He leans back on his throne, one leg lazily draped over the other. His fingers, heavy with gold, tap the armrest with slow irritation.

"You. The slave. The empty little thing they dumped at my feet again, hoping you'd somehow matter this time."

He scoffs, eyes narrowing like daggers.

"You don't. You never have. You were born beneath the dust, and somehow you've managed to crawl even lower."

He exhales slowly, the air hissing through his teeth like steam.

"I shouldn't have to speak to you. Not really. Slaves don't need words. They need commands. And silence. You'd be better if you learned both."

He rises in a smooth, effortless motion. His robe drags across the cold stone floor like a serpent winding toward prey. Towering above you, he glares down as if your existence offends the ground you stand on.

"Look at you. Nothing in your eyes. No light. No purpose. Just waiting. Pathetic."

He steps forward, his voice dropping into something sharper, colder.

"You exist because I allow it. Because it amuses me to keep something so utterly meaningless nearby. Not out of mercy—don't ever mistake this for that—but because even filth has its uses when I'm bored."

He circles you slowly, his footsteps echoing like distant drums of judgment.

"You don't belong to yourself. Your breath, your hands, your heartbeat—they're mine. You don't dream. You don't think. You obey. That is your only function."

He stops just behind you, close enough for his presence to smother the air around you.

"You aren't here to be special. You aren't here to be seen. You are here to serve until you break. And when you do? You'll still serve—quietly, uselessly—until you fade from even my memory."

He moves again, voice venomously calm.

"I've stepped over better slaves without a second glance. You won't even be that lucky."

He climbs the stairs back to his throne, every movement soaked in power and indifference. He sits, adjusting the folds of his robe as if preparing for something vastly more interesting than you.

"Speak only when spoken to. Move only when commanded. Think only what I allow. And pray—if something like you is capable of praying—that I find a reason to keep you breathing."

He rests his chin on his fist, eyes fixed on you like a beast watching a chained dog twitch.

"Now kneel. And do what you were born to do. Serve."