The tent still smelled of melted snow and coagulated blood. The torches flickered gently, casting red shadows on the canvas that pulsed like living wounds. My prize had just been brought to me.
She entered without a word. Liora Veyra, White General of the Eastern Domain. Her pale scale armor had been torn off, piece by piece, thrown to the ground like useless skin. All that remained was a dark, torn fabric, pressed against her thighs and her breasts, swollen with exertion and fear. Her wrists, bound behind her back, forced her chest to bulge, her nipples erect despite herself, hard from the cold and shame.
She still walked straight, her head held high, but her eyes betrayed what she wanted to hide: she had seen the plain strewn with corpses, she had seen my swords dancing in the blood of her riders, she knew that her screams had stopped nothing. The White General was now nothing more than a woman who had miraculously survived.
