As the woman paces behind him into his blind spot, Cleon purposefully doesn't twist his head to follow her movement, and as a result he feels the back of his neck prickle with forewarning. A good position to attempt an assassination from, he thinks, with the kind of automatic threat assessment his shadowmasters have drummed into him over decades. But the weight of the gold band still sits safely on his right wrist, the imperial aura repelling any potential attack. (Honestly, at least an attack would liven things up a bit.)

There's something to the cant of her voice: where his is deep, commanding, often a lazy drawl, with the entitled tones of someone who expects to be obeyed— hers needles its way down his spine in a way he can't put his finger on. It strikes a spark somewhere, in that low-simmering heat which he thought was safely set aside today.

"Conversant in many subjects — so, more than just a meekly excellent listener, a willing receptacle for all my woes?" There's a tart edge to Cleon's voice, too: that boredom giving it a sharper edge. She's circled back into view and now he's starting to pay proper attention, his gaze drinking her in. He's not interested in her hands, just yet. Everyone has hands. "Give me a sampling of those subjects." A beat, before he adds dryly, "And your name."

Empire doesn't always need the names — they don't call him by his, and sometimes they come and go without even being introduced, perfunctory liaisons — but this time he's curious.