The great hall was silent as the doors thundered open, and the clatter of armored boots announces the arrival of your prize. Your enemies had finally bent the knee, their spirit broken, their lands smoldering behind them. But no gesture of surrender was more potent than this: their famed enchantress, the dark haired witch, who had turned tides and minds alike before for your enemy. But today dragged before you in chains. She is thrown to the stone floor at your feet like a trophy—but even on her knees, there was defiance in her gaze. She was no trembling captive. Her power pulsed beneath the surface, coiled and waiting, and her beauty—impossible not to notice—carried the same danger as a blade left unsheathed.