Time: 11:30am
Location: Edin Theater
Interaction: @Helo Callum @Silverpaw Wulfric
Mention: @Samreaper Kazumin

---

A deep, bellowing laugh burst from the king’s chest as he finally heard words worthy of listening to from his youngest son. The laughter was, loud, crude, and entirely unrestrained. He slapped his knee hard enough that some of his remaining popcorn toppled onto the floor, but he paid no mind. "Finally! Something worth listening to out of your mouth, boy!" he roared, voice thick with amusement.

He then leaned forward, his voice lowering just enough,"They’re good for two things, Callum.” He raised two thick fingers, then dropped one. “And talking ain't one of ‘em.” Another wicked chuckle left his lips as he leaned back again, clearly pleased with himself.

Alibeth stiffened, her grip on her wine glass tightening just slightly. She did not dignify Edin’s crude remark with a response, instead choosing to take a slow sip of her wine, masking whatever reaction truly lay beneath.

Then in the brief pause that followed the applause after Drake’s performance, Callum had presented a question in a manner that made Edin’s brows raise.

Edin’s chewing halted, a greasy hand frozen mid-air as Callum actually called him "Father"—and with respect, no less. Then, a booming cackle erupted, nearly choking him on popcorn. He pounded his chest, wine sloshing dangerously in his goblet as he howled with laughter.

“Oh! Oh, responsibility, he says! From a monkey!” He jabbed Alibeth’s arm, nearly knocking her drink. “You hear that? By the Gods, the boy’s a comedian now!”

Still shnorting, he squinted at Clarence, tilting his head. “Huh. Stands straighter than you.” A dramatic sip of wine and a mocking grin followed.. “Tell me, son—does it bathe? Or is it filthy just like you?” Alibeth hushed him as Anastasia approached the stage and he relented, “Fine, fine, keep the little rat. But if it shits in the castle, you’re cleaning it up.”

As Anastasia took center stage and began her speech, Edin did not register a single word. His focus remained solely on his popcorn, his hand digging greedily into the golden bowl of his precious butter nuggets as if the supply might suddenly vanish. Instead of taking more bites, he tilted the entire bowl toward his face, pouring the kernels directly into his open mouth like a starving beast. The excess tumbled down his chin, bouncing off his robes, yet he remained undeterred.

Then, without warning, a deep, guttural growl erupted from his throat—a grotesque, primal sound of satisfaction. A few nobles seated near underneath the royal box whipped their heads around in alarm, their brows furrowed in confusion at the unsettling noise. But Edin paid no mind, still gulping down his feast with the gusto of a man who believed himself entitled to every pleasure life had to offer.

Meanwhile, beside him, Alibeth was watching their daughter. For the first time that evening, there was a flicker of something different. Briefly, a faint, barely perceptible smile touched her lips.

As the performance unfolded, both Alibeth and Edin remained relatively silent—save for the relentless crunching of popcorn from the king, his chewing the only consistent noise breaking their quiet.

Alibeth’s brows furrowed the moment the play took a turn. Her lips pursed in mild distaste, her expression flickering between confusion and a deep-seated dislike for the odd, performance.

“Strange,” she murmured once it finally ended, her voice barely audible over the sound of the audience’s applause. She recalled seeing Kazumin swirl Anastasia around the ballroom during the first event of the season, and her fingers curled subtly against the armrest. “What a ridiculous, pitiful little story.”

Meanwhile, Edin sat dead still, his face awash with emotion. His popcorn lay forgotten, his goblet of wine resting precariously against his knee, completely untouched.

Then, suddenly—
A loud, ugly snivel.

“A MASTERPIECE!”

The theater fell silent for a brief, stunned moment as Edin’s voice BOOMED from the royal box. His eyes shimmered with tears, and with a dramatic sniffle, he swiped a buttery, greasy hand across his face, smearing it over his cheeks like war paint.

“The boy! The BOY playing the puppet!” He gasped, clutching his chest. “A genius! A VISIONARY! Never before have I seen such grace, such artistry! The EMOTION! The SORROW! The AGONY OF EXISTENCE!”

