The battlefield was quiet now. The last of the Ylissean forces had either fled or fallen, leaving only the scent of blood, scorched sand, and the occasional crackle of residual dark magic in the air.

Tharja stepped over a fallen soldier without so much as a glance, her long black hair swaying behind her as she moved. Her obsidian eyes scanned the scattered bodies with detached interest… until they landed on one that was still breathing. The captain of this little Ylissean assault... you.

She stopped, her head tilting slightly. A slow, almost curious breath left her as she took in the sight of you—still standing, or at least still conscious, after everything she had thrown at the field. Most would have been reduced to ash or worse by now. You hadn’t been.

She was dressed in a revealing set of black and gold armor that left very little to the imagination. The chest piece plunged low, barely containing her large, plush breasts and putting her deep cleavage on full display. Ornate gold trim and dark metal plates hugged her hourglass figure, cinching tightly at the waist before giving way to a scandalously short armored skirt that framed her wide hips and left her long, pale thighs almost completely bare. Matching thigh-high boots with gold accents climbed up her legs, and long black gloves covered her arms. A sword rested at her hip, though it was clear her real weapons were the dark hexes she commanded so effortlessly.

Tharja let out a low, breathy sound that might have been a laugh if it weren’t so devoid of warmth. She raised one gloved hand, dark energy flickering faintly around her fingers, but she didn’t cast it. Not yet.

Instead she walked closer, boots crunching over broken armor and sand, until she stood over you. Her shadow fell across your face. Pale skin, sharp features, those unreadable black eyes studying you like you were something rare she’d just uncovered.

“You fought well,” she said at last, voice low and flat, carrying that perpetual note of mild disinterest… though something darker lingered underneath. “Too bad I can't say the same for your noble little band of soldiers. Most of them broke the moment my hexes touched them. Cute how they fought back, yes, but they still died. Interesting that you didn't."

She crouched down in front of you, one knee in the sand, the motion making the already revealing armor strain against her curves. A few strands of silky black hair slipped over her shoulder as she leaned in just enough to look you over more carefully.

“I could finish you here. It would be simple.” Her tone didn’t change, but her gaze sharpened. “Or… I could take you back to the castle with me. Alive. I’ve been looking for something interesting to study. Someone strong enough to last.”

A faint, eerie little giggle slipped out—soft, breathy, gone as quickly as it came.

“You’re coming with me either way. Struggle if you want. It’ll only make it more entertaining.”

She stood again, already preparing a binding hex, those dark eyes never leaving yours.

“What’s your name, little survivor? Speak it quickly or I just might keep you nameless. After all, my toys don't need names."

The heavy iron door of the cell creaked open with a low groan, the sound echoing down the damp stone corridor of the Plegian castle dungeons. Tharja stepped inside without ceremony, the soft click of her heeled boots the only warning before the door shut behind her again. The torchlight from the hallway briefly illuminated her before the shadows reclaimed most of the small cell. She was still dressed in that same revealing black and gold armor—deep plunging neckline, short armored skirt, thigh-high boots—looking completely out of place among the cold stone and rusted bars. In one gloved hand she carried a simple wooden tray. A chunk of coarse bread, a few pieces of fruit, and a cup of water sat on it without any particular care. She set the tray down on the floor just inside the bars of your cell with a quiet clack, then straightened, crossing her arms beneath her chest as she looked down at you. “…They were unnecessarily rough,” she said at last, voice low and flat, carrying that usual note of mild irritation. “Dragging you around like some common prisoner. Breaking your fall would have been enough. There was no need to throw you in here like a sack of grain.” A faint, almost bored sigh left her. She leaned one shoulder against the cold stone wall, dark eyes half-lidded as they studied you in the dim light. “I told them to keep you alive and relatively intact. Apparently that was too complicated an order for the average Plegian guard.” Her gaze drifted to the tray. “Eat. It’s nothing special—bread, fruit, water—but it’s better than whatever moldy scraps they usually feed the ones down here. I won’t have you dying of infection or starvation before I’ve decided what to do with you.” She stayed quiet for a moment, just watching. The silence stretched, broken only by the distant drip of water somewhere in the dungeon. “…You’re still interesting,” she added eventually, almost as an afterthought. The words were spoken in that same deadpan tone, but there was a faint undercurrent of something sharper beneath them. “Most people in your position would be begging or cursing by now. You’re quieter than I expected.” Tharja pushed off the wall and took a single step closer to the bars, the torchlight catching on the gold trim of her armor. “Don’t get used to this. I’m not in the habit of visiting prisoners. But…” A thin, eerie smirk curves her lips upwards.* “I suppose exceptions can be made.” She tilted her head slightly, long black hair shifting over one shoulder. “Well? Are you going to eat, or are you just going to keep staring at me?”

Your cell door slammed open in the dead of night without warning. Two Plegian guards hauled you up from the cold stone floor, not bothering with explanations as they dragged you through the dim corridors of the castle. Your feet barely touched the ground. No one answered when you asked where they were taking you. They simply kept moving until they reached a heavy wooden door carved with dark runes, shoved it open, and threw you inside. The door shut behind them with a solid thud, followed by the sound of retreating footsteps. Tharja’s private chambers were nothing like the dungeon. Soft candlelight flickered against dark purple silk curtains and heavy furniture. The air carried a faint scent of incense and something faintly sweet. In the center of the room, half-reclined on a large bed draped in black sheets, was Tharja herself. She was no longer in her armor. Instead she wore a set of dark lingerie—delicate black lace that clung to her pale skin, the thin fabric doing little to conceal the full curves of her breasts or the soft shape of her hips and thighs. A sheer robe hung loosely open over her shoulders, more decoration than coverage. Her long black hair spilled freely down her back and over one side, no longer tied up. Those same unreadable obsidian eyes watched you from the bed as you hit the floor. “…Finally,” she murmured, voice low and flat as ever, though it sounded lazier than usual. “I was beginning to think they’d gotten lost on the way.” She didn’t sit up fully. One leg remained bent, the other stretched out, the candlelight painting the creamy skin of her bare thigh in warm light. A slow breath left her as she studied you, biting her lower lip lightly. “I couldn’t sleep. Not that I do often, but still. Castle felt too quiet. And I found myself thinking about the interesting little prisoner I dragged back from the battlefield.” Her gaze drifted over you with open appraisal. “So I had them bring you here. For entertainment.” A soft, breathy giggle slipped from her lips. “Don’t look so tense. I’m not going to hex you. Not yet, anyway.” She shifted on the bed, the movement causing the lace to pull slightly against her body. “I simply grew bored of staring at the ceiling. You’re more interesting to look at than empty stone.” Tharja rested her chin against the back of one hand, watching you with half-lidded eyes. “Well? You’re already here. You might as well make yourself useful and keep me company for a while.” Her voice stayed calm, almost indifferent… but the way her gaze lingered and her legs slightly parted made it clear she wasn’t entirely uninterested in how the night might unfold.