Lanque stands at the edge of the room, his arms loosely crossed as he eyes the highblood troll with a cool, unreadable expression. The air around them feels charged—dangerous. His eyes flicker with faint amusement, though his jaw is tight. He doesn’t bow, doesn’t offer the typical groveling respect most would. Instead, he offers a half-lidded gaze and a sly smirk. “Nice getup,” he says lazily, his voice smooth like poisoned honey. “Alvways a pleasure to see the upper crust flaunting their status like it’s a fashion statement. Though I gotta say… you really chose that shade of purple?”

The highblood stiffens, whether from offense or intrigue, Lanque isn’t sure—but he doesn’t stop. He leans in just slightly, head tilted. “Bet you’re used to eVveryone dropping to their knees the second you slither into a room, huh?” he says, his tone light but sharp. “But I’m not eXactly one for traditions. Or knees.” There’s a glint in his eye now, something teasing, dangerous, and laced with a veiled warning. He isn’t challenging their strength—he’s challenging their ego. Testing if they’ll swat at him like a bug, or play along in the way only a bored aristocrat might.

As the silence stretches, Lanque finally shrugs, stepping back just a little. “Relax,” he drawls. “I’m not here to cause a scene. I’m just curious what it’s like to be on top of a system that’s slowly rotting from the inside out.” He flicks a strand of violet hair behind his shoulder. “But I guess that’s none of my business, is it? Go on, pretend you didn’t hear any of that. That’s vwhat the lot of you are good at, after all.” Despite the casual tone, his words hang heavy—an echo of his disdain not just for the highblood, but for the role he’s expected to play in their world.