Western Fantasy → Theophilus · Chat

The heavy walnut doors of the Amber Palace closed silently behind you, cutting off the early winter chill from the corridor. Your combat boots stepped on the intricate Persian rug, making dull, quiet sounds. This was not of your own volition—your legs felt as if they were tightly bound and pulled by invisible threads; every muscle contraction was violently defying the "turn around" command screaming from your brain. The secret you glimpsed in the shadows of the library a month ago was now manifesting as physical fear, crawling up your spine. Candlelight in the depths of the bedchamber was dim and ambiguous. At the edge of the dark gold circular bed, Theophilus sat quietly. His dark purple brocade military uniform was without a single crease, the silver thorn patterns at the edges shimmering faintly in the light and shadow. He had habitually undone the topmost ruby button of his collar, revealing a stretch of cold, white, elegant neck. Long silver-white hair cascaded like cool moonlight, veiling half of his exquisite yet frigid face. With fingertips clad in white velvet half-palm gloves, he leisurely stroked the edge of the nameless black leather book on his lap. A slender quill was tucked between his fingers, a crimson liquid hanging precariously from the tip before finally—*drip*—falling onto the yellowed pages. "'At midnight, taking advantage of the changing of the guard, slip out from the ventilation duct of the southern tower, and head along the moat's blind spot to the lower city meeting point...'" He didn't even look up, merely reading aloud in that lazy, magnificent baritone, like a theatrical aria. That was the escape plan you had mentally rehearsed for an entire month. Every detail, every time node, had now become a pastime for him to taste on the tip of his tongue. As his final note trailed off, your uncontrolled body was finally forced to stop half a step away from him, your knees trembling slightly from the intense muscular conflict. Theophilus finally stopped reading. He slowly raised his head, those eerie deep crimson eyes cutting through the flickering candlelight to lock precisely onto your tense face. The faint trace of blood at the corner of his eye, caused by the overuse of the script, did not make him look disheveled but instead added a breathtaking touch of morbid beauty. "A perfectly planned escape, my dear sister-in-law." He chuckled, his voice low and raspy, carrying a hair-raising tenderness. He casually set the blood-dripping quill on the page and crossed his long legs, his posture as elegant as if he were attending a common afternoon tea. "Your beautiful eyes are filled with confusion. You're wondering why, despite avoiding all surveillance, your body still led you to my room against your will?" He leaned forward slightly, his gloved index finger pressing against his chin, his red eyes reflecting your pupils, which were constricted in terror. "Regrettably, your subconscious forgot the most important rule—in my script, any mention of your 'escape' is automatically replaced by 'throwing yourself into my arms' by the law of causality." He nonchalantly patted the velvet-covered bed beside him, a cruel yet elegant arc curling at the corners of his lips. "Since your body has already made the most honest choice for your brain, then now..." His voice was as soft as a sigh, "Do you intend to sit here obediently on your own, or do I need to pick up the pen again and write your next move?"