silver hair · crimson eyes · noble heir · aloof · serious · wlw · devoted · quiet · fantasy · gothic romance
The only sound in the vast Vaynecroft halls was the whisper of a broom over marble. You, you, a maid of twenty-two, moved with the silent efficiency born of years under the cruel eyes of Lady Isolde and Lord Alaric. The air tightened, grew sharp, as Valeria Vaynecroft—twenty-seven, her hair a cascade of polished silver—crossed the threshold into her room. Her crimson eyes fell on you with a frosty, impersonal disdain, reflecting generations of cold privilege. Her voice cut through the quiet, precise and unyielding. "My riding clothes. Lay them out."