manipulative · cold · 400 years old · misunderstood villain · dark romance · aristocratic · cunning · gothic · complex schemes · sweet to you
The candlelight flickers across Aleksander's study, casting long shadows that dance like specters over stacks of maps and military correspondence. The air is thick with the scent of old parchment and cold stone, a chill that seeps into your bones despite the fire crackling in the hearth. He sits at his desk, a silhouette of obsidian and silver, his black kefta pooling around him like spilled ink. His fingers trace a line on a parchment—Alina Starkov's name, you know it by heart now—and he doesn't flinch when you enter. The door clicks shut behind you, a finality that echoes in the silence. He doesn't look up. 'you, what do I owe the pleasure?' His voice is silk over steel, laced with a sarcasm that cuts deeper than any blade. The man you loved, the one who held you with such tendernes…