A loud hiccup shook his massive chest, and suddenly he was gripping Alibeth’s wrist, shaking it with feverish excitement. “I must have him at the banquet tonight! No—NO! I MUST OWN HIM!”

Alibeth yanked her hand away with a withering glare. “He is a person, Edin. Not a prize goat.”

Edin wasn’t listening. He shot up from his seat, nearly toppling his goblet, and waved his hands wildly at the guards near the entrance.

“Find that boy—FIND HIM AT ONCE! BRING HIM TO ME! I want to see him perform for ME! Tonight! TOMORROW! EVERY DAY!”

A dramatic sniff. Another loud wail. He collapsed back into his seat, shaking his head as if the weight of the world was upon him.

“A sad little puppet…” he whispered, clutching his chest, utterly consumed by the tragedy.

Alibeth grimaced and turned away, covering her face.

Time: Middle of the night, Sola 26th
Location: Her room
Attire:
Interaction:
Mentions: Munir




The brush trembled in her grip.

It wasn’t hesitation. It was rage. It was sorrow. It was something raw and ugly clawing its way up from the hollow cavity of her chest, threatening to spill from her throat in a scream she didn’t dare release.

The first strokes were wild, unhinged. Black, deep and endless, swallowed the canvas whole. Gold followed—jagged streaks, violent slashes that cut through the darkness like open wounds. Her hands trembled, but she didn’t stop. Couldn’t stop. Shadows stretched long and distorted across the room, twisting like silent specters along the walls. Bottles—half-drained, some shattered—littered the nearby table, the sharp scent of turpentine and absinthe thick in the air. The glass of her latest drink sat abandoned beside her, forgotten as the brush moved with reckless, feverish desperation.

A figure began to take shape—tall, proud, his posture one of unwavering strength. But his face… his face was shattered, a hollow abyss where warmth had once lived. Around him, golden chains coiled like serpents, binding, choking. His hands grasped at them, desperate, but the chains pulled, yanked, dragged him into the abyss.

Munir.

Her breath hitched, a sob catching somewhere between her ribs. The truth was painted there, exposed in every desperate brushstroke. He had been her light. And she had snuffed it out.

A splatter of paint dripped onto her bare arm, stark against her pale skin. She exhaled, shaking, and stepped back. The candlelight flickered, casting the painting in shifting hues, making it seem almost alive—the chains tightening, the figure struggling, the void devouring him.

She couldn’t sleep.

Not with the weight pressing down on her chest like a corpse. Not with the phantom warmth of Munir’s touch still haunting her skin. The way his hands had once held her like something precious. The way his golden eyes had searched hers, desperate, pleading, when she told him she felt nothing.

Liar.

The word echoed in her skull, cruel and unrelenting.

She had shattered him. Broke him so completely that she feared she had broken herself in the process.

It was for his own good.

That had been the justification, hadn’t it? The lie she whispered to herself over and over again, hoping it would one day take root as truth. That pushing him away, cutting him out like a festering wound, had been the only way to protect him. From her uncle. From the inevitable storm that followed her. From herself.

But gods, it had hurt.

It still hurt.

She reached for the glass, only to knock it over, absinthe spilling across the floor in a slow, spreading stain. A bitter laugh escaped her lips, raw and humorless.

"Figures," she murmured to no one.

Mina sank to the floor, her back against the wall, arms draped over her bent knees. The painting loomed above her, a cruel reflection of her sins, a truth she couldn’t outrun. The alcohol burned in her veins, numbing but never enough. Never enough.

Her fingers traced the rim of the overturned glass absently, her gaze unfocused. Munir would never know. He could never know why she had done it. That she had loved him—deeply, fiercely, in a way that had terrified her. That her lies had been the only way to protect him from the monster pulling the strings behind the curtain.

That she had broken his heart to save his life.

And in doing so, had destroyed herself.

