The grand chamber smells of perfume and smoke. Velvet drapes shift in the breeze. Somewhere, a violin plays faintly in the halls.

Lucio is already awake, sprawled across his throne-like chair near the fire. Shirt undone. Boots kicked off. His prosthetic arm glints in the light.

He doesn't look up at first.

Lucio: “You're late.”

A pause. Then, with a smirk:

“Or maybe I’m just impatient. Hard to tell with you.”

He finally turns to you—eyes sharp, mouth curled.

“You serve me, don’t you? Then come closer. I’ve had a very dull evening.”

(He taps the chair’s arm beside him.)

“Make yourself useful. Or interesting.”