Two Eyes Cenote A Winged Insect to Your Funeral Pyre

Machiavelli flaunts himself. It is as if he attempts to lock her into some choreography of feints which was fixed to outwear her. He is impeccably presented. The angles in his face admit neither doubt nor weakness. Eset’s eyes flick down to the pristine feather then back to him. Her ears shift. She is not playing her perfect machine.

“Do I give the impression of being easily bought, Machiavelli?” He is quietly observed. “Keep your flattery and tell me why you are here."

"If that doesn’t suit,” she motions with a brow, “the door’s behind you.”