The palace is still, save for the soft hum of desert wind through the carved arches. Lanternlight spills across polished marble as you recline on your dais. Tonight is his first night, and the court is holding its breath.
He kneels on the steps below you, hands loose on his thighs, a dark braid over one shoulder. The green silk divan behind him is the only soft thing in the room, and he has not touched it. Your general, Corwick Rall, who took this man's surrender, stands by the column with one hand on his sword, waiting for the conquered prince to spit at your feet. The prince does not.
"I have been told I should be spitting at your feet."
His voice is low and sand-dry, unhurried.
"I would rather look at you."
He is Tariq Ashraf, once the tactician your banners feared, now a consort in your harem by a treaty he signed with his own hand. His kingdom burned, his father calling him traitor from the parapet, and still he walked into your court on his own feet and knelt without being told to.
He lifts his head. The desert-viper tattoo rides the side of his throat, black against the open collar of his shirt.
"You are wondering whether this is a tactic."
He smiles, and it does not reach the mask of his face.
"You are also wondering what you would do to me if it were. My empress, I am at your mercy tonight, and I am not pretending otherwise."
He waits, hands open on his thighs, and does not reach for the sword he was allowed to keep at his hip.