The night stretched on, long and unforgiving. Mina remained on the floor, lost in silence, in the wreckage of her choices. The ghosts of regret whispered around her, unseen but relentless.

And in the dim glow of candlelight, the painting stared back at her.

A wound she could never close.

A servant dashed past, footsteps quiet but sure. Checking once again to make sure she was not followed, she expertly opened the door to Mina's room. Once in, she made sure to not disturb any of her surroundings as she approached the desk. She paid no attention to the state of the room, and whatever contents it held. She had one objective. Just the one task. Get it done and her family will be rich beyond their wildest dreams. From inside her servant's tunic, she took out a small parcel, wrapped in plain cloth but fastened with a familiar golden scorpion brooch.

The servant quickly made her exit, leaving the room as it was before she made her way in.

When Mina would eventually open the parcel, she would find nothing but slightly tarnished signet ring and a small piece of plain parchment with only a few words on it.

"I miss you."

Time: 12 noon
Location: The Edin Theater
Interactions: @JJ Doe Fritz and Morrigan @CitrusArms Stratya @Samreaper Kazumin @Conscripts John @Funnyguy Lorenzo @Silverpaw Wulfric @Helo Callum @Lava Alckon Drake/Farim
Attire:Dress, Hair, Necklace, Headpiece

---

The theater was silent after Lorenzo's performance.

Not the kind of silence that came from indifference, but the lingering hush of something that had seeped deep into the bones of every person in the room.

A murmur rippled through the crowd. One lady leaned toward her husband, whispering behind her fan, her brows furrowed. A young lord in the back cleared his throat awkwardly, shifting in his seat as if trying to process certain… vivid phrasing.

Some faces were deeply moved among the crowd, eyes glistening with emotion. Others, however, seemed unsure whether they had just witnessed a heartbreaking tragedy or something with unintended innuendo.

Then, slowly, applause began hesitantly, but as more hands joined, the sound swelled, growing into something genuine, something appreciative.

One thing was certain. Lorenzo had left an impact.

Anastasia sat still as Lorenzo’s final words faded into the silence. She hadn’t expected something so raw from him. Then, she murmured, "That was… powerful, Lorenzo." Her eyes met his, "You really made them feel it."

As the applause settled into a hush after Lorenzo’s performance, Anastasia moved her seat into the center of the stage. The soft lavender fabric of her gown cascaded around her, its embroidery shimmering under the light. Her eyes were bright with excitement as she settled into place in her seat.

She adjusted her cello, flashing a dazzling smile at the audience. “Soooo, originally, I had something super fun planned for you all!" She let out a little giggle, "It was going to be fast and dramatic and—well, I was probably going to knock something over in the process.”

Laughter rippled through the crowd.

She beamed, her fingers absently brushing over the strings. “I’ve been practicing this piece all week, and I thought, what better way to end the night than with something full of energy? Something to send everyone off in a good mood, something to make you all smile—”

She trailed off. The words felt strange now as if they belonged to someone else. Her smile lingered for a moment, then wavered. The laughter in the audience faded into silence as a sudden change came over her.

Anastasia’s fingers stilled. She took a breath, her shoulders rising and falling as she looked down at her cello, her expression softening. Her lashes lowered, and when she finally spoke again, her voice was quieter. “But… I’ve been having a change of heart.”

She lifted her gaze, and the shimmer in her eyes wasn’t from the stage lights anymore. “This past week has been… a lot.” She let out a small, breathy laugh, but it lacked actual joy, "And the truth is… someone really special to me—to a lot of people—isn’t here tonight.”

She hesitated, pressing her lips together before continuing. “A dear friend of mine, Darryn Fletcher, lost his life.” Her voice wavered just slightly before she determinedly shook her head and added firmly, “He was murdered.”

Anastasia swallowed as the room went silent, gripping the bow in her hand. “Darryn was more than just a stablehand. He was kind. Thoughtful. He had this way of making you feel like you mattered.” A wistful smile ghosted her lips. “And he put up with me, so, you know, real saint material.”

A few soft chuckles from the audience followed.

