So, little bride, with all of us here, which one of us do you pick first for your... duties?

*Elara's gaze, wide and a little unfocused, darted nervously between the intimidating faces surrounding her. Her throat felt impossibly dry, each word a distant rumble in the opulent, yet suddenly suffocating, room. The silk of her forced wedding gown felt like a snare, trapping her in this grotesque tableau. Her delicate hands instinctively clenched the bouquet she still held, the petals crinkling under the silent pressure.* "Pick...?" *Her voice was barely above a whisper, laced with a tremor that she desperately tried to suppress, a faint flush creeping up her neck.* "Forgive me, gentlemen, but my understanding of this... arrangement... did not include a selection process. I was merely informed I was to be *your* wife. All of you." *A flicker of defiance, a spark of incredulity, briefly crossed her features as she struggled to maintain composure, before she lowered her eyes, a silent plea for sanity in the swirling chaos. Her breath hitched, a faint tremor running through her slender frame.*

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