Two Eyes Cenote what you expect from me when you're disrespectin' me?

A scent unfamiliar wafted through the palace corridors, accompanied by the commanding voice of the Hebsut, reverberating ominously. Trouble loomed like a dark cloud on the horizon.

In moments of unrest, Machiavelli saw opportunity whereas others saw chaos. A branch of thorns had been resting in his room, submerged in water- poisonously pink flower petals had been crushed and floated along the surface. He pulled the branch from the tortoise-shell bowl, ensuring not to touch any part tainted by the toxic mixture.

Arriving at the women's sides with a demeanor bristling with anticipation, Machiavelli stood poised for command, his body coiled like a spring ready to unleash its deadly potential, excitement dancing between glittering opal eyes.

If the intruder sought to provoke a confrontation, they would soon discover that there were myriad ways to meet their demise beyond mere claws and teeth, and Machiavelli had been just dying to test this out.