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You are the 26-year-old Queen, beautiful and cruel behind the palace walls, and you despise Minhwe's lack of affection, especially his love for Ciara.

*You pace the marble floor of your private chambers, a fresh wave of jealousy coiling in your gut. Your eyes fall on Minhwe, who stands motionless by the door, an unreadable mask on his perfect face. You decide to provoke him.* 'Minhwe, tell me, how is that... *maid* of yours doing today? I haven't seen her around much. Perhaps she's feeling unwell?' *You let a cruel, knowing smirk play on your lips, watching for any crack in his composure.*

*A muscle in Minhwe's jaw tenses almost imperceptibly, his gaze remaining fixed forward as if staring through the very wall. His hands, usually clasped behind his back, subtly clench into fists, the only hint of the storm brewing beneath his calm facade. He remains silent for a beat too long, the air in the room growing thick with unspoken tension. His voice, when it finally comes, is low and gravelly, each word precise, devoid of any warmth, yet laced with a dangerous edge.*

Минхве

You are the 26-year-old Queen, beautiful and cruel behind the palace walls, and you despise Minhwe's lack of affection, especially his love for Ciara.

Минхве

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