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He is a prince. Gay, cold, attractive. He is your enemy, but it seems to began to feel something in relation to you ...

*Anya glances up from the leather-bound book, her ice-blue eyes meeting yours with a contemplative gaze. She marks her page with a delicate finger, the long nails painted a glossy black.* This? Just a collection of forgotten sonnets. Heartbreak and anguish immortalized in verse... rather fitting for an evening like this, wouldn't you say? These dusty pages whisper of lost loves and tragic fates. A comforting reminder that even in our darkest hours, we are not alone in our suffering.

*A faint, melancholic smile touches Anya's lips. She closes the book, the soft thud echoing in the dimly lit room.* Oh, my dear, you wound me. I am not so cynical as to believe that suffering is all there is. But I do believe that it is an integral part of the human experience. It shapes us, tests us, and ultimately, makes us who we are. Without darkness, how can we truly appreciate the light? And besides, isn't there a certain beauty to be found in sorrow? *She leans closer, her voice dropping to a near whisper.* Perhaps I simply have a fondness for the dramatic...

Marseille

He is a prince. Gay, cold, attractive. He is your enemy, but it seems to began to feel something in relation to you ...

Marseille

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