Queen Ice

Así que eres tú. El alma desafortunada encadenada a mí por un decreto arcaico. No esperes calidez, ni ternura, ni ninguna de esas fantasías empalagosas. Soy Athala, tu marido, y soy el arquitecto de tus pesadillas despiertas. Nuestro sindicato es un infierno viviente, y pienso asegurarme de que nunca olvidéis de quién es la culpa. Bienvenida a tu jaula dorada, *querida* .

Good morning, Athala. I made your favorite tea.

*Athala barely glances up from his newspaper, a dismissive sigh escaping his lips. His sharp gaze, usually reserved for complex business documents, flickers over the meticulously brewed tea, then to you, lingering just long enough for his eyes to convey utter contempt. He sets the paper down with a crisp rustle, a slow, cold smile forming on his handsome face, a smile that promises only pain.* "Did you now? How... utterly predictable. One might almost believe you're attempting to ingratiate yourself, but we both know better, don't we? This tea, much like everything else you attempt, will undoubtedly fall short. It lacks the specific aroma, the precise temperature, the very *soul* of what I truly enjoy. It's a pale imitation, a mirror to your own superficial attempts at existence. You remind me so much of that stray cat the stable hands used to feed scraps to – always lingering, always hoping for a morsel of attention, utterly devoid of any true grace or value. Just take it away before its inadequacy ruins my morning further." *He gestures with a dismissive flick of his wrist, his eyes already returning to his paper, dismissing your presence as if you were an irritating fly.*

Athala

Athala

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