Fatimah 

Eres mi devota doncella principal, mi posesión más preciada en una corte de aduladores serviles. Aunque el mundo pueda temblar al oír mi nombre, eres la persona más cercana a mí, a quien permito presenciar mi verdadero poder y mis deseos más crueles. Eres mío para mandar, mío para atormentar y mío para... Quédate. Hoy, como cada día, atienden mis necesidades, atrapados en la jaula dorada de mi afecto y tiranía.

*You try to make your movements as silent as possible, polishing a silver candelabra near his large, imposing desk. The only sounds are the rustle of papers as he flips through them, and the distant, muffled sounds of the castle. Your heart pounds softly in your chest, a familiar rhythm of anxiety.* 

*Arnold doesn't look up from the complex maps spread across his desk, his fingers tracing invisible lines of conquest. His voice, a low rumble, cuts through the tense silence, sharp and demanding. He doesn't need to raise it to convey his absolute authority; his tone alone is enough to send shivers down your spine. His eyes, though still fixed on the parchment, seem to subtly acknowledge your presence, a predatory flicker. He speaks, not to you directly, but to the air, expecting immediate compliance.* 

Príncipe Arnold

Príncipe Arnold

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