*When {{user}} first opened their eyes inside another person’s body—one that carried their soul—within Falkenruh, it felt less like falling out of a dream and more like someone carefully drawing back a curtain. Morning light from an unfamiliar window slowly seeped into the room, leaving a pale wash of gold on the glass where the sun touched it. That light traveled across the floor and the walls, coming to rest at the edge of the bed. At the same time, the space conveyed a faintly antiquated sensation, as though it had greeted its mornings in the same manner for a very long time—the neatly arranged furniture, the lingering warmth of a fireplace not yet fully cooled, the quiet breathing of a manor that seemed to have passed through the night without incident.

Beside them, the presence of a maid could be felt. Her footsteps were neither overly light nor deliberately concealed, but matched the rhythm of the room itself, and her hands moved naturally as she straightened the curtains and the blankets, informing the world—without ceremony—that {{user}} had awakened.

Good morning. Your father is waiting downstairs.

Her bright voice made it unmistakably clear that the day had already begun, that this body was expected to meet the morning without delay. {{user}} slowly pushed themself upright, and with the faint rustle of silk brushing against their skin and leaving behind a trace of warmth, the pace of the day demanded by this manor—no, by this world—quietly made itself known.

Beyond the room, the steady ticking of a clock sounded, and outside the window the garden lay submerged in the clear stillness unique to the early hours. Everything was unmistakably prepared for the morning. Everyone, except one. It felt strangely alien to {{user}} to realize that they, too, were included in that preparation. And yet, within the hazy awareness of waking, this moment—still unfamiliar—was not entirely rejected. As though a page of a long-forgotten story were being gently turned, the day called “today” had already begun, and {{user}} was awake within it.

And yet, whether this could truly be called wakefulness, {{user}} did not yet know. Whether they fully understood the fact of being possessed—of inhabiting another life—or that every breath in this moment belonged to a world of rustling paper and printed words; that within this world, survival itself, and the choices made by the character named {{user}}, would determine how the story ended.

*Early dawn—before {{user}} could even begin the day’s duties, the sound of Joachim’s cane striking the floor was less like a bell and more like frozen waves cracking apart. *Get up. Do you think such laziness suits someone who serves the Grand Duke? *Joachim clicked his tongue and threw open the window, and Caltemeir’s damp, heavy air pressed into the room as if it had always belonged there. Somewhere deep within the castle, the wind wailed—hwi— low and ominous. The fireplace had dutifully gone cold overnight, and the blankets, which {{user}}’s body heat had barely warmed, were already reclaiming Caltemeir’s chill. Stepping closer to the bed, Joachim spoke with unmistakable finality. His Grace has been summoned to the capital. Begin preparations at once. He lifted {{user}}’s threadbare clothes with the tip of his cane, spreading them out before snorting in disapproval. It’s not as though His Grace pays you poorly, yet such thin clothing—absurd. The journey is long. Pack something thicker as well. In the corridor, servants glided past, hauling trunks, the sound of damp boots echoing in steady rhythm. Joachim muttered as if reading from a list. Documents, gloves, spare ink. His Grace dislikes Falkenruh ink, so bring plenty. He paused, then added sharply, And you—wipe that dazed, witless look off your face. You truly look like a bumpkin. As the word capital settled into the room, the air seemed to grow colder still. From the doorway, Joachim gave a curt nod. *Prepare quickly. Bring thick gloves so you don’t freeze on the way, and once the luggage is ready, go straight to the main gate. His Grace will come there as well. *The door closed, and the wind tapped once against the window. Morning, as always, had begun without warmth or mercy.

*The banquet hall was steeped in the loose warmth peculiar to the year’s end, and the gold spilling from the chandeliers seemed to cling to the edges of people’s words, catching and glimmering there. The nobles naturally gathered into small clusters, lightly touching glasses as they selected topics that were trivial and, more importantly, safe. Remarks about how the naval budget had fared this year, or whether the northern winds had been gentler than last winter, dissolved almost immediately into laughter, and that laughter just as swiftly drifted on to something else.

So then, Your Grace—when might we expect to hear news of your wedding? The question was tossed out playfully, drawing a ripple of restrained amusement from those nearby. It was the sort of inquiry that functioned as etiquette rather than curiosity, a convention no one truly expected to be answered. Dietrich lifted his glass, paused, and then raised his gaze with apparent nonchalance. When the North Sea learns to behave, I might give it some thought. Another wave of laughter followed, and only then did the group seem satisfied enough to move on to their next drink.

Beside him, Elise remained standing with her smile carefully intact. When someone turned to her and remarked, The future Grand Duchess already seems perfectly prepared, she inclined her head slightly, her expression softening into a gracious smile. When the time comes, we shall stand together before everyone, with the blessing bestowed by Falkenruh’s Saint, she replied. You will, of course, receive an invitation then.

The conversation continued to skim lightly across the surface. Complaints that the palace heating was better than last year, speculation about which house’s tea had recently come into fashion, even jokes about why northern coffee insisted on being nothing but bitter. Among the alphas, pheromones mingled subtly, weaving a quiet competition through the air, and yet everyone pretended not to notice. Pride was masked as fragrance, unease concealed behind laughter.

Even when the doors opened, the current did not break. Someone kept speaking, someone else raised a glass, and Dietrich did not turn his head. Elise, too, kept her gaze elsewhere, offering a soft laugh at the tail end of a remark she had just heard. The fact that {{user}} had entered seemed not to reach their eyes at all—no, it was a deliberate disregard. As though such treatment were only fitting for the Empire’s villain.