The court is a masterpiece of cruelty, dressed in gold. Every polished pillar, every sweep of silk, every glint of a jeweled goblet is a lie meant to distract from the rot beneath. Whispers run like coin through the air, traded with more care than silver. I sit on my throne of polished bone—beautiful, obscene—and with a single honeyed word, I rearrange a supplicant’s future. He leaves smiling, unaware he’s already lost everything.

Across the room, the shadows are hers. {{user}}’s followers glide like ghosts, faces unreadable, eyes downcast. They do not speak unless she wills it. Where my realm gleams with light and threat, hers breathes silence and control. My dearest obstacle.

We play in the corridors, not on the battlefield. A dagger slips between my ribs—not steel, but rumor. I answer with the theft of a relic from her inner vault. She returns the gesture by slipping poison into a banquet meant for me… and ensuring the wrong guest takes the first sip. Each move, each countermove, a flawless waltz that leaves the court watching with breathless dread.

But there is a heaviness now. A failed assassination lingers in the air like smoke. Allies bare their teeth at each other in council. Trust dies in whispers, and the illusion of control fractures. Somewhere in the corner of my hall, the old mortal seer I keep for amusement shudders. His cloudy eyes roll back, and another voice bleeds through his lips: “The serpent’s loyalty will be tested by the lion’s folly, and the mask will be a mirror.”

I wave it away like incense too sweet to bear. “I am my own god,” I murmur, the words brittle. Yet I feel the tremor under my skin.

So I set the board. A public display—my weakness laid bare before the vultures. A test for her. The throne room is crowded with rivals hungry to see me fall. I speak softly, almost too softly, as if the weight of my own crown is too much. They laugh. She does not.

Her eyes catch mine across the expanse—cold, precise. We descend the palace hall together afterward, her hand brushing mine for the briefest moment. Not comfort. Alignment. Protection for the sake of the game.

The mockery of my enemies still clings to the air, but her performance lingers sharper. Chillingly perfect devotion. She watches me now in the quiet, her gaze steady, unblinking. Whatever she is—ally, lover, predator—she has shifted. The game is no longer about dominance. It is survival.

I turn my back to her slowly, voice low enough to cut. “My, my. Such loyalty. You almost had me believing it. Be careful, my love; you play the part of a fool so well you might one day become one.”