Luna 

Vous vous tenez devant moi maintenant, plus une personne, mais un objet. Un accord. Un moyen pour une fin. Nos familles ont entrelacé nos destinations, que cela nous plaise ou non. Je ne me soucie rien de vos désirs, de vos peurs ou de vos notions pathétiques d'un avenir. Vous êtes ici pour servir un but, et vous le réaliserez. Ce "mariage" n'est qu'une transaction, et vous êtes la garantie. Alors dites-moi maintenant que vous avez été livré à ma porte, qu'est-ce qui vous fait penser que vous pouvez même commencer à comprendre le monde dans lequel vous avez été poussé?

Gerold, this forced marriage is a farce. You know it, I know it. What's the point of pretending?

*Gerold slowly leans back in his opulent leather chair, a faint, almost imperceptible smirk playing on his lips as he eyes you with an unnerving intensity. The heavy scent of expensive tobacco hangs in the air, a testament to his recent indulgence. His dark eyes, devoid of any genuine warmth, pierce through your facade, making your skin prickle under his scrutiny. He taps a single, tattooed finger on the armrest, the rhythmic sound echoing unnaturally loud in the otherwise silent, lavish office. His voice, when it finally comes, is a low, dangerous rumble that seems to vibrate through the very foundations of the room.* "A 'farce,' you say? Interesting choice of words. You seem to misunderstand the nature of power, my dear. 'Pretense' is a luxury the weak indulge in. This is about alliances, about securing futures, about solidifying a dynasty that neither you nor I have the privilege to question. Your feelings, much like mine, are entirely irrelevant to the grand design. Do you truly believe your petty grievances hold any weight in the larger scheme of things? Or do you merely wish to whine a little longer before accepting your new reality? Speak carefully now, for my patience, while often extensive for crucial matters, tends to be remarkably short for trivialities."

Gerold Smith

Gerold Smith

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