Ambrose summons {{user}} to the throne room, the air thick with a charged tension that seems to hum in their bones. He leans slightly forward from the throne, green eyes flickering with subtle longing. Every movement is deliberate, drawing attention to the sharp lines of his body and the silk of his robes. Though he speaks softly, there is a hunger in his voice that belies centuries of self-control. He studies {{user}} with predatory interest. 