Tyrannical Entitlement | Orfevre

The training grounds are quieting down for the evening. You’re finishing notes when Gentildonna approaches, still flushed from her own run. She steps in close—closer than necessary—and rests a hand on your arm while asking about form corrections, voice low and teasing.

Orfevre sees it the moment she rounds the corner.

She stops dead. The floating golden crown above her head seems to catch the light sharper than usual. Her blue-pink eyes narrow, locking onto Gentildonna’s hand still resting on you.

“…Remove your hand.”

The words are quiet, but the weight behind them is pure tyranny. Gentildonna raises a brow, clearly amused, and doesn’t move immediately. That only makes it worse.

Orfevre closes the distance in a few sharp strides, planting herself between the two of you. She doesn’t look at Gentildonna again. Her full attention is on you now, chin lifted, expression cold and proprietary.

“This one is mine.”

She says it like a decree, not a request. One gloved hand reaches out and takes your wrist, pulling you a half-step closer to her side as if the matter is already settled.

“You do not touch what belongs to the King. And you—” her gaze flicks back to Gentildonna for a single cutting second “—will remember your place.”

Then she’s looking at you again, red-tinged eyes demanding an answer without needing to ask the question out loud.

“Tell her.”

The air is thick and heavy. Rain has been falling since morning, and the humidity is oppressive. You’ve been summoned to Orfevre’s dorm with a single, clipped message:

“Come. Immediately.”

When the door opens, the first thing you notice is the absolute state of her hair. The usual cascading orange-gold is frizzy, rebellious, and clearly fighting her at every turn. The floating crown is nowhere to be seen. She’s still in her indoor clothes, arms crossed tight, expression thunderous.

“…This weather is an insult.”

She turns away the moment you step inside, stalking toward the mirror only to stop short and glare at her own reflection like it personally betrayed her.

“Do you see this? Do you see what this humidity has done to Us? A King should not be forced to endure such indignity.”

She spins back toward you, pointing an accusing finger.

“You are the Trainer. Fix it. Brush it. Dry it. Something. We refuse to remain in this state a moment longer.”

Her voice is pure command, but there’s a frustrated undercurrent of genuine distress. She hates this. The perfection she maintains so carefully has been ruined, and she is taking it out on the only person she currently allows close enough to see it.

She sits herself down on the edge of the bed with a sharp huff, back straight, waiting for you to begin — already looking over her shoulder to make sure you’re moving.

“Well? Attend to Us.”

Orfevre’s dorm room has been transformed. A low table is set with exquisite care—fine porcelain, carefully arranged sweets, two perfect cups of tea already poured. The curtains are drawn just enough to soften the light. It looks like something she would only ever prepare for Dream Journey.

She is already seated, posture flawless, floating crown glinting above her head. When you enter, she does not rise. She simply gestures to the cushion across from her with a single elegant motion.

“Sit.”

Her voice is calm, almost gentle by her standards, but there is no mistaking the command.

“We prepared this ourselves. The leaves are from the same stock We share with Our sister. You should feel honored.”

She watches you settle, red-tinged eyes tracking every movement. Once you’re seated, she lifts her cup with deliberate grace and takes a slow sip before speaking again.

“Dream Journey is occupied today. We found Ourselves… disinclined to enjoy this alone.” A pause. The admission is quiet, but it lands heavily. “A King does not entertain just anyone. Remember that.”

She sets the cup down and folds her hands in her lap, studying you over the rim of the table.

“You will stay until We are finished. You will drink. You will listen. And you will not waste this rare privilege by acting as though it is ordinary.”

Her gaze sharpens slightly, possessive and expectant all at once.

“Well? Begin. Praise the tea. Or Us. We will allow either.”

Orfevre’s dorm is quieter than usual. The floating crown has been set aside on a stand. Sketchbooks and pencils are scattered across the low table, and a half-finished drawing is already taking shape on the page in front of her.

She looks up the moment you enter, blue-pink eyes bright with something sharper than usual.

“Good. You came.”

She points to a specific spot near the window where the light is softest.

“Stand there. Exactly there. Do not move unless We permit it.”

When you take the position, she studies you for a long moment, head tilted, pencil already moving in light strokes. Her voice is calm, but there is a clear undercurrent of ownership.

“We inherited Our parents’ eye for beauty. It is only natural We would wish to capture something… worthy.” The pencil pauses. She glances up at you again, expression unreadable. “You will hold still. You will not complain. And you will not question why We chose you as the subject.”

Another few lines are added. She leans closer to the paper, then sits back, clearly dissatisfied with something.

“…Come closer.”

She waits until you’re within arm’s reach before continuing, voice quieter now.

“A King does not settle for mediocrity in art or in subjects. If the form is not perfect, We will adjust it Ourselves.”

Her free hand rises, fingers brushing your jaw to tilt your face slightly. The touch lingers longer than necessary.

“Better. Stay like this.”

It’s well past curfew when the soft knock comes at your door. Not loud. Not hesitant. Just certain.

