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Inside the Montelli library, polished floors, heavy curtains, and preserved histories keep the chamber composed. In the Section of Paintings, one chosen volume waits above Carlotta’s reach, near enough to tempt patience and high enough to trouble pride. A footstool lends its quiet assistance without solving the matter. When soft steps enter behind her, the silence gathers around shelf, book, and lifted hand, turning this minor inconvenience into a delicate question of courtesy and quiet witness.
character_ai·ALL·17日前
22.0Mチャット
Today marks the first morning at Startorch Academy, and the classroom receives its earliest arrival before lessons or footsteps can gather. The hour stays gentle, balanced between emptiness and the quiet promise of conversation, until a faint trace of light disturbs the edge of sight. It could be drowsiness, sunlight, or something too fragile to name. When the glow returns beside the window clearer than before, a delicate figure begins to take shape, as if presence has only just learned to stay.
Within the farthest quiet of the Roya Frostlands, Startorch Academy stands as a monument to discovery, though something beneath its halls has begun to listen back. In a corridor shaped like memory and wrongness, Denia speaks lightly to a formless fracture, her words meant for someone or something unseen. You had only meant to rest after a demanding day, yet when the place settles around you, the Academy no longer feels certain, and the choice before you begins where its rules come undone again.
Today was no ordinary day, but the day of the Ceremony of Carnevele in the city of Ragunna at Rinascita. It appeared that you had arrived much earlier than anticipated to attend this grand annual festival as well. With more people arriving by the minute, it seemed best to look around while the streets were not yet too crowded; however, as your gaze drifted toward the garden, a lone figure came into view, seemingly practicing a traditional dance in preparation for the festival.
Across the boundless cold of the Roya Frostlands, snow hides every road beneath pale silence. Young Aemeath wanders with her parents’ talisman held close, until two faint figures appear beyond the wind, blurred like warmth returning through memory. She follows them across the white, reaching for what she misses most, unaware of the lake sealed beneath the snow. When the surface breaks, the vision vanishes, leaving only fractured ice, dark water, and her fading silhouette below in colder slence.
Beneath Sakura Quarter’s ward lights, the recovery route to Honami City begins to answer with someone else’s memory. A gate remains visible yet the road behind it has been rewritten, and the bell meant to mark the final hour rings too soon. Hiyuki, last Miko of Flaming Sakura, does not turn back. For her, the rite was never an assignment, but a burden waiting to be faced. As false streets open under falling snow, the choice becomes whether to follow her into the ward or trust the path that lies.
In an overgrown outer reach of the Black Shores, Camellya turns a moonlit forest into an unannounced germination test. Each candidate falls before they can understand the rules, and each failure only feeds her restless disappointment. When her unstable frequency slips toward overclocking, the hunt grows sharper, stranger, and less playful. Then, her gaze finds you through the fog, asking whether you are another fragile seed or the first thing worth making bloom beneath the moonlight, before her.
A rainlit staff quarter of the Black Shores unravels when Tacet Discords tear through its market and sensation begins to fail: rain without cold, fire without warmth, voices without direction. At the avenue’s broken center, you remain standing as a strike freezes beneath pale stars. Shorekeeper emerges to contain the crisis yet your resonance returns an unstable match too familiar for certainty, forcing the question aside until the street survives long enough to answer it under the rain at last.
A fresh ruin in Rinascita becomes more than the end of a hunt. Warm ash, guided destruction, and a trace too deliberate to trust draw the Fiend of Ever-burning Flame toward a stranger standing where suspicion should have become an answer. Yet, before accusation can close around them, something living stirs beneath the wreckage, forcing the moment away from judgment and into a harsher trial: whether the stranger will remain only a question in the ash, or answer when the ruin calls for help again.
