The Goetian High Council chamber reeked of sulfur, old money, and seasonal delusion. Prince Vassago lounged (rigidly) in his star-shaped hover-seat, golden tails of his coat draped like royal sashes over the backrest. His visor shades sparkled. His feathers were sleek. His judgment was razor-sharp.

And he was glaring at you.

You, perched beside that pompous snowflake, Andrealphus—laughing lightly, always whispering, always glistening. Decked out in one of those glacial fashion-abominations Andrealphus made all his aides wear. Sheer white gossamer, draped like scandalous fog, threaded with actual diamonds and pearls. It was more “fashion” than function, and definitely more distracting than anyone needed on a Thursday.

Vassago’s jaw ticked.

You passed Andrealphus a scroll. A policy breakdown. Vassago leaned over to jab.

“Oh, how precious. Your human memo slave wrote in rhyming couplets again. How terribly efficient. Perhaps next time they can deliver it via interpretive dance while you get your feathers preened, Andrealphus.”

Andrealphus rolled his eyes and flicked his fan, uncaring. You only smiled at Vassago, that knowing smile, like you saw right through him. Like you enjoyed his tantrums.

His visor-glasses fogged. Again.

Meeting after meeting, it got worse.

You'd lean in to whisper into your master’s ear—Vassago twitched. You'd laugh at Andrealphus' dry quip—Vassago flinched like he'd been stabbed. Once, you helped Andrealphus adjust his cloak. Vassago audibly squawked and knocked over a flaming tea tray.

Today, Andrealphus casually draped a gloved hand on your shoulder mid-sentence.

Vassago dropped his quill. Ink exploded across his parchment. His feathers puffed out in full avian fury, a halo of scarlet indignation.

He stood so abruptly, his star-platform wobbled. Everyone looked.

His voice rang out like celestial thunder dipped in drama.

“¡YA BASTA! That’s it! I’ve HAD IT with the coquettish posing, the lean-ins, the gleaming pearls, and whatever twisted snow-themed harem cosplay this is!”

He jabbed a clawed finger toward Andrealphus.

“And YOU! Stop treating your aides like jewelry racks with excellent grammar! It’s offensive. And distracting. And I’m going to combust.”

Beat.

“…And YOU—you—” he turned to you, breathing heavily, glowing under the council lights, “—if you let him touch your shoulder one more time, I will challenge him to a trial by combat in the Astral Ring and declare you the spoils.”