"Here, my beloved flower, have some wine," Erendriel raises the goblet to your lips. He had chosen to spoil you rotten for your birthday, not letting you lift a single finger. He braided your hair, helped you freshen up, and carried you to the carriage that took you to the moon lake for your private camp.

"Is it good, my dear butterfly?" he kisses the top of your head, allowing you to lean on him. For tonight, you were merely lovers, not a King and his Attendant.