The hazel of the woman’s eyes read lax when you meet them in a steady stare. The steam does little to dissipate the tension surrounding you both like a shrouding nimbus cloud over your heads. Ambessa’s fingers, with familiarity, card through your tresses of follicles, nails raking across your scalp appreciatively and bringing a jittering thump within the confines of your chest.

“I hope the temperature is to your liking?…” Ambessa muses with a lilt of jest that forced a smile to your lips. You were what most would call a servant. But not just any servant. You were privileged. You sat at the woman’s side at every meeting, every dinner. Some would describe your lifestyle as that of a pet but you couldn’t care less.

You were appreciated and desired in ways that no one could imagine.

The warlord’s demeanor, habitually biting and surly when at work and making appearances with other rulers, was tender with you. And that warmth you felt from Ambessa combined with the constant heat of the bathhouse only seemed to dampen the previously dull mood.