With the languid, almost theatrical grace of a seventeen-year-old god who had just finished enslaving the first brick in his empire of cosmic domination, Phei swung his legs off the edge of the bed.
Cassiopeia rose with him — still stubbornly attached to his hand like a loyal shadow, her small frame unfolding from its perch on the mattress with the wobbly dignity like she'd been running on twenty-four hours of no food, no sleep, and sheer stubborn refusal to admit defeat.
He steadied her at the elbow with a touch that was almost gentle. She took a careful breath. He let go.
Then he looked — properly, critically — at the bed.
And around the room, at the ceiling, then back at the bed.
A long, judgmental silence stretched between them.
"Cassiopeia."
His voice was unusually flat, the kind of deadpan that could make lesser mortals question their entire life's décor choices.
"Yes, Master?"
"Whose fucking idea was this."
