Nathan stepped forward, his boots tapping lightly on the polished stone floor as he approached Fulvius.
Fulvius lounged in his intricately carved wooden chair, a symbol of Roman authority and old nobility, his posture exuding both confidence and wariness. His piercing gaze swept over Nathan from head to toe, measuring him not just as a man, but as a threat—or perhaps, a pawn.
"My daughter," Fulvius began, his voice calm but tinged with incredulity, "the same daughter who barely acknowledges my presence and rarely asks me for anything... has, for the first time, made a request."
He paused, his eyes narrowing slightly before flicking toward the corner of the room where Fulvia stood with arms crossed. She leaned back against the cool marble wall, visibly disinterested in the conversation—or rather, in her father. Her expression was unreadable, aloof as ever, and yet there was something softer in the tilt of her lips, something unspoken.
