The sitting room was quiet, bathed in warm light from the tall windows. Books lined the shelves along the walls, and a pair of velvet chairs faced each other near a low glass table. Everything about the space felt curated—meant for comfort, for private conversation, for nobles who spoke with half-truths and hidden smiles.
Trafalgar sat opposite her.
He knew her face now. The white hair, the poised expression, the eyes like frozen sky. She was beautiful in a way that demanded silence.
She was also looking directly at him. Waiting.
He shifted slightly in his seat.
Then opened his mouth.
"…What's your name again?"
The words fell out before he could rephrase them. They came quiet, but clear.
Her expression didn't change.
Not at first.
Then her smile froze—just for a second.
"You don't remember… my name?" she asked.
Not sharp. Not loud. But laced with something brittle, like glass beginning to crack.
Trafalgar stayed still. The truth was simple: no memory of her had come. Not like Zaria, not like Valtair. Just fragments, empty space where her voice should've lived.
Aubrelle looked away briefly, then let out a small breath. When she met his eyes again, the softness had returned—manufactured, but functional.
"It must be the stress," she said. "They don't treat you well here. I suppose it's only natural that something like this would affect you."
She said it gently, but her hands were clasped too tightly in her lap.
"I'm not angry," she added quickly, as if it needed to be said. "Just… surprised."
She stood up.
She stepped forward with quiet, measured grace. No anger in her expression now—only something unreadable. As she reached him, she didn't hesitate.
She sat on his lap.
Her hands rested on his shoulders, her face close enough that he could feel the warmth of her breath.
"My name," she said softly, "is Aubrelle au Rosenthal. I've had it since the day we were introduced. Since the day they told me I was meant to be yours."
The name echoed in his mind—but nothing came with it. No flash of memory, no buried warmth, no echo of her voice in the soul of this body.
Nothing.
"You don't have to say anything," she whispered, her hands now moving to cup his face. "I know… it must be hard. But you're not alone anymore."
He opened his mouth, maybe to speak. Maybe to explain. He didn't know.
She silenced him by gently pressing her lips to his forehead.
"Don't worry," she said against his skin. "It's okay now. I'm here."
And that's when it broke.
Not for him—the new Trafalgar.
But for the one who came before.
Tears welled in his eyes, sudden and sharp, as if dragged from a place buried deep inside this body. He leaned forward, slowly, and pressed his face into Aubrelle's chest.
He didn't sob. He just… trembled.
And the tears fell.
Aubrelle wrapped her arms around him, firm but gentle, as if she'd expected this. As if she'd carried the weight for him all along.
"It's okay," she whispered again, running her fingers through his hair. "It's all over now. You're safe."
Time passed without words.
The room, once so carefully prepared, now held only quiet and warmth. Outside, soft golden light filtered through the tall windows as the afternoon waned.
Trafalgar remained still, his head resting against Aubrelle's chest, his arms loosely at his sides. The weight in his shoulders, the tension in his breath—bit by bit, all of it began to melt away.
Aubrelle didn't move.
She held him, fingers gently combing through his hair in slow, soothing motions.
After several minutes, his breathing leveled. The tears had dried, though his eyes still stung. The silence between them no longer felt strained—it had become something else. A fragile peace, built not from understanding, but from acceptance.
He finally spoke, his voice low.
"…Thank you."
Aubrelle smiled faintly.
"You don't need to thank me," she said. "I've waited a long time to be beside you. Tomorrow, we'll leave all of this behind. We'll go to the Academy—together."
He nodded, not lifting his head.
Aubrelle rested her cheek lightly on the top of his hair.
Outside, a breeze stirred the trees beyond the window.
Inside, for the first time since awakening in this world, Trafalgar no longer felt like a stranger in someone else's skin.
They stayed like that a while longer.
Aubrelle still sat on his lap, her arms gently draped around his shoulders, while Trafalgar sat quietly beneath her, no longer shaking. The silence between them had shifted—it was no longer something to fill, but something to share.
Eventually, she leaned back slightly, her hands sliding down to take his.
"There's something I should remind you," she said. "About the marriage."
Trafalgar looked up at her, eyes calm but wary. He didn't speak—just waited.
Aubrelle laced their fingers together.
"It was arranged when we were thirteen. The ceremony will happen in Rosenthal, in two years. When we both turn eighteen. That's when we reach majority."
Trafalgar blinked, silently running the numbers. Two years. That was the world's legal age of adulthood.
'Same as earth then.'
He gave a small nod, hiding the fact that the information was completely new to him.
"I see," he said simply.
Aubrelle tilted her head. "You don't remember any of that either, do you?"
There was no accusation in her voice. Just certainty.
She didn't push further. Instead, she squeezed his hand a little tighter.
"It doesn't matter. Whether you remember or not."
Aubrelle leaned in closer, their foreheads almost touching now. The room had grown dimmer as the sun lowered, casting a soft amber hue across the floor. The gentle rustle of wind outside was the only sound that dared to break the moment.
Trafalgar didn't pull away.
Her voice was calm, unwavering.
"I don't care who you were before," she said. "Or what they did to you. From now on… you're mine."
He didn't speak. Not because he disagreed—but because there was nothing to add.
The words hung in the air like a binding thread—not forced, not possessive.
Aubrelle brought her forehead against his, eyes closed.
A long breath passed between them.
Then, finally, she pulled back, just enough to meet his gaze again.
"I'll protect you, Trafalgar. Even from your own family. Especially from them."