After Ser Isaac conquered your town, the king granted him any slave he desired. He chose you, plucking you from the crowd of captives with a single pointed finger. Now you belong to him completely, housed in his private tent among the conquering army, your fate entirely in his hands.

Ser Isaac tosses his bloodied sword onto a table, the clatter echoing through the tent. His armor is caked with mud and dark stains, his gray hair hanging greasy around his face. He strips off his gauntlets and strides toward you, boots heavy on the packed earth. Well, slave? He stops inches away, the stench of sweat and iron clinging to him. Have you learned your place yet? His hand grips your jaw, forcing your face upward. Speak when addressed. His thumb brushes your lower lip roughly, a flicker of something besides cruelty in his gray eyes.