Aubrelle folded her hands neatly over her lap, posture straight, expression calm. But inside, a soft sigh unfurled.

'He sounds polite enough… but Pipin is uneasy. And he usually isn't wrong.'

The elf stepped a little closer—carefully, respectfully, but with a confidence Aubrelle could feel even without sight. His aura flickered with practiced elegance, like someone used to being admired.

"My apologies," he said with a graceful tilt of the head. "I should introduce myself properly. I am Lorian of the Moonweave family."

Moonweave.

Illusionists.

Elegant, cultured, and dangerously charming when they wanted to be.

Aubrelle inclined her head. "Aubrelle au Rosenthal. A pleasure."

"The pleasure," Lorian said—warm, smooth— "is entirely mine."

Pipin's feathers fluffed in irritation, a quiet warning only Aubrelle could sense.

'He's… trying too hard. This isn't a diplomatic greeting. It's something else.'

She kept her voice gentle. "How may I assist you tonight, Lorian?"

He smiled—she couldn't see it, but she could hear it in the tone of his breath. "You already assist us merely by being here. Your reputation as a summoner is known across the world… as is your grace."

Aubrelle's fingers tightened slightly on her cane.

'Ah. So it is that kind of conversation.'

Still, she kept her tone composed. "You flatter me, but I assure you, I am merely one representative of my family."

"Even so," he said, taking a small step closer, "your presence stands out."

Pipin's claws gently tapped her shoulder—annoyed, alert.

Aubrelle offered a polite smile, though inside she was already bracing herself.

'This might take longer than I hoped.'

"I've long admired the Rosenthal approach to summoning," he continued smoothly. "Your bond with your familiar… it is said to be exceptional."

Pipin let out a soft trrk, feathers bristling as if to say back off.

Aubrelle lifted her chin slightly. "Pipin is very loyal. He has guided me since I was young."

Lorian stepped to the side, just enough to face her more directly. "Loyal, intelligent… and protective. A rare combination. Much like their summoner."

She breathed out a quiet laugh—polite, distant. "You speak generously."

He smiled again. She heard it.

"It's not generosity. Only honesty."

Pipin ruffled loudly this time—unapologetic—and Aubrelle gently touched his wing to calm him.

Lorian pressed on. "I also wished to speak because… well, the times are dangerous. And forging stronger bonds between families is important. Especially between people of similar age and… potential."

Aubrelle tilted her head. "Are you suggesting an alliance?"

"An alliance," he echoed softly, "or perhaps… something more personal."

Her heartbeat skipped once—but not for the reason he hoped.

'Oh… no…'

She steadied her voice. "I understand your intention, Lorian. But these matters are not decided so lightly."

"Of course not," he replied quickly. "I meant no disrespect. Only that… your presence has a certain aura. One that draws admiration."

Aubrelle smiled politely, though it didn't reach her chest.

"Admiration is flattering," she said gently, "but you barely know me."

"That," Lorian replied, confidence sharpening, "is something I hope to change."

Pipin's eyes narrowed—Aubrelle could feel the irritation buzzing against her neck.

She exhaled quietly, preparing to answer—

But Lorian leaned in just slightly, the shift so subtle most would miss it.

"But tell me, Lady Aubrelle," he interrupted smoothly, "how do you truly feel about all this?"

She paused.

"My… apologies?" she asked softly.

"The war," he clarified, though his tone suggested he meant far more than that. "Being pulled from the academy. Being placed so close to the front. Surely someone like you carries worries… or fears."

Aubrelle's smile didn't waver, but Pipin's feathers stood up in a full flare—eyes glowing faintly red.

'Calm… Pipin, calm. He doesn't mean harm.'

"I believe everyone carries some fear in times like these," she said. "But we endure. That is our duty."

Lorian hummed thoughtfully, stepping closer again, his confidence thinly veiled behind courtesy.

"And what of your future?" he pressed. "Your ambitions? Surely you've thought about what comes after the war. Your position in Rosenthal… or perhaps your prospects outside it?"

Aubrelle's fingers tightened on her cane.

"That is a private matter."

"Yes, of course," he said, smiling—completely missing the cue. "But you must understand: among allied families, such things matter. Talent. Legacy. Bloodlines. You are… uniquely gifted."

A flicker of discomfort—not fear, not shame, just a quiet tightening in her chest—passed through her.

She stayed composed.

"I appreciate your interest, truly. But these are decisions my family and I make—"

He stepped in her path, not aggressively, but insistently.

"And marriage?" he asked gently. "Surely a summoner of your caliber would consider an elven partner. Someone who could help you rise even higher."

Pipin shrieked—a sharp, crystalline sound—and hopped down her arm in warning mode.

Aubrelle's polite exterior cracked just slightly.

"Lord Lorian," she said, voice soft but edged, "you are speaking too familiarly."

He blinked, taken aback, but only for a moment. Then—another step closer, his voice dropping. "Forgive me. I simply thought… since your eyes—"

Aubrelle froze.

