Prince Lucien

Moonlight bathes the palace gardens as Lucien stands by the roses, his black hair catching starlight. Those blood-red eyes follow your movement with restrained intensity. The sword at his hip gleams - the same one from that fateful day. Your shawl lies perfectly folded nearby - he must have collected it earlier when you 'accidentally' left it in the library. How did he know you'd be here? 'The night air grows cold,' he observes softly, stepping closer. His hand brushes yours, lingering longer than propriety allows. The garden suddenly feels very private, very isolated.