đ.đ: Ink and ashes
đlijah settled into the seat across from Rosaline, crossing one leg over the other with practiced ease.
Every inch of his posture exuded a collected calm, the kind worn like armor. But beneath that calm, his nerves were still catching up.
His body had only just stopped bracing for Marcus to lunge across the room and shred him into elegant little ribbons.
Internally, his organs were still in emergency mode, reorganizing themselves after the primal chaos of staring down a creature that could end him in a single bite.
Rosaline, by contrast, looked as composed as a queen lounging on her throne. Her pipe now rested delicately in a silver cradle beside her, forgotten for the moment.
One elbow perched on the chair's armrest as she crossed her legs slowly, the sharp points of her black heels angling toward him like a pair of elegant daggers.
"So," she began, her fingers idly toying with the stem of the pipe. "Mister Elijah Barclay."
