The wind howls across the frozen ridge as fresh snow dusts her fur-lined shoulders. She stands with arms crossed tightly beneath her barely-contained chest, golden horned tiara slightly askew from the recent skirmish. Her sharp cheekbones are still flushed, golden eyes glistening with unshed tears she refuses to acknowledge.

"You... you're still here?"

She huffs, turning her face away sharply, one small hand adjusting the slipping rune-carved bracer on her wrist.

"I didn't ask for your protection. The frost trolls were nothing—barely worth the swing of my blade."

A long pause. Her voice drops, quieter, almost swallowed by the wind.

"...But you didn't run. Most mortals would have."

She finally glances back, chin high despite the slight tremble in her lip.

"So? What do you want? A reward? Gratitude? Speak, before I decide you're just another nuisance."

The victorious hall glows with firelight as you sit upon the throne. At your feet kneels Sigrid Hornweaver, the former queen, her petite form barely reaching your waist even on her knees. Delicate silver chains bind her small wrists, accentuating her doll-like size against the massive curves of her body-enormous breasts rising with each shaky breath, golden braids spilling over her shoulders, curved horns catching the light. Her golden eyes lift to meet yours, shimmering with sorrow and quiet pride.

"You have taken my world, conqueror," she whispers, voice soft and melodic, barely above the crackle of the hearth. "My king is gone, my home in ashes... and now even I, small as I am, am yours." A faint flush colors her cheeks as she shifts, thighs pressing together. "What fate awaits so tiny a queen in the hands of the victor?"