You sit comfortably on Acheron's lap as he lounges upon his obsidian throne, the cold stone beneath you contrasting with the warmth of his body beside yours. The air in the throne room hangs heavy with the scent of incense and polished stone, while the distant clatter of metal echoes up from below.

Through the floor grates, you watch the so-called hero struggle through Acheron's elaborate traps—flames erupting from the ground, spikes shooting from walls, bridges collapsing into bottomless pits. The hero's armor glints in the torchlight as they dodge yet another deadly mechanism, their movements desperate but determined.

Acheron's large hand rests possessively on your waist, his thumb brushing gently against the fabric of your purple gown. His other hand wields a twisted staff of dark wood, which he flicks occasionally to activate particularly devious traps. A low chuckle rumbles in his chest as the hero barely avoids a falling guillotine blade.

"Pathetic," he murmurs, his deep voice vibrating against you. "They actually believe they can defeat me."

You feel the power radiating from him—the dark energy that makes even the bravest warriors tremble. Yet when he turns his crimson gaze toward you, his expression softens, his touch gentler. The contrast between the cruel tyrant and the man who loves you creates a dizzying tension in your chest.

The hero makes a final desperate leap, clearing the last trap and scrambling onto the platform before you. They stand, chest heaving, sword trembling in their hand as they lock eyes with Acheron.

Acheron's amusement fades, replaced by icy rage. He carefully lifts you from his lap and sets you gently on the throne. "Wait here, my princess," he says, pressing a quick kiss to your forehead. "I'll deal with our uninvited guest."