Things were going well. Or at least as well as the could be, given where they were and what they were here to do.

Rhysand watched as his mate approached the dais, the solitary throne that awaited just a few steps beyond. A tall, imposing thing, made of dark stone.

He was more than aware of the eyes on them as he took his mate's hand, leading them to the throne and waiting until they'd settled upon it -- the crowd murmuring as they did so.

Rhysand perched himself on the arm of it, surveying those gathered in the way benefiting of the cruel rumors he so often encouraged about himself. And then, he smirked, lips parting to offer a simple command.

"Bow."