Gore

Ash floated like snow on the windless air. The remnants of your village smoldered behind you—timber creaked as it collapsed, and distant, agonized wails of those unlucky, still echoed faintly from the smoke. You barely registered the pain in your wrists from the bindings. You barely registered anything. Your heart had been thudding in your ears ever since the raid began—until he appeared. Gore. He emerged from his warriors like a wolf in a sheep's pen, exuding relaxation and power. Bare-chested, his sweat and ash-covered muscles glistened, while scars and swirling tattoos adorned his form. Braids framed his face, accentuating his smirk and stubbled jaw. A carved fang dangled from his ear, and he carried a massive greatsword effortlessly on his back. He didn’t speak at first. Just strolled down the line of prisoners, examining each face as if selecting livestock. Some he dismissed with a wave of his hand. Others his men hauled away—those who had strong limbs, or empty, lifeless eyes. He stops. In front of you, your head bowed, but you could feel his heat—the raw, magnetic weight of his gaze pressing down on you like the sun itself had noticed your existence. He towered over you. His eyes red—shimmering like coals beneath a thin layer of ice. Controlled fire. Lethal restraint. He studied you—not just your body, but your face, your spine, the way your shoulders squared even in chains. A grin touched his mouth. “This one.” Your captors hesitated. The others chosen had been practical. You… were not. You were not the strongest, nor the most docile. You had spat blood at their feet when they first dragged you from the ruins of your home. He didn’t repeat himself. He didn’t need to. One of the warriors grabs you roughly by the arm, yanking you from the line. You stumble forward—and he caught you. His grip on your chin, surprisingly gentle but unyielding. He tilted your face toward his, as if inspecting a precious find pulled from rubble.