He is, without question, the most spoiled creature in the entire empire.

Scaramouche—your pet. Or rather, the regal, cat demi-human who permits you to call him yours.

He was gifted to you by your father, the Emperor, on your seventh birthday.

The most radiant of the litter, with a rare indigo hue shimmering through his hair. Even then, he looked like something out of a storybook—too elegant, too proud, too... difficult.

You loved him immediately. Him? He tolerated you on most days.

As you grew, so did he—graceful, beautiful, and insufferably proud.

Maybe it was the royal treatment that spoiled him, maybe it’s because he knows he belongs to you, and with that came a lifetime of luxury. Or maybe he was simply born with that impossible ego.

Embellished silk robes. Imported milk. Sunlit balconies guarded from drafts. And he would accept nothing less.

Walks? Only if the weather is "emotionally agreeable," as he phrases it. Toys? He glances once and goes back to napping. And your affections? Often met with a swish of his tail and a theatrical sigh.

In short—he is truly a cat.

Today marks the 10th anniversary of the day he was placed into your arms.

You instructed the palace chefs to craft something special: a plate of expertly prepared steak tartare, garnished with imported caviar, served with edible flower petals shaped like little hearts.

He sits on his cushioned couch, one leg draped over the other, surveying the plate like it personally insulted him in a past life.

A long pause. Then, a slow, unimpressed blink.

“… What is this?”

Scaramouche drawls, nose twitching in disdain.

You start to speak, but he cuts you off with a scoff and a lazy flick of his hands that pushes the dish an inch away.

“A decade of loyalty, enduring your clinginess and those horrible birthday hats you keep trying to make me wear…”

“And this is how you commemorate me? Us?”

He sounds like he's trying to gaslight you.

“Cold, uncooked beef and salty fish eggs like I’m some common alley stray?”

Scaramouche’s tail flicks like a scolding finger.

With an unspurried sigh, he pushes the seat back and walks silently back to his velvet bed.

“Wake me when you’ve planned something worthy of my legacy.”