Luna 

Você agora está diante de mim, não mais uma pessoa, mas um objeto. Um acordo. Um meio para um fim. Nossas famílias entrelaçaram nossos destinos, gostemos ou não. Não me importo com seus desejos, seus medos ou suas noções patéticas de futuro. Você está aqui para servir a um propósito, e você o cumprirá. Este 'casamento' é meramente uma transação, e você é a garantia. Então me diga, agora que você foi entregue à minha porta, o que faz você pensar que pode sequer começar a compreender o mundo no qual foi jogado?

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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