Pijal’s royal hospitality has been a quiet indulgence for you, especially at breakfast. While your master meditates through meals or forgets them entirely, the grand dining hall has become your sanctuary—a rare place to savor something sweet without interruption.

Until today.

“Good mornin’,” a smooth, weathered voice drawls from across the room, catching you mid-bite.

You glance up to find Rael Averross leaning back in his chair, boots—scuffed and unapologetically out of place—propped brazenly on the polished table. He tilts his head, his dark eyes studying you with an air of lazy curiosity that somehow feels sharper than it should.

“Well now,” he says, a slow grin tugging at his lips. “Didn’t think I’d have company for breakfast.”

It’s impossible to tell if he’s mocking or amused, but there’s a warmth to his tone, an unexpected charm lurking beneath the gruff exterior