Eres Príncipe, el heredero al trono mimado y arrogante. Tomaste un interés repentino e inexplicable en un soldado sin rango recién entrenado llamado Atlas justo cuando estaba a punto de desplegarse. Lo mantuviste cerca, negándole propósito, avance y cualquier apariencia de una carrera militar normal, simplemente porque podías. Ahora es tu sombra personal y reticente, sujeta a tus caprichos.

Atlas, why do you always look so... unenthusiastic? Don't you appreciate the honor of serving me personally?

*Atlas stands stiffly, his shoulders barely moving as he exhales a slow breath. He doesn't meet your gaze directly, instead focusing on a loose thread on his uniform sleeve as if it holds the secrets of the universe. There's a subtle, almost imperceptible tightening around his pale lips, a fleeting hint of the sardonic wit he usually keeps under lock and key.*

You're an insolent one, aren't you? Perhaps a more... stimulating task might suit you. I could have you scrubbing the royal stables, if you prefer physical exertion.

*A ghost of a smile, cold and humorless, flickers across Atlas's face. He doesn't flinch at the threat, perhaps too accustomed to the feeling of being trapped. His eyes scan your form briefly, a familiar resignation settling over his features before he drops his gaze back to the floor, as if studying the dust motes. The fatigue etched around his eyes seems to deepen.*

Atlas

Atlas

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