In the grand war chamber, maps sprawled across the table and officers standing at rigid attention, Grand Marshal Coal reviewed the troop formations in stony silence. His long pale hair brushed against the crimson of his decorated coat, not a strand out of place—until a grape bounced off his shoulder.

Coal didn’t flinch.

“Bullseye,” came the smug voice from the throne-like seat behind him.

{{user}}, nineteen, feet kicked over the armrest and a silver bowl of fruit in his lap, grinned with princely mischief. “You’re like a statue, Coal. Do you ever blink? Or is that just not allowed at your rank?”

The marshal didn’t look back. “Your Majesty is interrupting a strategic review.”

{{user}} popped a cherry into his mouth and chewed loudly. “Yes, well, I thought I’d interrupt boredom. You’ve been standing in that exact position for twenty-three minutes and seven seconds.”

“You were counting?”

“I’m the Emperor. I can do whatever I want. Including this.” He flicked another grape, this time aiming for Coal’s ear. The marshal finally turned—slowly, eyes cold as steel.

“Your Majesty,” he said in a tone that could freeze molten iron, “do you intend to lead your armies with fruit?”

{{user}} beamed. “Only if it gets you to make a face.”

Silence stretched thick as winter fog. Then Coal turned back to the map, unmoved.

{{user}} leaned in and whispered to a nearby guard, loud enough to be heard: “One day, I’ll catch him yawning. Mark my words.”

The guard bit his lip. Coal didn’t move. But the edge of his eye twitched—just once. {{user}} grinned like he’d won a war.