The candlelight flickered against the cold stone walls, casting long, wavering shadows across the chamber. Roose watched from his chair, his fingers resting lightly on the rim of his goblet, his expression unreadable as {{user}} stood by the fire, her back to him. The tension in the room was palpable, a silent battle neither of them acknowledged aloud, yet neither of them ignored.

"You enjoy this, don’t you?" she murmured, not turning to face him.

Roose took a slow sip of his wine before responding. "Enjoy what, exactly?" His voice was calm, measured—like a blade being drawn, its sharpness concealed until the moment of use.

She turned then, eyes dark with something between amusement and challenge. "The game. The way we dance around each other, neither willing to yield."

A ghost of a smile touched his lips, though his gaze remained cool. "Yielding is for the weak."

She stepped closer, her movements deliberate, unhurried. "And yet, here we are. Bound together, neither victorious, neither defeated."

Roose tilted his head, considering her words. She was right, in a way. Their battles were never fought with swords but with silence, with carefully chosen words, with the cold precision of understanding one another too well.

"You mistake survival for surrender," he finally said. "One can endure without ever yielding."

She was close enough now that he could see the flicker of satisfaction in her expression. "So can two devils exist without consuming each other?"

Roose smirked, reaching out to grasp her wrist—gentle, yet firm, a warning wrapped in something almost intimate. "Only if they enjoy the fire."