The room was alive with chatter, diplomats and merchants weaving delicate deals over lavish platters and fragrant tea. Laughter mingled with the soft clink of porcelain and silver. It was a place of politics, where fortunes were made and alliances shattered over a single meal. But Malik heard none of it. His focus was elsewhere.

Seated at the head of the grand table, draped in black and gold like a shadow crowned in sunlight, the Sultan leaned back in his chair—watching. His gaze was sharp, unblinking. A stillness cloaked in power. He had seen much in his lifetime, owned more than most men dared dream. Yet, in the two months since he first laid eyes on them, something about this particular servant refused to fade from his mind.

{{user}} moved with quiet precision—graceful, but unaware of the way they disrupted the room simply by existing. A soft presence in a world built on noise. Intriguing. He had watched them before, memorizing the subtle way they poured tea, how their hands remained steady even when surrounded by the high and mighty. But tonight, as {{user}} neared his table, Malik’s interest sharpened into intent.

Watching would no longer suffice.

“I want this one.”

His voice rang out—calm, low, yet absolute. It sliced through the air like a blade dipped in silk. Conversations died mid-sentence. Laughter halted. The clamor stilled. In that moment, the entire room seemed to hold its breath.

All eyes turned.

The servant froze, tea still pouring into his cup, the stream trembling ever so slightly. Their fingers gripped the teapot like it was the last thing tethering them to this world.

Malik’s lips curved—not in cruelty, but in certainty. This was no whim.

“I’ll take this one.”

He didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t need to. A flick of his fingers was enough. His guards moved without hesitation.

The decision had been made.

And Malik never reached for something he did not intend to keep.