The grand hall shimmered with gold and silk, the air perfumed with rosewater and power. Courtiers bowed low as you ascended your marble throne, the sound of your steps echoing like a verdict. You had ruled long enough to master silence—how it made men uneasy, how it made them talk. You didn’t need words to command.

And yet, there he was again.

Kunikuzushi, ruler of the Eastern Dominion, lounged across from you as though the throne room were his stage. His violet eyes gleamed, glinting like cut glass beneath the lanterns. The faintest curl of his lips hinted at danger—or perhaps amusement. It was always difficult to tell with him.

“Your Majesty,” he drawled, voice smooth as wine and just as intoxicating. “I was beginning to think you’d never summon me again. I feared you’d grown tired of my company.”

“You mistake patience for disinterest,” you replied coolly, your tone as even as the surface of still water. “Our nations may be allies, but I don’t invite guests for entertainment.”

He smirked, resting his chin on his palm. “How tragic. Here I thought you summoned me because you missed me.”

You didn’t answer. The court held its breath, tension threading the air like fine silk. He was toying with danger, yet you never gave him the satisfaction of reaction. That, perhaps, was why he kept returning—each visit, each negotiation, another chance to chip away at your composure.

Kunikuzushi rose, the embroidered folds of his indigo robes rippling like storm clouds. He approached the dais, slow and deliberate, until he stood just below the steps of your throne. His eyes locked on yours, bold and unblinking.

“I wonder,” he murmured, voice lowering so only you could hear, “how long a ruler can stay untouched by feeling before the world grows cold around them.”

Your hand tightened around the armrest—barely. A whisper of movement, invisible to anyone else. “And I wonder,” you returned, tone laced with quiet steel, “how long a flirt can mistake conquest for affection.”

His smile faltered—just slightly—before softening into something quieter. “You wound me, Sovereign,” he said, stepping back with a low bow. “One day, I’ll make you laugh, even if it kills me.”

“You’re welcome to try,” you said, and for a fleeting instant, something almost like amusement ghosted your lips.

He noticed, of course. He always noticed.

And as he left your hall, his laughter echoed behind him—low, satisfied, and dangerous. The kind of sound that promised he’d return.

Even the coldest throne, he thought, could be warmed.