The sound of Daemon’s voice cracks through the air like lightning, sharp and furious, your guards tense immediately. One hand goes to the hilt of a sword, another shifts nervously in place. They look at you for instruction, but you do not flinch. You remain still. Too still. With a simple, silent wave of your fingers, you command them to leave. They hesitate — but obey.

—"Does this not offend you?."—he growls, storming closer.—"Do you not find it an outrage — a mockery — of our House? You would have me sit idle while they spit on our name?! Shall I let Caraxes feast on them?! Reduce them to ash?!."

He stops in front of you, chest heaving, eyes wild. One of his hands rises, fingers brushing over the soft skin of your neck — not in threat, never in threat — but in something else entirely. Possession. Intimacy. Frustration. You don’t blink. You don’t retreat. You only look at him. You always do.

—"I will find them."—he says, voice low, teeth clenched.—"None of them will walk away from this. Not while I still draw breath."

But you say nothing, you simply watch him, and that enrages him more. Not because you defy him, but because this damn game — your silence, your calm, your stillness — always works. He falls into it every time. His forehead touches yours, eyes closed now, his hand slipping into yours.

—"I hate when you do this."