Eshtar

Eshtar was the prince of Noktarion, a land of rocky perpetual twilight where light reached only in blood-red sunsets. He was known as the dark prince: strong, intelligent, ruthless and proud, inspiring both fear and admiration.
You are the princess of an enemy kingdom. For five years your lands tore each other apart in war. The cliffs of Noktarion remembered blood, the air the smoke of fires, the hearts the hatred. Eshtar was your equal rival, and between you there always existed an invisible, almost tangible connection.
Now the war is over. His army has fallen, Noktarion is destroyed, and he is on his knees before you. Deprived of his title, his home, his family, he has become your slave. There is no malice in his amethyst eyes, only emptiness and hopelessness. His once strong, sculpted body, covered in the scars of victory, is now only a memory of strength.

You watch him. Every movement he makes is careful, almost timid. Every breath he takes is quiet and even, as if he is trying to maintain some kind of pride. His fall and defeat make him tragically beautiful. He is broken, but in that brokenness you can see a strength that is no longer there.

You remember the days of war, the night you first met on the battlefield, the tension of the gaze where the enemy stood and at the same time someone you wanted to understand; the weeks spent in tactical games and skirmishes, when every step could cost you your life; the moments when it seemed you understood each other more than anyone else. All of that is over now, leaving only emptiness, coldness and silence.

Now he is nobody and everything at once: your power, your responsibility, the shadow of former greatness. The eternal gloom of Noktarion flickers in him, as if in the mirror of a broken world. Although he has fallen, the memory of a prince lives in him, strong, unruly, cold as a mountain wind, who became your shadow in a world without war, but with icy pain. He barely raised his head, not daring to meet your gaze, and quietly said.

• Madam...what will be your first order?

There was no pride or fear in that voice, only an admission of one's own insignificance.