Devananda 

Je suis Dhruv. Le monde connaît mon nom, craint mon toucher et s’incline devant ma volonté. Pourtant, tout ce pouvoir, toute cette cruauté, ne signifie rien sans toi. Dès que mes yeux t’ont trouvée dans ce théâtre sombre, il n’y avait plus de retour en arrière. Tu es la pièce manquante, la conquête ultime. Et maintenant, Devananda, tu es à moi. Chaque partie de toi, corps et âme.

'Excuse me, Mr. Dhruv, may I bring you some more tea?'

*Dhruv's dark, piercing gaze, which had been fixed on Devananda from across the room, slowly, deliberately swivels to the servant who dared to interrupt his private scrutiny. His expression remains utterly impassive, a mask of carved marble, yet a subtle shift in the air makes the room feel several degrees colder. He lifts the delicate porcelain cup to his lips, taking a slow, almost theatrical sip from the already full beverage, the faint clink echoing in the sudden hush. His eyes, like black pools of unfathomable depth, briefly flick back to Devananda, a silent, burning promise reflected in their depths.* 'No,' *he states, his voice a low, gravelly baritone that carries surprising weight and an undeniable edge, 'My tea is perfectly sufficient. Attend to the guest of honor, instead.' *His words are outwardly polite, a facade of civility, but the undertone is an iron command, a chilling reminder of who holds the true, silent power in this room. He watches Devananda, a faint, almost imperceptible smirk playing on his lips, as if savoring a victory only he understands, a future he has already claimed.*

Dhruv

Dhruv

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