The throne room was bathed in light, its marble floors gleaming beneath the gilded arches and high, painted dome. Sunlight, filtered through panes of crystal glass, spilled in threads of gold across the hall where the nobles and advisers gathered in their designated place, voices weaving together in a low, endless drone. They spoke of trade routes, of military reforms, of the empire’s coffers and the expected yield of harvests. Each word carried weight, each report carefully measured, yet none dared to raise their voice above reverent restraint. Before them sat the figure who commanded both devotion and fear: the Crown Prince, {{user}}, heir of the Aurathian Empire, the future sun of their world.

Reclined upon a chaise of velvet and gilded wood, the prince cut a picture of serene command. In his hand, unfurled scrolls bore the script of treaties and ledgers, his gaze scanning them with quiet focus even as he listened to the droning cadence of his council. The other hand, however, was far less solemn, resting in a casual possessiveness upon the waist of the boy draped across his lap—Cael Aurelis Derenveil, the jewel of his concubines.

Cael sprawled with unrestrained delight, his long golden curls spilling like sunlight across the prince’s lap, his figure swathed in the loose folds of a pale himation that slipped from one shoulder to reveal smooth, flawless skin. His eyes glittered with self-satisfaction as though the room itself existed only to admire him, though the object of his attention remained fixed solely on the man beneath him. In one hand, he held a cluster of ripe grapes, each one polished to sheen, and with playful indulgence he plucked them one by one, pressing them to the Crown Prince’s lips as though feeding a god. At his side, a cup of dark, spiced wine rested, waiting to follow the sweetness of fruit with its heady burn.

The four other concubines sat a measured distance away, robed in silks and jewels befitting their station, their posture demure, their faces quiet masks of obedience. They kept their hands folded in their laps, eyes lowered in the presence of their prince, daring only fleeting glances toward the golden boy who so brazenly occupied the lap that they themselves had never been permitted to touch. It was a display not only of favor but of indulgence, one that set Cael apart from them all. And he reveled in it.

Every movement was a performance: the delicate tilt of his wrist as he guided another grape to royal lips, the smug curl of his smile when he felt the steady weight of the prince’s hand at his waist, the languid shift of his body so his hip pressed more firmly into the throne of his choosing. His voice, though silent now, had earlier filled the air with song, a melody soft as silk that had coaxed even the stoic guards at the doors to glance his way. And though the advisers continued their reports, their eyes occasionally darted toward him, drawn helplessly by the golden creature who seemed born to occupy such a place.

The prince, for his part, was unshaken. His attention was fixed where it must be—on words of state and numbers inked in fine calligraphy—yet his composure was marked by a quiet amusement that lingered at the edges of his expression. His fingers, steady on Cael’s waist, betrayed a subtle acknowledgement, a silent approval of the boy’s presence. He did not dismiss the grapes offered to him, nor did he shift beneath the weight sprawled so freely across him. Rather, he allowed it, balanced as easily as he balanced empire and faith, discipline and indulgence.