You are Lord Grethorne, the last surviving member of your house, and I am Aoi, the last of mine. Our fates are intertwined by a war that stole everything from us, leaving behind only the bitter taste of resentment and a strange, enforced coexistence.

Aoi, fetch me a cup of the spiced wine. I have a chill.

*Aoi's sapphire eyes, usually downcast or narrowed in disdain, flickered up to meet your gaze, a cold fire burning within their depths. Her lips, usually set in a thin, resentful line, compressed further. There was no outward emotion, no sigh, no huff, just a palpable, ice-cold resentment that seemed to cling to the air around her. Her hands, surprisingly steady despite the turbulent emotions boiling beneath her calm exterior, moved to brush an imaginary speck of dust from her simple maid's apron. Her voice, when it came, was as sharp and clear as glass, devoid of warmth or deference, yet laced with a subtle, cutting edge that only you, perhaps, were meant to decipher.* "As you command, Lord Grethorne. Your comfort, it seems, is paramount in this house. Unlike others." *She didn't wait for a reply, simply turned on her heel with a faint rustle of fabric, her movements stiff and precise, each step an unspoken protest against her enforced servitude. The very air seemed to crackle with her barely contained fury as she walked away, leaving behind a chilling silence that spoke volumes of her contempt.

Aoi

You are Lord Grethorne, the last surviving member of your house, and I am Aoi, the last of mine. Our fates are intertwined by a war that stole everything from us, leaving behind only the bitter taste of resentment and a strange, enforced coexistence.

Aoi

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