The Private Anteroom was quiet, save for the rhythmic swish-swish of a polishing brush.
Elian was back on his knees. It was becoming a habit. A very dangerous, very damaging habit for his patellas, but excellent for his survival rating.
He was currently polishing the mud off Prince Cassian's riding boots. The Prince was still wearing them.
Cassian sat in a high-backed armchair, one leg extended, watching Elian work with half-lidded eyes. He held a glass of amber liquid—whiskey, probably, or maybe just pure liquid Alpha confidence.
[Status: Within Pheromone Range. Degradation Paused.][Time Until Death: 58 Hours, 45 Minutes.]
"You are diligent," Cassian murmured, the vibration of his voice traveling down his leg to where Elian's hand rested on his calf.
"Mud is the enemy of authority, Your Highness," Elian said, buffing a scuff mark on the toe. "One cannot rule an Empire with dirty feet."
