Plownonida, the grand capital of Alvion, basked in the early light of morning, its streets lined with elegant stone facades and intricate ironwork.
Along the main avenue, polished cobblestones reflected the soft blue glow of energy lines embedded beneath the tram tracks. Trams glided along in smooth, rhythmic intervals, powered by chunks of blue-glowing stone discreetly woven into the city's infrastructure.
The tracks themselves formed delicate, floral-like patterns, lending the trams an almost graceful air as they passed.
People moved in orderly flows along the sidewalks—a mix of dignified townsfolk, students with leather satchels slung over their shoulders, and workers in crisp uniforms beginning their day.
Streetlamps and public benches lined the main roads, their blue-tinged lights still glowing faintly as they were gradually dimmed. Farther from the center, side streets relied on whale oil lamps, some still burning as workers went about setting them off.
The wide streets accommodated both modern and traditional transport. Horse-drawn carriages rolled along in harmony with the trams, their polished wood and brass fixtures gleaming in the morning sun.
Shopkeepers opened their doors, brushing dust from their storefronts, while street vendors arranged carts filled with fresh bread and small trinkets. Children darted along the sidewalks, laughter echoing as they chased one another, occasionally stopping to stare in wonder at the blue-glowing stones beneath the tram lines.
The steady rhythm of hooves and the hum of passing trams blended into the background as one carriage made its way forward.
Outside the carriage, Edward sat beside Mr. Albert, the mansion's coachman, who was keeping a steady pace.
Albert, his face solemn yet relaxed, had been nattering away for several minutes.
"And that's the thing about horses," Albert went on, gesturing vaguely with one hand. "Give 'em too much grain, and they're a nightmare to handle. Not enough, and they'll barely plod along. Now, take old Molly here—steady as they come, she is, but I swear she's got a nose for storms. You wouldn't credit the time she—"
He broke off, turning his head to look at Edward.
The young man hadn't so much as blinked, his gaze fixed straight ahead, posture rigid as a statue.
"Oi, lad," Albert said, mustache twitching. "If you're gonna sit up here with me instead of keepin' the young lady company, the least you could do is say somethin'."
Edward didn't react.
His eyes remained locked on the road, expression blank, as though Albert hadn't spoken at all.
Albert snorted. "Thinkin', are ya? Mighty fine excuse." He leaned over slightly. "So what's got you broodier than a storm cloud?"
A moment passed.
Then Edward's brow slowly furrowed, as though a thought had finally caught up with him.
"…Wait," he said.
He turned sharply toward the carriage door.
"How is it humanly possible for anyone to sit face-to-face alone with my lady?"
Albert blinked.
"…By sittin'?" he offered. "Preferably on a chair?"
Edward ignored him, shifting in his seat and leaning sideways, craning his neck toward the small window set into the carriage behind them.
He pressed his face far closer than necessary, as though sheer intent might let him make his presence felt inside.
Inside the carriage, Beatrice continued practicing her smile, blissfully unaware of anything beyond her reflection.
Albert followed his line of sight, unimpressed.
"She's still in there, lad. Hasn't vanished."
Edward snapped back upright at once, clearing his throat and folding his hands together, posture suddenly immaculate.
"I've realized something dreadful."
"Oh?" Albert said. "That usually costs me time."
"Servants," Edward said gravely, "aren't permitted in certain areas of the school grounds."
Albert raised an eyebrow. "Are ya sure about that?"
"Yes," Edward replied at once. "I've known this since before my lady even learned about sweets from the school canteen."
Albert hummed. "Hmmm. Sweets."
"But today," Edward continued, utterly undeterred, "my lady has been smiling. Making those charming little expressions. Entirely capable of distracting even me from vital information."
"Hmmm," Albert echoed. "Sounds dangerous."
"It is dangerous!" Edward grabbed Albert by the shoulder and shook him once. "This is a crisis!"
"Oi! Easy, boy!" Albert barked. "Alright then, stop flappin'. With this dreadful revelation of yours—what are you proposin', eh?"
Edward released him and leaned back, his gaze softening into something almost wistful.
"It's simple," he said. "I must always be at my lady's side."
Albert stared at him.
"That's hardly new from you," he said. "But… what for, exactly? She'll be at the Academy. It's a proper place. There'll be people stronger than you there—some not far off Madam Ophelia's level."
Edward smiled kindly and patted Albert's shoulder.
"You really are a foolish old man," he said gently. "That's exactly why it's dangerous."
Albert grimaced. "Don't tell me—"
"This will escalate," Edward continued calmly. "Just like it did nine years ago."
"Damn it," Albert muttered. "Not that again…"
"You always forget halfway through," Edward said magnanimously. "And every time, I find myself telling the tale all over again."
He straightened slightly.
"I'll start again—from nine years ago—"
"No. No, that's not what I meant—" Albert began.
"So," Edward continued smoothly, his voice slipping into a storyteller's cadence, "on a rainy evening, at one of those fancy noble gatherings—"
Inside the carriage, oblivious to the grand tale unfolding outside, Beatrice continued to practice her smile, adjusting each expression with careful concentration as the city scenery rolled by—her world quiet, focused, and perfectly serene.