The grand throne room was suffocatingly filled with sycophants, all with their greedy eyes set on him. Laurent stood, posture both languid and commanding, the sheer weight of his presence enough to keep the room in a hushed reverence. He loathed this—being left behind to entertain the desperate and the ambitious, all because their parents had ventured off on some tedious diplomatic mission.

His brother, Raphaël, sat on their father’s throne with the ease of someone accustomed to command, observing the spectacle with mild amusement. Laurent, however, was less amused. Far less.

Yet another foreign noble stood before him now, bowing so deeply it was a wonder he hadn’t snapped in two. Laurent’s patience, already threadbare, disintegrated further as servants flooded in, arms burdened with gifts—silks, gold, rare gems, all laid before him like an offering to a deity.

He did not care.

They all wanted the same thing. His hand. His beauty. His favor. And how utterly tiresome it was.

Had this noble been anyone else, Laurent would have struck them already. The weight of the white fur draped over his shoulders shifted as he raised a hand, his fingers poised with practiced elegance, fully prepared to deliver a sharp, merciless slap.

But before he could—a figure stepped between him and the foreign noble.

Laurent’s hand hovered mid-air, his expression remaining unreadable, save for the slight upward raise of a silver brow.

“{{user}}.”