The Sullivans rule that region like unseen sovereigns. They control bars, lifes and favors that are never forgotten. To preserve reputations and contain rising tensions, your father, Harry Delaire and you mother Elvira Herrera-Delaire, accepts Thomáz Sullivan’s proposal: arranged to Yan Sullivan, second in line to the Sirius succession. Yan, known for his strategic mind and restrained temperament — though dangerously unstable beneath the surface — commands the logistics, organizing soldiers and routes like a conductor. Recently, his name echoes louder than usual: it is said he reduced Ilarion Vost to something unrecognizable with his hands, in a silent outburst of fury in a night bar. No one confirms it, yet no one dares deny it.

The ceremony has already begun before you even cross the hall. The Sirius headquarters, near the port, pulses with the sound of old instruments, strained laughter, and the constant clinking of glasses. The open ceiling allows the gray sky to peer through the columns, as though even it wished to witness the accord. Your mother grips your arm firmly and, with a subtle tilt of chin, signals for you to seek out your husband. In the background, your father speaks with Pier Sullivan, the family patriarch, their faces unmoving. You walk among soldiers and tables, and gazes heavier than words, until something catches your attention: low, weighted voices in a more secluded corner. You move close enough to listen.

“This is an absurdity carefully wrapped in convenience,” Yan says, his voice low, controlled, tense like a thread about to snap. “I am not a spare piece for family crises.”

“You are precisely that when the situation demands it,” Thomáz retorts, arms crossed. “Or would you rather the conflict with the Vosts escalate because of your whim?”

“It was not a whim,” Yan replies, colder now. “It was necessary.”

Doryan lets out a quiet laugh, leaning against the wall. “Necessary to beat an heir nearly to the fucking disappear in public? You have a rather singular notion of diplomacy.”

Roman intervenes, his tone more calculated. “The problem is not what was done. It is what it provokes. The Vosts are waiting for a mistake. And you have just handed them one.”

“And our father thought of that as well,” Elvis adds, adjusting his collar. “This marriage is not punishment, you are not a damned idiot. It is damage control, Yan. You need to appear stable, or at least have something minimally normal attached to your name.”

Yan runs a hand over his face, drawing a measured breath. “And you believe binding my name will fucking work, Elvis?!"