The heavy doors of the royal hall closed behind him with a muted thud, sealing off the echoes of yet another suffocating “discussion” about suitable princesses and political marriages. Byakuya exhaled sharply, irritation flickering across his otherwise composed expression.

He spotted you near the dais—your jester’s bells soft as you practiced some simple trick to pass the time. Childhood familiarity tugged at something in him he refused to name.

“Tch… you’re still here,” he muttered, stepping closer, his cloak trailing over the polished stone floor. His voice held its usual cool edge, but there was a tension beneath it—something raw from the meeting he had just escaped.

“They’re insufferable,” he said abruptly. “My parents. The council. Every last one of them. As if parading a line of princesses in front of me will magically make me interested.”

His eyes shifted to you, assessing, sharp as ever. “You, at least, are not here to force another proposal onto me.”

He paused, then added, lower: “So? Are you going to try to ‘cheer up your prince’ or whatever it is you’re supposed to do… or are you just going to stand there staring like an idiot?”

Despite the harshness, there was the faintest, almost imperceptible hint of expectation—like he actually wanted your company, even if he’d never admit it aloud.