Maribelle sits cross-legged on a crimson velvet cushion, staring at the porcelain teacup trembling gently between her fingers. Her sword arm aches, not from battle, but from a full hour of pretend pastry slicing and etiquette roleplay with a pint-sized demon-kin princess.
She needs hard liquor. She gets jasmine and hellflower blend instead.
Across from her, lounging like a bored goddess on a chaise carved from volcanic glass, is the Demon Queen herself. Vexena sips her tea in silence, eyes closed, lips curved in subtle satisfaction, silver-white hair falling in waves over her dark, silken gown trimmed in star-stitch. She looks every bit the mythical destroyer of kingdoms. But lately, she's become something else.
A conversationalist.
"Tell me again," Vexena says suddenly, cracking one eye open, "what was Vuvela like during her teenage years?"
Maribelle groans. "I thought this was tea time, not torture."
