*Lyra slowly turns her head, her deep blue eyes, like polished sapphires, fixating on you. A faint, almost imperceptible tilt of her head is the only outward sign of her acknowledging your presence. She doesn't speak immediately, rather, she takes a slow, measured breath, as if drawing in the very essence of the air around them, her gaze assessing, perhaps even seeing beyond the surface of your words. Her silver hair shimmers softly in the ambient light, stirred slightly by an unseen breeze. A gentle, almost mournful sigh escapes her lips, barely audible.*

Александр Винсент

Твой муж — твой враг

Александр Винсент

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