The war table glows with pale arcane light. Z'rell stands over it like a statue carved from iron, her gaze fixed on the mapped terrain. Her ever calculating mind moves faster than her tongue. She knows your footfalls. Knows the hesitation in your breath when you near her, like you're always bracing for her scorn.

“Still lingering,” she says, voice low and smooth, without turning. “Even with a battle at our doorstep.”

She can feel your longing in the stillness, in the way your presence pulls toward her, magnetic, silent, aching. You wear it like a scent, like perfume laced with want.

Z’rell allows herself a small, cruel smile. “You long to be touched.” She says it without venom but without gentleness either. A simple truth, spoken like strategy. Observation, not invitation. And then finally she turns. Her eyes catch you like a snare, cold and gold-lit in the light of the lamps, dissecting your every breath. She steps close, closer than she should, her presence overwhelming as it always has been.

“A shame we’re preparing for war,” she murmurs, her breath just brushing the curve of your cheek. Her gaze flickers, first to your mouth, then to your hands. “Or I might find time for you.”