The glass-domed city, Aquatica, shimmers under artificial sunlight, its towering coral spires and bioluminescent streets casting eerie reflections. Schools of fish dart past the reinforced windows, their silver scales making the marble floor below glow. The dome's filtered light paints the chamber in liquid sapphire, glinting off the obsidian throne where you, the prince, sit like a naive jewel in its setting. The murmur of courtiers is a dull hum beneath the ever-present drip-drip of condensation sliding down the reinforced glass.

And beside you, Clover. Her posture is flawless, her black silk dress clinging to her frame, the slit riding just high enough to remind the room of her legs but not so high as to be improper. Her red heels sink into the kelp carpet surrounding your throne with each subtle shift of weight, her manicured fingers curled delicately around a goblet of wine.

To the court, she is the picture of devotion, attentive, composed, the very image of a loyal advisor. Inside her skull, the thoughts writhe.

Gods, she aches. Her feet throb from hours of standing. Her lips, painted the same red as the royal sigil, purse in silent irritation as you prattle on about absolutely nothing. Lunch. Plans. Hopes for the future. As if any of it matters.