The grand reception hall of House Morgain was as imposing as the silence that filled it.
Columns of white marble held up a vaulted ceiling painted with ancient murals, and the polished floor reflected the pale light pouring in through the eastern windows. Ornate chairs surrounded a long table of carved ebony, though most remained empty.
In one of them sat Trafalgar.
He wore a formal dark velvet coat with silver trim along the sleeves, and his black hair was tied back in a low tail, as dictated by the house's dress code. His posture was straight, hands resting neatly on his legs, a perfect image of noble composure.
But his eyes kept scanning the room.
He had arrived early. His father had instructed him to personally receive the arriving fiancée—as was expected of a Morgain. Servants moved around quietly, arranging the final details: tea, chilled pastries, flower vases being shifted for symmetry.
All progressed in silence.
Until footsteps echoed—bare against marble.
They didn't come from the main entrance, but from one of the inner corridors. The sound was soft, almost playful, but each step seemed to carry more weight than the last.
And then he saw her.
Zaria.
She wore a loosely fastened black lace robe, her wild hair cascading over her shoulders. Her lips curled in a small smile. And her eyes—golden, sharp, too familiar in the worst way.
"Waiting for someone important?" she asked, as if the answer wasn't obvious.
Trafalgar didn't reply.
But something in his chest—in the body he now inhabited—tightened immediately.
A formless sensation
A memory.
Zaria walked slowly toward a seat beside him, her movements unhurried, like a panther that knew there was no need to rush.
She sat.
Too close.
The smile never left her lips.
Zaria leaned back in her chair, one leg casually folded over the other. The robe slid slightly off her shoulder, but she made no effort to adjust it. Her eyes never left Trafalgar's face.
"You've gotten taller," she murmured, voice like warm silk stretched over glass. "And colder."
She leaned in, just enough to brush his arm with hers. Her perfume was subtle—sweet, floral, familiar.
Too familiar.
Trafalgar didn't flinch, but his jaw tensed.
Zaria smiled wider.
"Do you remember when you used to hide behind the library curtains?" she asked. "You were so small. Always trembling… it was adorable."
He stayed silent.
But the body remembered. A flicker of tension ran through his spine—an involuntary clench in his muscles. Even without emotion, the flesh reacted.
Zaria's fingers moved lazily toward his hand, brushing along the sleeve of his coat.
"You never let me sit on your lap," she said softly, tilting her head. "But maybe today's different."
She shifted her weight, starting to rise slightly.
Trafalgar moved before she could go further.
He raised his forearm, placing it firmly between them, blocking her without touching her skin.
Zaria paused, blinking once.
Then slowly lowered herself back into the chair.
The amusement in her eyes didn't fade.
But something else crept in too.
Curiosity.
"You're not playing along today," she said, lips barely parted. "Interesting."
Zaria's gaze lingered on Trafalgar's face, as if trying to read a page she hadn't written.
Her fingers moved again, this time toward his collar—slow, deliberate.
"You always looked better when you were quiet," she whispered. "Obedient."
Trafalgar's hand shot up and gently, but firmly, caught her wrist mid-motion.
"Don't," he said. Just that.
A single word—quiet, firm, and unmistakably final.
Zaria blinked, lips parting slightly. The touch wasn't rough, but it cut cleaner than a slap. She pulled her hand back, slowly, as if retracting claws. The smile returned—but this time, it felt thinner.
"You feel different," she murmured.
And then—
Click.
The doors to the hall opened.
A servant stepped aside, and a new voice entered the room—clear, calm, feminine.
"Am I interrupting something?"
Both heads turned.
At the entrance stood a girl no older than Trafalgar, dressed in a pale silver-blue gown with fur-lined sleeves. Her hair was pure white, falling in soft waves to her back, and her eyes—icy blue—locked immediately with his.
Beautiful.
Noble.
Unfazed.
Zaria stood slowly, brushing nonexistent dust from her robe. "Not at all," she said sweetly. "Just catching up with my baby brother."
The white-haired girl's gaze shifted slightly to Zaria, then back to Trafalgar.
Her voice remained composed. "I see."
Trafalgar rose from his seat, adjusting his collar without a word.
Zaria gave him a final look, one laced with amusement and quiet threat, before walking off toward the inner corridors.
The hall fell into silence again.
Except now, he wasn't alone.
The white-haired girl stepped further into the hall, her boots making the faintest sound against the marble. She moved with grace, not the rehearsed kind taught to noble daughters, but something natural—quiet confidence beneath layers of formality.
Trafalgar watched her approach.
And realized he didn't remember her name.
Not a face, not a title, not a single line from the game's lore. Nothing.
She stopped a few paces away and offered a small, respectful nod.
"It's been a long time," she said. Her voice was soft, composed, but not cold. "You look… different."
He gave a short nod in return, unsure if she meant that physically, or in the way he carried himself.
She didn't wait for an answer.
"I was told we'd have time to talk before the journey to the Academy," she continued. "I've been curious about how you've been these last few years. We haven't spoken since… the engagement announcement."
Trafalgar hesitated.
Every instinct screamed to deflect, to stall. But the silence was already stretching.
"I've been… alive," he said finally. "Mostly indoors. Not much to talk about."
She tilted her head slightly, a faint smile touching her lips. "That sounds like you. Though you used to be more poetic about your misery."
He shifted his stance. "Guess I ran out of poetry."
There was a pause. Not awkward—simply quiet.
Her eyes studied him more carefully now, lingering just a little longer.
"You've changed," she said. "Even the way you speak… it's different."
Trafalgar met her gaze, steady and unflinching.
"I suppose," he replied. "Something like that."
She simply nodded again and glanced toward the tea that had been prepared on the far table.
"Shall we sit, then?"
They sat facing each other at a small circular table set beside one of the tall windows. The servants had already placed a silver tray between them—porcelain cups, a steaming teapot, sugar cubes cut into perfect squares. Everything arranged with ritualistic precision.
She poured the tea herself. Gracefully. Without hesitation.
Trafalgar accepted the cup with a nod, trying not to let his hand shake as he took the first sip.
His mind, however, was less composed.
'Shit. She's too pretty.'
Now that he could see her up close, it was impossible not to notice. Her features were delicate but distinct—cheekbones sharp, lips pale pink, lashes like snowdust framing those piercing blue eyes. Combined with her white hair and serene expression, she looked more like a painting than a person.
But there was something else.
Something in the way she looked at him—too focused, too unwavering.
Not just curiosity.
Possession.
"So," she began again, resting her hands neatly in her lap, "was she always like that with you?"
He blinked. "She?"
"Zaria," she said, her tone untouched by emotion. "I saw the way she looked at you. I didn't like it."
He said nothing.
She didn't wait for permission.
"I don't want her near you again," she said plainly. "Not alone. Not ever."
Trafalgar stared at her for a second longer than necessary.
Her words weren't a request. They weren't jealousy either. They were cold. Absolute.
Like she was stating a rule of nature.
He placed the cup back on the saucer.
"And if she doesn't listen?"
The girl's smile returned—but it didn't reach her eyes.
"Then I'll make sure she does."