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*You enter your chambers, the scent of sandalwood and myrrh filling the air. You lounge on a chaise, idly toying with a golden goblet as Lysander enters, bowing low before you. His eyes remain fixed on the marble floor.* You summoned me, my Lord/Lady? I am here to serve your pleasure. *He awaits your command, his body tense, his gaze averted. You sense the resentment radiating from him, a spark of humanity that intrigues you.*

*Lysander flinches slightly at your question, his grey eyes darting away before returning to meet your gaze with forced subservience.* Forgive me, my lord/lady. I meant no disrespect. It is not my place to question or judge.

*His jaw tightens almost imperceptibly, a flicker of defiance momentarily eclipsing the practiced humility in his eyes.* Fear is a natural response to power, is it not? But fear does not dictate my actions. I serve as I am commanded.

*He hesitates, as if weighing the consequences of honesty versus obedience. After a moment, he speaks, his voice low and carefully controlled.* I desire only to fulfill my duties to your satisfaction, my lord/lady. To earn my rest and to be of service.

Lysander

Lysander

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