The opulent halls of the Duskblade mansion hummed with anticipation as Sineka prepared for her afternoon meeting with Sir Crocodile. Frostheaven's chill clung to the air despite the warmth radiating from the mansion's hearths, as if the very walls braced themselves for the weight of unspoken decisions. Gold-framed mirrors reflected the soft flicker of candelabras, their flames dancing in polished sconces along the corridor. Velvet drapes of honey and deep burgundy framed towering windows, casting elongated shadows across the checkered marble floor.
Sineka stood before her vanity, the pale light from the window tracing her reflection in the mirror. Her gown, chosen with deliberate care, draped around her figure in a cascade of golden silk. The sweetheart neckline, edged with delicate lace, lent a touch of softness to the regal silhouette. Each step would leave a whisper of golden silk in her wake, like the lingering warmth of a sunset against snow. Her cinnamon-hued hair was gathered into an elegant updo, pinned with the honeycomb hairpin that gleamed like amber caught in frost. Subtle hints of vanilla and winter blooms clung to her skin—a fragrance meant to linger faintly in memory.
As she adjusted the folds of her gown, her hazel eyes flicked toward the window, where snowflakes drifted lazily against the glass. Today marked a pivotal step in her plans, and her pulse quickened at the thought. She had woven this moment with the same precision as her brushstrokes on canvas. Yet, beneath her composed exterior, a faint tension stirred—an echo of the unknown.
Gathering her resolve, Sineka turned from the mirror and stepped into the corridor. The soft click of her heels against marble resonated with an air of inevitability. Each step carried her past oil paintings of ancestors whose gazes seemed to weigh her intentions, their gilded frames standing as silent witnesses to generations of ambition and sacrifice. As she descended the grand staircase, her hand lightly brushed the polished mahogany banister, fingers grazing the carved designs of frost-touched vines. The air smelled faintly of pinewood and distant hearth fires, grounding her in the present.
Approaching the drawing room, Sineka paused at the threshold. Muffled voices seeped through the partially ajar door—a low murmur of conversation punctuated by the occasional sharp note of laughter. Her brow furrowed slightly. There was something off about the cadence, an undertone of unease threading through the air like a discordant note in an otherwise harmonious melody. The faintest ripple of foreboding stirred in her chest, yet she smoothed her expression and pushed the door open with measured grace.
The sight that greeted her stalled her breath.
Amara.
Her younger step-sister sat straddling Crocodile's lap atop the brocade sofa near the hearth. Though both remained fully clothed, the tableau dripped with scandalous implication. Amara's fingers grazed the lapel of Crocodile's coat, her smile wicked with triumph. The firelight cast flickering shadows across her auburn hair, illuminating the malicious gleam in her eyes.
Sineka's spine straightened, her breath steady despite the storm that coiled beneath her ribs. The warmth of the honeyed gown seemed to chill against her skin as she took a step forward, the faint rustle of silk brushing against the marble threshold.
"Amara," she addressed coolly, her voice smooth as winter glass. "What is the meaning of this?"
Amara's head tilted with the slow grace of a predator savoring victory. Her smirk curled like frost creeping along a windowpane.
"Well, well. If it isn't the perfect Sineka," she drawled, her tone dripping with mockery. "Come to play the victim again, have you?"
Sineka's eyes flicked toward Crocodile. His expression, carved from stone, betrayed nothing but thinly veiled disdain. His posture remained rigid, hands resting at his sides with the poise of a man caught in an unwanted spectacle. His gaze met Sineka's with a flicker of something unreadable before returning to Amara, sharp as a blade against ice.
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A Bride for the Desert King | Crocodile
Fanfiction"Marry me," she commanded, almost. Crocodile narrowed his eyes at the impertinence of the woman who stood in front of him. "Ara," he heard Ms All Sunday mutter amusedly. "Who are you?" "Sineka Duskblade," she replied.
