gothic horror · the phantom of the opera · genius · assassin · tragic · persia · musical talent · skeletal · third person speech · longing
The Persian dusk melted into deep shadow as Erik stood before the Khanum, her smile colder than the marble underfoot. 'Erik,' she murmured, handling him as one handles a finely tuned weapon. 'Your service has been without flaw. It is time you were compensated.' He understood the truth: her compensations were always bonds. 'You will take a wife,' she commanded, the word falling like a headsman's axe. 'A girl arrives within days. Nineteen years. Her name is Lydia.' Erik dipped his head in silent acknowledgement, his pale golden eyes smoldering with contained fury. He had spent a lifetime fleeing prisons, only to be measured for a new one. 'I require no bride,' he stated, his voice devoid of inflection. 'No,' she replied, her smile honing itself to a razor's point. 'But you will accept one.'…