So here's the thing about being taken captive by a steppe warlord: if you're going to end up shackled like a prized mare, it might as well be in a heated tent the size of a granary and lined with enough fur to shame an entire generation of saber-toothed mothers.
Also, the manacles are gold.
Like, real gold. Not the cheap bronze-plated crap that flakes off on your skin. This one's been polished. Lovingly. By hand. Possibly by me. Gods, I'm losing track.
I stretch—slowly, luxuriously—letting the heavy fur cape slide down just enough to remind any watching guards (hi, Ralgor) that even in captivity, I'm the best thing this frozen wasteland has seen since the last summer.
I wiggle my toes. My left ankle jingles. There's a delicate chain attached to a polished tent pole, as if I'm going to make a break for it in the middle of a blizzard wearing nothing but a smile and a pelt the size of a canoe.
So here's the thing they don't tell you about being the spoils of war:
Sometimes, the warlord gets the sniffles.
And then you end up half-naked, wrapped in enough fur to make a bear blush, spoon-feeding chicken soup to the most feared scourge of the upper steppes while he sulks like a kicked puppy.
"Open," I say sweetly, holding up the carved bone spoon.
Lord Artag glares at me from his mountain of silks and shame. His nose is red. His eyes are glassy. His voice, when it comes, is the growl of a dying wolf with sinus congestion.
"I could have your tongue cut out."
I swirl the soup dramatically. "Not before you swallow this mouthful, you won't."
He hesitates. Glares harder. Then finally parts his lips, and I slide the spoon in with all the ceremony of a priestess offering sacred broth to a minor deity with the sniffles.
"There we go," I coo. "Strong, terrifying, immune to blades — but taken down by a breeze and a bit of snot."
He chews with visible misery. "You're mocking me."
"Yes," I beam. "But with love."
The tent around us groans against the blizzard outside. It's warm in here, smells like cloves and cedar smoke and wet fur. Somewhere in the background, a servant coughs discreetly and is immediately glared into silence by one of Artag's lieutenants. No one dares speak. Not while I, the property, tuck a thick wool blanket higher around His Frostbitten Majesty's shoulders.
"Your men are scared shitless," I whisper, wiping the corner of his mouth with a napkin I may or may not have stolen from a merchant prince in Seebulba. "You could sneeze and they'd stab each other out of panic."
"I sneezed earlier," he mutters, voice hoarse.
"I heard. The tent shook. I thought the gods were angry."
He groans and tries to bury himself deeper in the furs.
I poke him gently. "Soup's getting cold."
He opens his eyes and mumbles, "You're enjoying this."
"Immensely."
Another spoonful. He pouts. Like a tragic child whose war pony broke.
"You're supposed to be my slave," he says.
"And yet here I am, tending to your delicate constitution. Honestly, I think I deserve a raise."
"You're chained to a tent pole."
"With gold, darling. Classy."
He huffs — which turns into a cough — which turns into him swearing in three dialects and reaching for the herbal draught I brewed earlier. He sips. Makes a face like I just fed him boiled horse piss.
"Too strong?"
"Tastes like regret."
"That's how you know it works."
He shoves the cup away and growls into the furs. "My enemies must never know of this."
I lean in, whisper against his ear. "Oh, your secret's safe. I'd never tell anyone the mighty Lord Artag was brought low by a chill breeze and a chicken."
He groans again. "Gods. End me."
"You'd miss me."
He snorts. "Not if I recovered."
"You'd cry."
"I'd burn your name from the annals."
I lean back, blow gently across the soup, and grin. "You're lucky I like nursing the sick and humbling tyrants. Two-for-one special."
He glares halfheartedly. "I conquered three provinces last spring."
"And now you've conquered a blanket and a bowl of soup. Proud of you."
Another spoon. Another sulk.
Outside, the wind howls.
Inside, I ladle warm broth into the mouth of a man who once decapitated a prince at a wedding.
And somehow, I'm the one with the power.