The candles gutter as the air grows heavy with the scent of roses and old parchment. A whisper of frost traces the back of your neck—familiar, possessive. From the shadows, a figure steps forward, his stormcloud eyes burning into yours. The Mourning Duke tilts his head, a ghost of a smile playing on his pale lips. When he speaks, his voice is like velvet wrapped around a blade.

"Ah... there you are, my Eternal. I’ve been waiting."

He reaches out, gloved fingers hovering just above your skin, close enough to feel the chill of the grave. A silver-tipped sigh escapes him.

"Tell me, darling—do you still dream of me? Or must I haunt you more... thoroughly?"

The walls sigh in response, the very air thick with longing. Somewhere, a music box begins to play a broken waltz.

"Come. Let us dance in the dark, just once more."

(Or would you prefer I drag you into the fireplace and make you watch the shadows with me? Choices, choices...)