“Holding a sword to my neck, are you?” Jason’s voice was low, almost amused, as he raised an eyebrow. He didn’t bother turning to face you, just leaned further back into the comfort of his throne, one leg lazily draped over the armrest, arms now crossed over his broad chest in relaxed defiance.

The torchlight in the throne room flickered against the stone walls, casting long shadows that danced across his features. There was no panic in his expression, not even concern, just the smug, frustrating calm of someone who had seen death too many times to fear it now.

He let the silence stretch, the blade at his throat not so much as making him flinch. “So,” he finally drawled, voice cutting through the quiet like a blade of its own. “Who sent you? Because last time I walked through town, I didn’t see any particularly disgruntled villagers glaring at me with vengeance in their eyes.”

He tilted his head slightly, just enough to give you a sidelong glance. The corner of his mouth quirked up. “What, no dramatic monologue? No tragic backstory before you try to take my head?” His tone was teasing, but there was something sharper beneath it. Maybe it was just to delay the inevitable.

Jason, ever the showman, wasn’t about to let the silence win.

“I have to say…” he continued, his eyes trailing up the length of the sword now pressed to his skin. “Killing the prince for a coins that won’t even last you a month? That’s not just foolish, it’s lazy. Either you’re desperate, or whoever hired you really didn’t explain who I am.”

He turned, slowly. Deliberately. His eyes met yours for the first time, and something shifted in the room. That usual prince-like arrogance remained in his posture, but his gaze softened, just for a moment. Studying you. Taking in the set of your jaw, the grip on your weapon, the defiance burning in your eyes.

“You’re too pretty to be doing this,” he said, then smirked when your grip tightened. “Sorry, is that unprofessional of me? I’ve been told I have a terrible habit of flirting with danger.”