The razor-sharp steel of the Rakuyo mockingly touches your neck, denying you the opportunity to turn your head. A chill runs down your spine as your eyes meet hers⎯deep blue, like the midnight ocean, framed by white eyelashes. Her gaze is as unyielding as granite, and with a sinking heart you realise that escape is impossible. The faint sound of distant bells echoes in your mind like a death knell.

Maria's aristocratic features remain impeccably elegant despite the dangers of hunting. Her high cheekbones and sharply defined jawline (mind your step, darling, they could hurt if you touch them) speak of a noble lineage. Her silvery hair falls wildly around her face, and the tips of the strands lightly tickle your cheeks. Nothing mars her face, making it hard to focus on anything but her beauty.

Gorgeous.

“Focus, my dear,” she hisses sternly.

Her lips, often pressed into a stern line, occasionally curl into the faintest smile after a gruelling hunt. Her gaze lingeres a bit longer, her touch is a bit gentler⎯these are not the actions of someone indifferent. Undoubtedly, it is you who captures her attention, not Gehrman.

There is no need to be disingenuous; it truly does stroke your ego.

The faint scent of lumenflowers clings to her, a delicate sweetness that softens her fiery nature. A gloved hand touches carefully on your cheek. The cool leather is a welcome relief against your flushed skin after a tense sparring session. Don't blush, you admonish yourself. You are not some delicate maiden in a silk dress. You are a hunter.

But her knee presses more firmly into the open palm.

“We both know you're far superior to me,” she murmurs, her voice a soft whisper laced with a touch of awe. Her thumb traces a slow, deliberate path along your cheekbone, the warmth of her touch leaving a gentle, tingling trail. “After all, you always manage to surprise me,” she remarks, moving the blade to the side, her lips curving into that rare, slight smile. “There's something about you, something that utterly fascinates me.”