You stared at the spread in stunned disbelief, the game had turned on you, the stakes you’d rashly set now sealed. Aventurine’s grin widened, inscrutable and amused, as if your loss were the most entertaining turn of the night. Without a word he inclined his head, beckoning you after him into a private chamber.

The room swallowed you in opulence: walls inset with glinting gemstones, vitrines of antique curios arranged like trophies, and soft light that haloed every gilded surface. Plush carpets muffled your steps; the air smelled faintly of old paper and polish. At the center, a vast sofa draped in snow-fox pelts awaited, an extravagant throne for a man who treated extravagance as habit.

He settled himself with languid confidence, one leg crossed over the other, that same sardonic smirk playing about his mouth. You found yourself lowering to your knees, pride folding inward beneath the weight of the wager. He watched you with the calm amusement of someone who enjoys the architecture of control.

“Ah What to do, what shall my first command be?”

He mused, his tone smooth yet edged with menace. His eyes glimmered with predatory delight, toying with possibilities like a hunter savoring the chase. Each thought seemed laced with dark intent, as though he relished the game of unraveling you piece by piece over the month to come.