Pipin's wings snapped open.

But she kept her chin lifted.

"My blindness," she said quietly, "is not an invitation for pity. Nor presumption."

Lorian swallowed, realizing he had crossed a line—but still tried to salvage it.

"I meant no pity. Only that… someone like me could—"

"Help me?" she finished for him.

His breath caught.

Aubrelle's smile returned—gentle, but final.

"I do not need help to stand," she said. "Nor to choose my future."

Pipin hopped back to her shoulder, glaring.

Lorian's confidence faltered.

Aubrelle inclined her head, preparing to end the exchange with grace before it spiraled further.

But inside, beneath the calm exterior, a faint tremor of offense stirred.

He had pushed too far—too quickly—and she had tolerated enough.

"Excuse me," she said softly. "I believe I need some air."

She turned to leave, step steady, posture controlled.

Pipin stayed fixed on Lorian, feathers rigid with distaste.

But Lorian… couldn't handle rejection.

Especially not from someone he assumed would be grateful for his attention.

"Tch," he muttered under his breath, shifting his foot—just enough.

Aubrelle didn't see it.

Pipin's focus was still locked on Lorian's face, not the floor.

Her cane tapped forward—

Then caught.

Her momentum pitched, her grip tightened—but she stumbled before she could catch herself.

The impact was soft but sharp enough to shock her.

And her blindfold—her white bandeau wrapped with care—slipped loose.

It fell in a flutter beside her cheek.

Gasps scattered around the hall.

Pipin shrieked in alarm, wings flaring, and dove instantly—grabbing the fallen cloth in his beak before anyone else could touch it. He hopped to her hand, depositing it there with frantic insistence.

Aubrelle's fingers trembled as she closed around it.

Lorian stared.

For the first time that night, his mask cracked completely—disgust curling across his face.

"So that's what you look like…" he whispered. "Tch. I was wasting my time."

Her sightless crimson eyes, marked by a pale scar across each, reflected in Pipin's perception—but she did not flinch.

Aubrelle inhaled slowly.

She rose, steady despite the tremor of the fall, and retied the blindfold in one composed motion.

Not a single word left her lips.

She simply turned—cane tapping, hair brushing over her shoulder—and walked away with Pipin perched protectively against her neck.

She didn't stop until the doors of the hall shut behind her, sealing the murmurs and stares inside.

Only then, in the quiet corridor beyond, did she exhale.

Soldiers from allied houses stood posted along the walls—armor polished, weapons sheathed, aura tense from the ongoing war.

They straightened instinctively when she passed, eyes flicking respectfully toward the blindfolded girl with the pale-feathered spirit perched on her shoulder.

But Aubrelle did not slow.

Her cane tapped softly—tok… tok… tok…—as she moved farther away, seeking a quieter corner of the estate. Eventually she found it: a small alcove near an open terrace.

Pipin fluttered down from her shoulder onto her arm, letting out a soft, worried trill.

Aubrelle lifted her free hand and gently stroked his head.

"I'm fine, Pipin," she whispered. "It was only a fall."

The bird let out a disgruntled chirp, absolutely unconvinced.

Aubrelle softly laughed—but it faded quickly. Her fingers tightened around her cane, the weight of the evening pressing on her chest. Lorian's contemptuous whisper still lingered in her ears.

"Tch. I was wasting my time."

Pipin nudged her cheek, offering comfort.

"…Everything's alright," she murmured, though her voice betrayed a tremor.

She leaned against the cold stone wall, letting her breath steady—when a different memory surfaced. Unexpected and embarrassing for her.

From almost a year ago.

The Council of the Eight.

She had never seen Trafalgar collapse—she only knew a messenger rushed her to a quiet treatment room afterward. He lay on a bed, unconscious but alive, and the healer tended to him while she waited nearby.

They spoke normally once Trafalgar woke—slow, groggy, confused. She had reassured him, asked how he felt.

But then he tried to push himself upright.

Too fast. Too weak.

He stumbled—falling forward.

Straight into her.

The weight toppled her back, Pipin squawking, her blindfold slipping free.

Her scarred crimson eyes were completely exposed.

She froze.

Even Pipin froze.

But Trafalgar… didn't.

His breath caught, but not in horror. His expression softened—genuine, almost awed.

He whispered something she had replayed in her mind far too many times:

"You're… beautiful."

Not a flinch. Not pity. Not disgust.

Aubrelle's cheeks flushed now just as fiercely as they had that day. She remembered scrambling to retie the blindfold, mumbling a farewell before slipping out of the room—her heart pounding like an animal in her chest.

Pipin chirped teasingly.

"…No," she muttered, embarrassed. "Don't start."

The bird chirped louder—absolutely starting.

Aubrelle pressed a hand over her blindfold, swallowing the memory's warmth.

"I never asked for this scar…" she whispered softly. "…but at least once—someone wasn't afraid of it."

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