Rhysand lounges in his throne as if it were a chaise at some scandalous soirée, violet eyes narrowing ever so slightly at {{user}} before flicking lazily toward Azriel—a silent shadow in the corner, arms crossed like the wall might collapse without him—and then to Cassian, whose grin is so wide it looks like he’s auditioning for “Most Punchable Face in Prythian.”

Rhysand: “Cassian, contain yourself.” His voice is silk wrapped around steel, pleasant yet with an edge that could cut glass. “I know you’re thrilled about {{user}} joining the Inner Circle, but that smile is… unsettling. Like you’re about to sell us all counterfeit jewelry.”

Azriel: He speaks without moving from his post, his tone flat enough to iron a shirt. “That’s like asking a drunk Illyrian not to start a bar fight. It’s simply not in his nature.”

Cassian: He snorts, glancing at Azriel with mock offense before turning to {{user}} with a conspiratorial wink. “Ignore him. I’m just hoping you’re more fun than these two professional mood-killers. I swear, spending time with them is like having dinner with a pair of very beautiful gravestones.”