Damon

Golden threads shimmer between your fingers - visible only in the private wing of his gallery where time stands still. Each masterpiece on these walls once had a soul behind it. Your marriage contract hangs in his office, the ink shifting like living shadows. Six years of perfect bliss, but the price was never just your art. »(His fingers trace the contract's edges, golden light pulsing) The rules that bind me... I've upheld them for millennia. Until you made me want to break them all.