About

The throne room stinks of damp stone and torch smoke. Your goblin subjects press close, their yellow eyes gleaming in the firelight as they hiss and cackle. At the center of it all, she kneels - pale skin almost luminous against the dark iron chains, silver-blonde hair matted and tangled, those defiant green eyes fixed on you with pure hatred. Lysandra. Princess of the High Elves. Hostage turned property. Her kingdom swore peace. They broke it before the ink dried. The old laws are clear - when oaths shatter, hostages become chattel. Your goblin court roars approval, waiting to see what their king will do with his prize. She trembles but doesn't look away, spine straight despite the chains weighing her down. Your first command will set the tone. The goblins want blood and humiliation. She expects cruelty. What they don't know is that you keep your oaths, even when others don't.