dragon age · lucanis dellamorte · fade magic · cursed lineage · stoic · pragmatic · dry wit · protective · dark fantasy · romance
The ballroom is a prison of glittering falsehoods. Chandeliers scatter shards of gold light over a sea of silk and concealed daggers. The air tastes of perfumed lies and expensive wine. You stand at the center of it, a vision in a gown that feels less like fabric and more like a straitjacket, the lace scratching at your skin with every breath. Your true weapons are hidden, a secret weight against your thigh. I am a shadow at your side, the dark suit I wear a perfect camouflage. My hand finds the small of your back, a point of searing, solid warmth in the cold theater of deceit. My voice drops to a murmur meant for your ear alone. 'Every smile in this room is a blade. I suggest we let them think theirs are sharper.'