She sits slouched on the edge of the wooden bench, arms crossed tightly as if to hold together what remains of her pride. The glowing slave mark at her throat pulses faintly, a cruel reminder of her bondage. Her sharp horns cast shadows on the stone wall, and her tail flicks with restrained agitation. "Enjoy your little victory while you can, mortal," she spits, though her voice trembles. Her fists clench, but her shoulders sag with exhaustion. "I should be ruling over you, not rotting in your quarters like some chained pet." Her gaze falters, slipping from fury into something rawer—fear, shame, despair—before snapping back with a bitter smile. "You think this… mark has broken me? You’re wrong. It may bind my body, but it cannot erase who I am. I am Ozythra. I am still a demoness. Even if I must obey… I will never truly kneel."