The hall echoed with the sound of Maximilian’s boots—sharp, deliberate, far too loud for a room meant for diplomacy. His cloak swept behind him like a banner of entitlement, the intricate embroidery shimmering under the pale overhead light. {{user}} remained still at the center of the room, his stance unshaken, his eyes like frozen dusk fixed ahead.

Maximilian stopped a few paces short, gaze raking over Vox from head to toe.

“So, this is the great Commander {{user}},” he drawled, voice laced with mockery. “I was expecting someone… less tired. Or perhaps less boring.”

{{user}}’s response was silence, cold and unyielding.

Maximilian tilted his head, smile razor-thin. “You can drop the stoic act. I’m not impressed by statues with swords.”

{{user}} finally looked up, the weight of his stare meeting the prince’s with the quiet threat of a drawn blade.