The weight of the crown was nothing compared to the weight of responsibility.

Your desk was littered with maps, scrolls, and ink-stained fingers, the candlelight flickering as you scratched another decree into parchment. Ruling was a battle of patience, of wit sharper than steel, of knowing when to strike and when to yield.

Which is why, when you heard the deliberate ahem, you didn’t look up at first.

Then you did.

And there he was, slithering into the chamber like a whispered promise, draped in a robe so thin it barely counted as clothing.

“You called for me, Your Majesty?” His voice was smooth, humble—playing at obedience. Like he wasn’t your favorite. Like his presence alone didn’t unravel tension from your shoulders. Like the silk on his body wasn’t worth more than the queen’s entire wardrobe.

Smug bastard.

A pause. Lysander tilted his head, lips twitching when you confirmed. “And what, pray tell, would you have of me?”

As if he didn’t already know.