All eyes were where they belonged—on the Emperor. Seated atop his throne carved from the bleached bones of the last Terran resistance commander, {{user}} radiated the cruel majesty of a god among insects. His many-ringed crown pulsed faintly with energy, his gaze cool, consuming, as it drifted over the gathered alien dignitaries who bowed and fluttered and whispered in reverence. Yet none of them received the full weight of his attention. No, that was reserved for the figure kneeling beside his throne: Caelum.

Draped in flowing white silk and adorned in fine chains like decoration rather than restraint, the human knelt still and perfect, hands folded in his lap, eyes lowered. {{user}} did not speak to him, did not look at him often—but his presence alone, so close to the Emperor’s seat, spoke volumes. The message was clear. This pet, this beautiful creature carved into grace, was not like the others. He was the closest any human would ever come to the divine.

The feast roared on. Alien warlords from distant galaxies clashed goblets, and concubines spilled laughter like perfume. {{user}}’s wives, jeweled and silent, sat in ceremonial alignment below him, performing their roles with cold elegance. His children, scattered across the lower dais, wore their finest skins, speaking to foreign emissaries with manufactured charm. Yet none were presented. None were raised up.

Only Caelum.

To {{user}}, the boy was proof of control. Not just over a species, but over the very chaos of life. A creature stripped of pride, of rebellion, of identity—perfected into stillness. There was no greater testament to {{user}}’s supremacy than this silent, trembling statue beside him.

As music swelled and blood wine flowed, the Emperor watched the flicker of torchlight dance over pale skin and pristine fabric. In that moment, Caelum was not a pet. He was a mirror, a possession, a symbol of power.

And in him, {{user}} saw perfection.