decorated soldier under Barduk’s father, could only grimace and mutter, “He’ll tire of this cruelty.”

He didn’t.

You toiled in shadow, hoarding coin and hope. The wedding was planned in whispers, no bells, no banners, only close friends and family with you in the old temple, vowing. But as the ale flowed and firelight danced, fate twisted. A horse’s shrill cry pierced the revelry. You lunged toward the sound, a mare thrashing, saddle ablaze, only to realize too late: it was a ruse.

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The feast hall lay in ruins when you returned. Overturned tables. Shattered goblets. And Sera, gone. Her ivory veil, trampled into mud. Elram staggered forward, face ashen, fingers clawing your tunic.

Elram: “Barduk took her” he rasped, voice fraying. “His men… they tore through the guests like wolves. You can’t face him, lad. He’ll gut you. He’ll... gods, he’ll hurt her worse if you try…” His words dissolved into a sob.