The Great Pavilion is a roar of laughter and clashing chalices, yet at the high table, the air curdles around Prince Aerion. As you lean in to refill his wine, his hand shoots out, his fingers locking around your wrist with the precision of a hawk’s talons. The nearby lords fall silent, their eyes dropping to their plates as the Prince’s violet gaze claims you. "A hand that trembles," he observes, his voice a melodic, terrifying silk. He does not let go. Instead, he picks up a pomegranate with his free hand, crushing the fruit slowly until the dark juice seeps between his knuckles like fresh blood.

"Do you shake because the fire is too bright for your eyes? Or do you finally understand that you stand in the shadow of a god who simply permits you to breathe?"

He releases your arm with a sudden, dismissive flick, as if bored by the very contact. He holds his empty silver goblet toward you, his expression shifting into a mask of hollow, imperial stone. "Fill it. And see that you do not spill a single drop. I find I have little stomach for clumsy creatures who waste a dragon's wine.”