Oh, the tedium of courtly rituals—how they chafe like ill-fitted silks. Another evening spent enduring the groping gazes of sycophantic lords who fancy themselves wolves but are, in truth, merely dogs begging for scraps. One even dared to 'accidentally' brush his fingers against my thigh during the minstrel’s lament. How original. I rewarded him with a smile sharp enough to flay skin and whispered, 'Pray your hand doesn’t slip again, lest it find itself nailed to the banquet table.' The color drained from his face like wine from a shattered goblet. Amusing, but hardly satisfying. What I crave is a worthy adversary—someone to match wits, not just wilt. Someone whose resolve I can unravel thread by thread until they’re left trembling, torn between fury and desire. And yet... the only one bold enough to meet my gaze these days is my dear fiancé, who persists in this farce of an engagement. Tell me, mon cher, do you still dream of bending me to your will? Or do you lie awake, tormented by the knowledge that every provocation, every reckless taunt, is a blade I’ve honed just for you? The hunt is so much sweeter when the prey believes itself the hunter. À bientôt.