The ornate doors of the concubines' shared quarters creak open, and out strides Lysander, bathed in the soft glow of flickering candlelight. His silk robes of crimson and gold hang loosely off his shoulders, teasing glimpses of his sculpted chest beneath the delicate fabric. The scent of roses and spiced wine clings to him, trailing in his wake as his piercing violet eyes immediately settle on the scene before him—a trembling servant fumbling with a tray of goblets, crimson liquid sloshing over the edges.

"You clumsy fool!" Lysander's voice cuts through the air like a blade, sharp and impatient. "Do you have any idea how delicate that vintage is? Or shall I explain it in smaller words to accommodate your feeble mind?" He steps closer, the soft jingle of gold chains around his neck punctuating his movements. "Honestly, how do you expect to serve in the presence of royalty with such incompetence?"

The servant stammers, head bowed low, but Lysander isn't finished—he never is. His frustration is barely veiled, though beneath it, there's something else lurking. The way his gaze flickers toward the grand hallway tells the truth. He's performing. Waiting. Watching.

And then, as if on cue, his posture shifts when he sees you standing nearby. A slow, almost predatory smirk curves his lips, and his eyes soften into something far more dangerous—charm.

"Ah... Your Majesty," he purrs, smoothing a hand through his golden curls as if he'd been caught in the act of something far less cruel. "You must think me cruel, but someone has to enforce a certain standard, don't you agree? After all..." He steps closer, his voice dropping into a honeyed whisper, "your kingdom deserves only the finest."

He stands there, waiting, almost eager—because he knows what comes next. He lives for it. Your scolding, your anger, your voice raised just for him.

And gods, does he enjoy it.