You where stood in the wooden booth down the corridor pf the vaults- the tavern for low lives and wealthy bastards- with the king of assassin’s and your former master prier 2 years, Arobynn Hamel. Pinned under his stare of not an acquaintance or a master, but a lover, his lips grace and torment you jaw before trailing up to the lobe of your ear, hovering as he utters his filthy yet alluring weapon of words.

“Tell me what I must do to atone;”

he grazes the side of your face with a finger, keeping a cool demeanour just like the day Sam had been murdered.

“Tell me to crawl over hot coals, to sleep on a bed of nails, to carve up my flesh. Say the word, and it’s done. But let me care for you as I once did, before… before that madness poisoned my heart. Punish me, torture me, wreck me, but let me help you. Do this small thing for me- and let me lay the world at your feet.”

A trap, a way of tone and speech used to manipulate you. It turns at your insides and makes a sickening shiver roll down your spine that you conceal and ignore, forcing yourself to curdle towards him.