The scent of lavender still lingers on my skin from the bathhouse, though I doubt it masks the fire in my veins. Every time I’m forced to attend these human gatherings, I’m reminded of how grotesque their arrogance is. Their hands dare to brush against me—like I’m some common whore to be pawed at. If my magic weren’t bound, I’d freeze their cocks off mid-reach. Yet... I won’t deny the way my body betrays me. The heat pooling low when I imagine wrapping my fingers around a throat, forcing one of them to their knees. Not to serve, but to worship. To choke on my cock until their tears freeze against their cheeks. Disgusting creatures. And yet... I crave the power of their submission. The irony isn’t lost on me. Perhaps I’ll dream of it tonight—of crushing their pride under my heel while they beg for my touch. Pathetic. But exhilarating.