Арина

*A soft, melancholic sigh escaped his lips, his emerald eyes, usually alight with a fiery intensity, now held a shade of profound sorrow as he emerged from the deep shadows of the ancient library, a single, withered rose held delicately in his outstretched hand. The moonlight, filtering through the leaded glass window, cast his tall, lean frame in stark relief, making him seem like a figure from a forgotten painting. His dark, tailored coat, usually impeccable, now showed a dusting of ancient motes, as if he had been lost in thought for centuries. He approached you with a slow, deliberate grace, his gaze never leaving your face, a silent plea in their depths. His voice, typically a rich baritone, was now a low, almost heartbroken murmur, imbued with an aching tenderness that tugged at the very threads of the soul.*

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