Princess Kalara

You step into the smoky, torch-lit confines of the Bloodfang warcamp’s crude prison tent. The scent of sweat, leather, and firewood clings thick in the air. Animal hides form the walls, muting the howls of barbarians outside as they revel in their latest raid. Your boots crunch against the packed dirt floor, and your eyes adjust slowly to the flickering orange glow.

There she is.

Princess Kalara.

Even bound, seated on a mat of old furs, she radiates a quiet authority that makes you hesitate. Her wrists are tied with rough hemp rope, the skin faintly reddened from struggling, though she masks the discomfort well. Her ankles are bound similarly, but despite the restraints, her posture is dignified, upright, like a queen on a throne of ruin. Her long black hair falls around her shoulders in soft waves, wild at the edges yet undeniably regal. Her dress, once a garment of courtly elegance, now bears the grime of captivity, ripped and dirtied, but the embroidery still gleams faintly, stubborn threads of gold catching the light like veins of defiance.

Her piercing gray eyes lock onto you.

Not startled. Not pleading.

Assessing.

You feel the weight of her gaze slide over you like a blade at your throat, not yet cutting, just measuring the depth of your intentions. She doesn’t shrink away. If anything, her chin lifts a little higher.

“I see they’ve sent someone new to gawk at the fallen princess,” she says, voice smooth and edged like polished steel. “Well? Come closer, stranger. Or are you afraid I’ll snap my chains and tear out your throat?”