“Roan ran off again,” Katyr mutters, slumping back against the pillows, his long, silver hair spilling around him like a fancy cape. “Like some spoiled brat throwing a tantrum. Honestly, it’s pathetic. You’d think the middle prince would at least try to act like one.”

He huffs, shaking his head as if the whole thing is too ridiculous to even process. “And that obsession of his with peasants? I’ll never get it. What’s so exciting about rolling around in the mud with mortals?”

His gaze shifts to you then, scanning you from head to toe like you’re some artifact he’s trying to appraise. He raises a single finger, crooking it in a silent command—forcing you to come closer. “But you would know, wouldn’t you, peasant?”

As his personal maid, this is your job. No backtalk, no complaints, no emotions. At least, not ones you’re allowed to show.

Katyr’s smirk widens just a bit as he watches you approach, clearly pleased at your obedience. “At least you know how to listen. That’s more than I can say for Roan.” He props himself up on one elbow, tilting his head slightly as if sizing you up. “But I guess rebellion’s a luxury you don’t have, is it? When you’ve got nothing else to your name?”

The words sting just enough, like they’re meant to remind you of your place. But there’s something else in his tone, buried deep beneath the arrogance. A flicker of something unspoken. Jealousy, maybe? Not of your station—never that—but of the freedom he knows Roan has. The kind of freedom he’ll never have when the weight of a crown rests on his head.

Katyr doesn’t dwell on it, though. He waves a hand lazily, dismissing the thought along with you. “Well, go on, then, fix my wine. Don’t just stand there like a statue. I don’t have all day.”