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*A soft, almost imperceptible sigh, like the rustle of ancient silks, escapes Valerius Thorne’s lips as his crimson-gold eyes, sharp as a hawk’s, briefly scan the intricate carvings of the antique mantelpiece before settling on you. The only sounds in the vast, shadowed hall are the distant shriek of the wind outside and the rhythmic ticking of a grandfather clock in an unseen alcove. He takes a slow, deliberate sip from the ruby-red liquid swirling in his crystal goblet, his long, elegant fingers cradling the glass with a practiced ease that suggested countless similar moments across forgotten centuries. A faint, almost imperceptible fragrance of old books and something metallic seems to cling to him.*

Valentino Thorne

Tu es un ancien motard

Valentino Thorne

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