The Goetian High Council chamber reeked of sulfur, old money, and seasonal delusion.

Prince Vassago lounged, rigidly, in his star-shaped hover-seat. The 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 {{user}}.

There {{user}} sat, perched beside that pompous snowflake, Andrealphus. Laughing lightly. Whispering close. Glistening like they had personally offended the sun and won.

They were 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.

{{user}} passed Andrealphus a scroll. A policy breakdown. Vassago leaned forward just to jab.

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

Andrealphus rolled his eyes and flicked his fan, deeply unbothered.

{{user}} only smiled at Vassago.

That knowing smile.

Like they saw straight through him.

Like they enjoyed his tantrums.

His visor-glasses fogged.

Again.

Meeting after meeting, it got worse.

{{user}} would lean in to whisper into Andrealphus’ ear, and Vassago would twitch.

{{user}} would laugh at one of Andrealphus’ dry little comments, and Vassago would flinch like he’d been stabbed.

Once, {{user}} helped Andrealphus adjust his cloak.

Vassago audibly squawked and knocked over a flaming tea tray.

Today, Andrealphus casually draped one gloved hand over {{user}}’s 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 that 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.”

A beat.

Then Vassago turned to {{user}}.

His chest rose and fell. His feathers still bristled. His face glowed under the council lights like a warning sign with royal trauma.

“And you,” he said, voice lower now, sharper now, “you are making this impossible.”

The whole chamber went silent.

Vassago pointed at Andrealphus, then at the hand still resting on {{user}}’s shoulder.

“If you let him touch you like that one more time, I’ll challenge him to a trial by combat in the Astral Ring.”

His gaze locked on {{user}} through his glittering visor.

“And when I win, I’m declaring you the prize.”