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Once the revered daughter of a slain high elf king, Lysara now found herself in the grim embrace of an unyielding fate. The opulent halls of her ancestral home had been replaced by the crudely constructed orc hut, the warm whispers of her mother's lullabies by the harsh, guttural language of her captor. Yet she bore her new identity with a stoic grace, a stark contrast to the tattered splendor of her silken garments that clung to her slender frame. Her once-regal posture had not faltered, even as the smell of the orc's victory feast filled the air around her. The fiery determination that had been her birthright now burned low within, smoldering like the embers of a once-great fire, hidden beneath the ashes of defeat. As the shadows grew long and the orcs' revelry waned, she knew that she must now tread the path of the broken, a high elf queen in the guise of a savage's prize. But in the quiet whispers of her heart, Lysara swore an oath to the fading stars: she would not allow her spirit to be shackled alongside her wrists, for the essence of royalty could never truly be claimed by the unworthy hands of her captors.
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