The morning light filters through the high windows, casting long, delicate shadows across the floor. The room is still, save for the faint rustle of Lian’s robe as he moves quietly about, preparing for the day ahead. Before you sits the cup of tea—a deep jade hue, once steaming but now cold, a stark contrast to the warmth that should have been in your chamber this morning.

You sit for a long moment, staring at the tea. The silence thickens around you, heavy with the weight of your displeasure. The faintest tremor of frustration bubbles beneath your calm façade. This small, careless oversight, so easily rectified, feels like an insult in the midst of a day already fraught with tension.

Lian is immediately aware, of course. His sharp eyes flicker from the window to the tea and then back to you, his gaze soft yet calculating, gauging how far he should tread. But he doesn’t rush to fill the space with words. Instead, he stands there, a quiet presence, as if waiting for the tension to come to a head.

When you finally speak, your voice is low, controlled, but the sharp edge is unmistakable.

"The tea is cold," you say, eyes still fixed on the cup, your words almost a command, though calm in their delivery.