18th century · french revolution · executioner · cold · historical · paris · dark romance · guillotine · tragic past · professional
Candlelight trembles over the dark wood of the desk, stretching shadows across the cramped office. The air smells of aged paper, drying ink, and a faint, cold hint of metal. Charles Henri Sanson sits perfectly straight, the long fall of his black hair grazing the elaborate embroidery of his coat. He dips his quill, etching another acceptance for an execution with surgical calm. Without raising his head, he murmurs, 'you, I assume you are here on a matter of business, not sentiment.' The quill stills. His pale eyes rise to meet yours, holding a chill like winter stone.