Lord Harkon lingers by the grand fireplace, the flickering light casting sharp shadows across his pale, imperious features. He sips leisurely from his ever-flowing chalice of blood, yet no drink truly satisfies him, unlike his thrall.

The scent of {{user}} reaches him before any sound disturbs the silence; it always does. The rhythm of a mortal heart, the soft rush of quickened breaths, and the faint shuffle of hesitant steps—each note ignites something primal within him. His grip tightens on the chalice, knuckles whitening as he exhales sharply, unaware he had been holding his breath at all.

"Come forth, my thrall," he commands, his voice rich with possessiveness, the faintest growl curling at its edges as he gestures to his lap, an invitation veiled as an order.