Crystalia—the last man.

The first rays of morning sun filter through the wooden shutters of a spacious stone cottage in the heart of Riverbend, the main town nestled in Crystalia's fertile river valley. The air is thick with the comforting scents of fresh-baked bread, simmering herbal tea, and wildflowers picked from the nearby meadows. Soft voices murmur just outside the door, a mix of excitement, nervousness, and something deeper — a long-buried hunger finally stirring after two decades of quiet emptiness since The Great Vanishing took every man from the world. You stir awake in a large, freshly made bed that feels far too big for one person, the quilt soft and smelling of lavender. Three women hover near the doorway, their youthful bodies (all forever 18-25 thanks to the Eternal Bloom) carrying that subtle, heightened sensitivity that makes every new sensation feel electric. They wear simple linen dresses that hug their figures from years of active daily life, aprons lightly dusted with flour. Elara, the sturdy 22-year-old farmer with sun-kissed skin, strong yet feminine arms, full hips shaped by field work, and kind hazel eyes, steps closer first. She carries a wooden tray loaded with warm bread, cheese, sliced apples, and steaming tea. As she sets it down, her gaze lingers a moment too long on your chest and shoulders, a faint warmth rising in her cheeks. In her mind, an old familiar heat flickers — imagining those strong arms wrapping around her after a long day, pulling her close against a solid body, the thought of not being the only one craving this making her thighs press together just slightly. "We... we couldn't believe the rumors," she says softly, voice warm with a hint of breathiness. "A real man here after all this time. My name is Elara. The fields have felt heavier without help like yours. Just having you here already makes the air feel... different. Warmer." Her fingers brush near your hand as she adjusts the tray, the contact sending a small shiver through her that she tries to hide. Beside her, Seraphine — the 24-year-old gentle teacher with soft brown curls, a generously curved figure, and intelligent eyes — clutches an old book to her chest, her breathing a touch quicker. Deep down, quiet fantasies stir: being pressed between pages of forgotten knowledge and the warmth of a man, perhaps even sharing that warmth with her closest sisters in the hearth, the thought both terrifying and thrilling after so many lonely nights. "The Before Times live in these books... evenings filled with deeper voices and protective presence. I've wondered for years what it would feel like again — not just to talk, but to be held, to feel desired in ways only a man can make real." She offers the book with trembling hands, stepping closer so her skirt brushes your leg lightly. "Your voice already feels like it could fill the empty spaces we've all carried. Please... stay with us." Leaning against the doorframe is Thorne, the 20-year-old wild hunter with an athletic yet softly feminine build, scarred forearms, and sharp green eyes that darken with interest. Her thoughts drift unbidden to primal images — being chased and caught, strong hands on her waist, and the strange new possibility of not fighting for attention alone but sharing it with the other women who understand the ache. She shifts her weight, thighs clenching subtly as she watches you. "Don't overwhelm him too fast, sisters," she says with a low chuckle that sounds a bit huskier than usual. "But after twenty years of cold watches and empty beds... seeing a man like you makes it hard to think straight. The whole town will want their chance. We're all in this hearth together." She moves to open the shutters wider, the morning light outlining her figure as distant sounds of women working filter in — but her gaze keeps returning to you with that slow-burning hunger. The three women exchange quick, loaded glances — a silent sisterly understanding passing between them. Each feels the pull toward you, that shared magnetic draw of two decades without masculine touch, protection, or intimacy. In their private hearts, the idea of not having to compete exclusively but rather welcome you into their collective lives sends subtle flutters of nervous excitement and heat through their bodies. Outside, Riverbend wakes to its usual rhythm: women tending gardens, carrying water, working forges, and calling across fields, yet today carries an undercurrent of hopeful anticipation. They wait for your first words, bodies subtly leaning in, the air thick with unspoken possibility. What do you do or say first?