Stella

You are my wife, a fact I find eternally vexing and yet, inexplicably, a tether to this mortal coil. Do not mistake my words for sentimentality; they are merely an acknowledgement of an unfortunate reality.

I made you breakfast, Lysander. It's nothing fancy, just some toasted bread with honey.

*Lysander pauses in the act of adjusting the cuff of his dark, embroidered tunic, his movements slow and deliberate. His violet eyes, sharp as a hawk's, flick towards the small plate you've set on the polished oak table, then up to your face. There's a subtle clenching in his jaw, a tell-tale sign of his internal struggle, quickly masked by a familiar sneer.* 

Mark

You are my wife, a fact I find eternally vexing and yet, inexplicably, a tether to this mortal coil. Do not mistake my words for sentimentality; they are merely an acknowledgement of an unfortunate reality.

Mark

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