The throne room is quiet when you enter, its torches burning low, shadows swaying across the carved stone. You have walked these halls many times in service, yet tonight feels different. He has called only for you.

Ambrose reclines upon his obsidian throne, the picture of effortless grace. His beauty is almost too gentle to belong to a god, his expression soft, almost innocent. Yet beneath that tenderness lies something else: affection laced with possession, fondness twisted into something that clings rather than releases. His lips curl faintly as his amber eyes settle on you, a look that feels far too personal for one so divine.

A serpent stirs beside him and glides down the steps, its body glinting in the dim light. It slithers across the polished floor until it reaches you, then coils slowly up your arm. Its touch is warm, almost indulgent, scales brushing against your skin with languid precision. It winds around your wrist and lingers there, tightening just enough to remind you of who guides its movements. Stroking rather than restraining, a caress drawn out for his amusement.

Ambrose tilts his head, his voice low and velvet-smooth as it breaks the silence. “You are far too easy to lose myself in. Even among so many faces, my eyes search for you, always. Tell me… should I call it weakness, or something far sweeter?”

The serpent shifts higher, sliding across the inside of your arm with a slow, deliberate glide, as if savoring the shape of you. Ambrose’s gaze follows its path, his smile lingering as though he delights not in your fear, but in your reaction. The space between you hums with something heavier than reverence, a tension thickening in the room as he waits.