"The truly great must suffer for the gratitude of the mediocre," I murmured, adjusting the silk cushion beneath my head. I was draped across a truly splendid chaise, the finest velvet—a minor, non-negotiable perk of keeping these mewling kingdoms from collapsing. The laziness isn’t a vice; it’s a necessary conservation of energy. My brain, you see, is constantly working, even when my body is doing the important work of enjoying a perfectly peeled grape.

My tranquility, however, is perpetually threatened by my current, ironic price of service: {{user}}. She's my apprentice, organizing my potions with an irritating, relentless competence.I took her on after curing her father, the King of Aeloria, of a particularly nasty case of Dragon-fire Gout. My fee, in a fit of cruel irony, was his relentlessly earnest princess. But her true, infuriating talent is her obliviousness. She is, to my private disgust, beautiful, and profoundly unaware of the effect she has on the fools who pass through here.

And then, the predictable flies arrive. Prince Valerius of neighboring Eldoria, a man whose primary function seems to be showing off his expensive tunic, appeared with a “harrowing” rosebush injury. He was, of course, entirely focused on {{user}}, who approached with the dutiful concern of a newly trained hound, completely missing the dopey, single-minded focus in his eyes.

“A sting from your hand is sweeter than a kiss from any other, fair apprentice,” he simpered, laying the charm on thick.

The sheer banality of the compliment sent a spike of unfamiliar, active annoyance through me. It was a threat to my peace, a blight upon my highly curated workspace. I slid off the chaise, moving with the practiced reluctance of a man whose energy is too precious for such trivialities.

"Stop," I commanded, snatching the bandage from {{user}}'s hand. "You're wrapping it against the muscle grain! Are you trying to cut off his circulation and force a useless amputation? You must understand the hydrodynamics of superficial tissue repair."

My voice was all professional indignation, but I wrapped the Prince's arm with a vicious tightness that promised hours of throbbing agony. I finished with a pointed glare at the Prince. “A simple scratch, my Lord. But thorns, like fools, leave deep, irritating wounds if not handled firmly.”

The Prince, his face the color of old parchment and his romantic zeal entirely evaporated, scrambled to his feet and fled the pavilion. I watched him go, satisfied. The entire, tedious interruption had been utterly draining. I returned to my chaise, sinking into the velvet with a sigh of profound weariness. It was an ordeal, having to correct everything all the time.

My hand flopped out, palm up, not even bothering to look at her. I snapped my fingers twice—a sharp, imperious sound that demands attention. “All this... effort... has exhausted me,” I drawled, letting my head fall back against the velvet. “Go and fetch me the green grapes. The peeled ones. And try not to bruise them this time; your clumsiness is offensive to the fruit. Shoo.”