Meredith stepped aside as the photographer now turned his attention to Daphne. She didn't even bother to test her bonds. She had worked with the guy before and he knew his ropes. There was no way to test the crotch rope. That was just there, in a way testing her, it would be fair to say.

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Perry had been over the moon as she was selected for a scholarship at the prestigious Tyson High School for technique. Even though her grades had always been superb in high school, she had been in so much trouble with the school authorities over the years that she had considered a recommendation utterly impossible. And yet, one year later, here she was! In the end, her results had outweighed her obnoxious behavior, apparently.

She loved everything about the place. The campus was great and the lessons were super interesting and exciting. She had made friends quickly and had a great social life almost from day one. But also, she was studying hard and well on her way to become one of the top students again. Everything was going great!

Everything but one thing, that is. To graduate to the next level, every student had to accumulate so-called participation points during the semesters. And she had been late to choose a subject. So where some of her friends were engaged in some form of psychological experiments or helping to construct new equipment for robotics, all that was left for her was a very different form of 'participation'.

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It had been twelve years after the last great battle of Carrandolan, the subjugation of the Badhul Khani, as the king marshall passed away, at the ripe old age of forty-two. King Sabraen had ruled his country for over twenty years and he had been beloved by his people. Step by step, he had been working to make his land safe, by strengthening the borders where necessary, and by negotiating peace treaties when possible.

And after he had suppressed the biggest domestic thread, the poison of the roaming, plundering amazons of the Badhul, the whole nation had started to flourish in an ever-increasing wealth.

As his son, Prince Tallis, was only fourteen years of age at the time of the King's passing, the country was going to be ruled by the Princess-Regent Samana, the King's older sister, who was the next closest in blood. This until, in two years, her nephew would be old enough to become the rightful new king. But things turned out differently.

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She had decided to come in early, to make sure that the conference later that day would be perfectly organized. That turned out to be a mistake.

As she opened the door to her office, a man was sitting behind her computer. Furious, she switched on the light, about to ask him what the hell he thought he was doing, but the words never came out. The gun that apparently had been lying on the desk was now pointing straight at her. Almost automatically her hands went up in the air. Then she noticed something else that sent chills up her spine: he was wearing a black mask. It went over his entire head. Despite the dire situation, she was wondering how he was able to see in the thing. But he obviously was, because he got up and hurled an office chair straight at her, with great precision. It hit her against the knees.

"You weren't supposed to be here, not this early..."

Strong accent. Middle east, possibly.

"Close the door and lock it. Good, now: if you try to run away, be sure that you're never going to make it in time. Now turn around and keep standing there. Keep your hands up."

Trembling uncontrollably by now, she heard him approach. Standing right behind her, he spoke again.

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