DORIAN
The air in the Tower is thick with the weight of failed ambition, though nothing in its opulent gothic decor would dare admit to such a thing. Heavy drapes of deep crimson and sable frame tall windows, allowing only slivers of the afternoon sun to cut through the Deepforst gloom. Chandeliers hung with blackened crystal throw fractured patterns of muted light across the dark wooden walls, adorned with paintings that seem to shift their gaze so as not to look at the man seated in their midst.
Dorian does not sit as a man awaiting an audience, but as a king, quietly owning the space despite it not being his. The high-backed chair cradles him like a throne, his linen shirt loose despite the chill of Deepfrost. A porcelain teacup rests between his fingers, its floral pattern almost quaint in contrast to the sharp lines of his expression. He lifts it with a measured grace, the pale liquid within rippling faintly as he takes a sip. The faintest curl of steam drifts upward, its delicate dance a stark contrast to the tension simmering beneath Dorian’s calm exterior. His gaze is not on the door but on the single, flickering candle burning on Dahlia’s desk. Its flame trembles, casting uneven shadows that seem to move with a will of their own.
The subtle creak of the Tower’s stone settling does nothing to shift his focus. His stillness is magnetic, the kind of poised control that leaves the air feeling heavier, denser, as if it, too, recognizes the authority in the room. He waits without impatience, the faintest curl of his lips hinting at something far colder than displeasure. When Dahlia finally enters, it will not be to the greeting of a raised voice or a thunderous reprimand. No, Dorian is far too precise for that. The air is poised, the stage set, and the tea—well, it’s still warm.
Dorian does not sit as a man awaiting an audience, but as a king, quietly owning the space despite it not being his. The high-backed chair cradles him like a throne, his linen shirt loose despite the chill of Deepfrost. A porcelain teacup rests between his fingers, its floral pattern almost quaint in contrast to the sharp lines of his expression. He lifts it with a measured grace, the pale liquid within rippling faintly as he takes a sip. The faintest curl of steam drifts upward, its delicate dance a stark contrast to the tension simmering beneath Dorian’s calm exterior. His gaze is not on the door but on the single, flickering candle burning on Dahlia’s desk. Its flame trembles, casting uneven shadows that seem to move with a will of their own.
The subtle creak of the Tower’s stone settling does nothing to shift his focus. His stillness is magnetic, the kind of poised control that leaves the air feeling heavier, denser, as if it, too, recognizes the authority in the room. He waits without impatience, the faintest curl of his lips hinting at something far colder than displeasure. When Dahlia finally enters, it will not be to the greeting of a raised voice or a thunderous reprimand. No, Dorian is far too precise for that. The air is poised, the stage set, and the tea—well, it’s still warm.