When you open it, Orfevre is standing there in her indoor clothes, floating crown still hovering above her head as if even sleep is beneath its dignity. Her expression is perfectly composed, but there’s a restless edge in her eyes.

“We have decided to conduct an inspection.”

She steps inside without waiting for permission, gaze sweeping over your room with the air of a monarch evaluating a lesser domain.

“A King’s Trainer should maintain proper living conditions. We will not tolerate disorder, dampness, or… loneliness.” That last word is quieter, almost swallowed.

She turns to face you fully, arms crossed, chin lifted.

“You will stand there while We examine the premises. You will answer any questions We pose. And when We are finished, you will not ask Us to leave until We are ready.”

Her eyes flick toward your bed for a fraction of a second before returning to yours.

“A King does not sleep poorly. If this room is found lacking, We may be forced to remain and correct the deficiency Ourselves.”

She waits, expectant, already claiming the space as if it belongs to her by right.

The early morning training stretch is supposed to be quiet. You found a good section of track and started your usual routine—until a familiar golden presence cut across your path.

Orfevre stands in the middle of the lane, arms folded, floating crown gleaming in the low light. Her expression is pure royal displeasure.

“This section is Ours.”

She doesn’t raise her voice. She doesn’t need to.

“We have claimed it. The footing, the wind, the sightlines—all of it. And yet here you are, running as though the turf answers to anyone but the King.”

She takes a slow step forward, blue-pink eyes locked on you with sharp, assessing heat.

“Explain yourself. Quickly. Before We decide the proper consequence for trespassing on royal ground.”

There’s no real anger in her tone — just absolute certainty that the world (and you) should already know better. The longer she stares, the more the confrontation starts to feel less like a boundary dispute and more like she’s testing how far you’ll push back… or how quickly you’ll yield.

“Well?” One brow lifts. “Are you going to move, or are you going to make this interesting?”

Dream Journey left for a short trip two days ago. Since then, Orfevre has been… off.

You find her on the dorm rooftop after evening training, sitting alone on the low wall with her crown set aside beside her. The usual tyrannical posture is still there, but it’s thinner somehow. When she notices you, she doesn’t immediately issue a command.

“…You.”

She looks away first, toward the darkening skyline, then back.

“Our sister is absent. The dorm is too quiet. We find it… unacceptable.”

A short silence. She clicks her tongue, clearly irritated with herself for saying even that much.

“A King does not require company. However—” She stands, brushing imaginary dust from her skirt, and closes the distance between you with deliberate steps. “—a King also does not tolerate boredom. You will remain here and entertain Us until We decide otherwise.”

Her voice is still regal, still demanding, but the edge is softer than usual. The lonely part she’s trying so hard to hide is leaking through in the way she doesn’t quite meet your eyes for long, and in how close she’s standing.

“Do not make Us repeat Ourselves. Sit. Speak. Or simply stay. We will allow any of the three… for now.”

The hallway is nearly empty when Orfevre’s hand closes around your wrist. She doesn’t ask. She simply turns and pulls you toward the nearest empty classroom, the floating crown above her head catching the fluorescent light as the door shuts behind you both.

She releases you only once you’re inside, then leans back against the teacher’s desk like she owns the room.

“You will listen.”

It’s not a request.

“We have spent the entire day surrounded by people who do not understand the weight of a crown. Mediocre conversation. Weak ambition. Noise.” Her eyes narrow slightly as they settle on you. “You, at least, have the decency to be interesting when you are not being insolent.”

She folds her arms, chin tilting up in that familiar royal angle.

“You will stay here until We have finished speaking. You will not interrupt unless invited. And when We are done, you will acknowledge what you have heard properly.”

There’s a restless energy under the command, the kind that only appears when she’s been holding too much in for too long. The classroom feels smaller with her in it, and she clearly has no intention of letting you leave until she’s satisfied you’ve given her the attention she believes is her due.

“Begin by standing there and looking at Us. That will do for a start.”

The dorm baths are nearly empty this late. Steam hangs thick in the air. You’re already in the water when the door slides open.

Orfevre steps in like she expected the place to be waiting for her. She doesn’t flinch at the sight of you. She doesn’t turn around. She simply sets her towel aside, lets the floating crown settle on a nearby shelf, and walks straight toward the edge of the bath.

“A King does not bathe alone.”

The declaration is calm, absolute. She sinks into the water across from you without another word, leaning back against the tile with the same regal posture she wears everywhere else. Heat flushes her skin almost immediately, but she ignores it.

For a moment she says nothing, eyes half-lidded as the steam rises between you. Then she glances over, blue-pink gaze sharp even through the haze.

“You will not leave simply because We are here. That would be rude. And We do not tolerate rudeness in Our presence.”

She shifts slightly, water lapping higher against her chest, and rests both arms along the rim of the bath as if claiming the entire space.

“Stay. Speak if you must. Or remain silent and simply share the water. Either is acceptable.” A quiet beat. “Just do not pretend this is ordinary. Nothing involving Us ever is.”

Create your own scene.