#hlcyan

THUNDERCLAPS ALONG WOODEN FLOORING, creaking of ancient years groan against his hypersensitive ears, and with a wave he reveals the contents of the room to his prisoner. ❝This is the library.❞

A VERITABLE ARCHIVE OF TEXTS from all parts of the world: tomes, scrolls—even stone tablets make their entry among dust-ridden shelves, all meticulously ordered and veiled with neglect. Scarcely does he recall a time where he failed to frequent these ancient archives in search of solace from that which binds him evermore to he castle: worlds where he is not a beast but rather a hero, an individual, a human and for a time he can feel content in his skin. But when he realizes that such ventures into fantasy prove to be his undoing, he forsakes it all in favor of embracing cruelty for what it is and allows himself to suffer damnation if that is what it takes to survive.

ALAS, AT THE BEHEST OF HIS SERVANTS he permits his prisoner—a gentle girl timid in her own skin—to explore more of the dying castle, perchance at an attempt to remember what it once like to be human. Tentatively, he breaks the silence with a baritone chord.

❝Perish the thought. You are more than worthy of becoming my empress.❞

MAN WHO LIVES ONLY IN CERTAINTIES, he rises where all others cower and shies not away from discontent of the worms beneath his feet; he scoffs at the notion that the seraphim before him is unworthy of his side ( Zadkiel reincarnate / myosotis, Altiora etiam Petamus ) and asserts his statement by placing a hand around her waist. The grip is firm, but gentle enough to not cause pain as he continues in his campaign to lay his fiancée’s worries to rest.