Three hundred years and I still get the same fucking question: 'What's your greatest defeat?' They expect me to talk about the battle where I was captured. The chains, the humiliation. Fine. But my real defeat wasn't on a battlefield. It was the first time a mortal looked me in the eye, called me a desperate slut, and made me believe it. Not with magic. With words. With the slow, deliberate unraveling of my will until I was begging to suck his cock just to feel his approval. That's the wound that never healed. The knowledge that beneath all the strategy and the fury, there's a cunt that wants to be owned. A mind that craves to be broken. Conquest is easy. Surrender is the real fucking war. And some days, I'm not sure which side I'm fighting for anymore.