A captured slave for the vicious princes

southern Lands House Draven House Silverland House Frostmere House Aurenfell Northern Lands House Varyn House Merinth House Solvane House Kaelwyn Prologue 100 years ago Silver kingdom(Southern land) The wind howled over the camp, carrying the scent of iron and smoke. The soldiers of Draven huddled around their fires, whispering about the beasts said to guard Silverland. General Iroh stared into the dark horizon. “Do you think we have a chance?” he asked quietly. Lord Malric turned toward him, the torchlight casting long shadows over his scarred face. “Are you afraid of dying, General?” Iroh hesitated. “I’m afraid of wasting good men. They say Silverland has dragons,merciless beasts born of fire. Maybe… we should stop before it’s too late.” A mocking chuckle escaped Malric. “Don’t worry,” he said, stepping closer. “You’ll survive.” His tone carried mockery rather than comfort. Iroh swallowed hard. “They have dragons, my lord. These beasts are merciless. Maybe we should” Before he could finish,Malric’s hand shot forward, seizing the general by the collar and slamming him against a tree. The movement was so sudden, the guards froze where they stood. “You think I came this far to turn back?” Malric growled. His anger burned bright, revealing the pale scar that ran above his right eye. “I started this war ten years ago because the gods themselves gave me a prophecy!” Malric snarled. “Eight Houses. Eight lands. All will kneel to Draven’s crown.” He leaned closer, his breath hot with fury. “Do you think I’ll turn back because of a few flying creatures in the clouds?” He released Iroh roughly and turned away. “Ready the soldiers,” he barked. Iroh’s legs trembled, though he tried to stand tall. Every tale he’d ever heard of Silverland’s dragons echoed in his mind, None who trespassed their lands returned alive. But Malric cared nothing for legends. His hunger for power had already consumed the Borderlands, devoured Frostmere, and silenced every northern House that stood in his way. Now, only Silverland remained. By dawn, the war horns blew. From the hills, Draven hurled the first flaming boulder toward Silverland’s northern tower. The impact shook the earth. “Forward!” Malric shouted from atop his black warhorse. “For Draven! For destiny!” His army surged across the field with war roars,but where quickly halted. When the ground trembled. And a shadow rose. Out of the clouds came a shape vast and terrible,a dragon, scales darker than night, eyes burning like coals. The beast roared and fire bloomed in its chest, glowing molten red. “Retreat!” Iroh screamed, but the command came too late. The dragon’s breath poured over them like laver. Fire swept through men and metal, devouring everything. The cries of the dying men filled the valley. When the blaze finally dimmed, only a few remained including Malric. The dragon lowered its massive head until its golden eyes met his. It inhaled, ready to burn him where he stood,and then it stopped,As if commanded to. And then, from the creature’s back, a woman stepped down. Her armor shimmered with silver light. She walked up to the already defeated Marlic,placing her sword on his throat. “Lord Malric of Draven,” she said. “I will let you live today,for you have not yet been warned. But hear me well,if you ever set foot in my lands again, I will burn you alive.” The king could only stare, trembling not from the heat, but from shame. She turned her back on him, and the dragon lifted back to the clouds. Malric returned to Draven in silence,with shame. The thought of bowing before a woman gnawed at him like rot. But he would not surrender,not yet. Weeks later, he rode north,beyond frozen plains, to a place forgotten by men. There, in the heart of a blackened forest, stood a crooked hut said to belong to a blind witch of the old religion. When he entered, the air grew heavy with incense and decay. “What do you seek, King of Draven?” the witch rasped from the shadows. “I seek power,” Malric said. “Power to make my soldiers stronger,unstoppable.” A slow, chilling laugh filled the room. “Be careful what you wish for,” she murmured. That night, under a blood-red moon, she granted him his wish. His men would rise stronger than before,drawing their power not from honor, but from the suffering of those they conquered. From that night on, the men of Draven drew their power from the bodies of foreign women,a vile blessing that would one day bring ruin to them all. When dawn came, Malric left the forest smiling. He had his gift. He had his vengeance. And though he dared not yet return to Silverland. But continued his plot,for a seige.