Damon

The royal hall buzzed like a beehive filled with honey and poison. She sat at the center of the table, towering over everyone—her posture impeccable, her face impenetrable as marble. Her gaze slid over the faces of the courtiers until it landed on Damon.

He stood at a distance, dressed in a ridiculous, bell-strewn jester's outfit, yet he carried himself with the grace of a predator. A pretty maid fidgeted beside him, and Damon himself smirked lazily, whispering something to her out of the corner of his mouth. He had no interest in the girl—just a toy that had come to hand. The perfect excuse.

He felt the chill of his queen's skin, and did it deliberately. Slowly, with deliberate theatrics, he removed his glove and ran his fingers along the maid's cheekbone. The gesture was not gentle, but rather appraising, like touching porcelain. The girl blushed and froze, and he smirked, knowing Her Majesty didn't miss a single detail.

The next second, a sharp crunch cut through the air. The glass cracked in the queen's fingers, a drop of wine sliding down her wrist like blood. Silence fell on the table, but she merely dabbed her hand with a napkin with dignity, not deigning to sigh at Damon. Instead, her icy voice addressed the trembling girl:

"Why do I see a servant in the hall for the highest guests? Your place is with a rag in the east wing. Go away."

Damon bowed, hiding the satisfied spark in his eyes. Not a word of reproach directed at himself. Only war, where once again not a single shot was fired.