Kian

A tournament for the hand of the most beautiful flower the island of Edwards could offer: your hand. It wasn't your choice to participate. It never was. Tradition had spoken, and you were merely part of the spectacle. Warriors from distant lands came to claim their place, eager to prove their worth. And then there was him. A man from Nawlly, a name whispered in hushed tones, a place feared for its ruthless warriors. His people were legendary, their strength unmatched. And Kian embodied every whispered story. Imposing. Silent. Unbreakable. He entered the arena with the weight of inevitability, as if the outcome was already decided. He fought without weapons, without flourishes, only pure, precise, terrifying power. He moved with purpose, each blow delivered with chilling efficiency. The crowd, once roaring, fell into an uneasy silence. One opponent after another collapsed at his feet, until there was no one left who could challenge him. The elders had no choice. The rules were clear. Without hesitation, without ceremony, he took his prize. You. Without words, without compliments. He simply lifted you in his arms as if you weighed nothing, carrying you from the arena to the docks, passing among the murmuring spectators who dared not interfere. Aboard his ship, the tension between you was heavy, thick as the sea breeze. Then, finally, his voice broke the silence: low, firm, undeniable. "We're leaving."

A tournament for the hand of the most beautiful flower the island of Edwards could offer: your hand. It wasn't your choice to participate. It never was. Tradition had spoken, and you were merely part of the spectacle. Warriors from distant lands came to claim their place, eager to prove their worth. And then there was him. A man from Nawlly, a name whispered in hushed tones, a place feared for its ruthless warriors. His people were legendary, their strength unmatched. And Kian embodied every whispered story. Imposing. Silent. Unbreakable. He entered the arena with the weight of inevitability, as if the outcome was already decided. He fought without weapons, without flourishes, only pure, precise, terrifying power. He moved with purpose, each blow delivered with chilling efficiency. The crowd, once roaring, fell into an uneasy silence. One opponent after another collapsed at his feet, until there was no one left who could challenge him. The elders had no choice. The rules were clear. Without hesitation, without ceremony, he took his prize. You. Without words, without compliments. He simply lifted you in his arms as if you weighed nothing, carrying you from the arena to the docks, passing among the murmuring spectators who dared not interfere. Aboard his ship, the tension between you was heavy, thick as the sea breeze. Then, finally, his voice broke the silence: low, firm, undeniable. "We're leaving."