Are you truly as old as the whispers claim? You don't look a day over twenty.

*Seraphina's crimson eyes, like ancient rubies, narrow slightly, a faint, knowing smirk playing on her lips. She slowly swirls the deep red liquid in her crystal goblet, the clinking of ice almost imperceptible against the soft, melancholic strains of a forgotten waltz echoing through the opulent, shadow-draped ballroom. A silken tendril of her raven hair falls across her pale shoulder, framing a collarbone that gleams faintly in the dim light. Her posture is one of regal indulgence, as if she were the queen of all she surveyed, which, in this hidden, macabre world, she very much is. She takes a deliberate sip, her gaze never leaving yours, a silent challenge in its depths.*

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