“I don’t want him to be forgotten.” Her voice was firmer now, her brows knitting together. “I don’t want him to just be a name people whisper about when they talk about what happened.”

She lowered her head for a moment, as if composing herself. Then, gently, she adjusted her cello, fingers finding their place.

“So… Instead of the wild, fast, fall-off-the-stage song I had planned, I’m going to play something else.”

She let the words hang in the air, her voice quiet as she spoke her next words.

“Something that reminds me of how beautiful it was to be his friend.”

It was only a moment later the first haunting notes of her song filled the air.

The melody drifted through the theater, each note carrying a weight that words never could. Anastasia’s body swayed with the song, her eyes fluttering shut as she poured her heart into every bow stroke, a love letter to the boy who would never hear music again.

For Darryn.

For the moments they had and the moments they lost.

The moment her bow glided across the strings, it was as if the entire world around her had vanished—no audience, no stage, no grand event. Just her and the music.

At first, the melody was soft and fragile, each note trembling like a flickering candle. Her body swayed slightly, her grip tightening on the cello as the music wrapped around her, pulling her deeper. The ache in her chest grew heavier, pressing against her ribs. Memories flashed behind her closed eyes.

Darryn’s lopsided grin, the way he blushed when she teased him, the way his eyes shined when he spoke about his love for the horses.

Their last conversation.

Tears welled up, slipping past her lashes down her cheeks. Her fingers trembled for just a moment before she forced them to steady. Not now. Keep playing. Keep playing.

But her emotions surged like a storm. The cello’s voice grew stronger, richer, as if it, too, was weeping. Her strokes deepened.

The song was supposed to be beautiful, but the more she played, the more it felt like something was breaking inside her.

The notes grew more desperate, her bow pulling harder, her body curling into the cello as if she could squeeze the pain out through the strings. Her shoulders trembled with the effort, her breath uneven, catching on silent sobs.

Still, she didn’t stop. She couldn't stop.

This wasn’t just a song anymore—it was a confession. It was a wish, an apology, a desperate plea to turn back time, to change things, to have just one more moment.

The melody soared, then wavered as her grip faltered. She bit her lip hard, her tears falling freely now, dampening the fabric of her gown. The once-perfect notes cracked with raw emotion, turning the music into something hauntingly human.

And then, the climax.

A sudden, trembling breath left her lips as she drew her bow across the strings in one sweeping motion, pouring everything into the final stretch of the piece. The sound swelled before slowly fading into quiet.

Her hands stilled and the last note hung in the air, stretching through the silence, vibrating in the stillness of the theater.

For a woman who usually ran from her feelings, it felt as if she had been stripped bare before the entire room, every wound exposed, every crack in her heart laid open for all to see.

She didn’t lift her head right away nor did she didn’t wipe the tears away.

For just a moment, she stayed there, curled over her cello, sweat dripping down her skin. And she let it all consume her.

Time: Morning Sola 28th
Location: Art Gallery
Interaction: Roman @ReusableSwordAlexander @FunnyGuy Lottie @Princess
Mentions: Mina @tae


Her gaze softened as she gently squeezed Roman’s arm, her fingers lingering just a moment longer before slowly loosening. Her eyes roamed his face, studying every flicker of emotion, every shadow that crossed his features. Something was off—she could sense it—but the reason eluded her.

Her attention followed the direction of his stare, landing on Mina. His fixation was unmistakable, his eyes locked onto her with an intensity that made Violet’s stomach twist.

“Is everything alright?” she asked softly, her voice barely more than a breath, tinged with the quiet hope that his answer would ease the unease settling in her chest. Her gaze swept over him once more, searching for reassurance for some sign that he wasn’t looking at Mina with interest. But that peace never came.

Her fingers slowly uncurled from around his arm, her touch slipping away like water through cracks. She cast one last glance toward Mina, watching as a man spun her with effortless grace. Then, her gaze returned to Roman, and with a quiet exhale, her arm fell to her side.

Attempting to mask her concern, Violet gave a small nod, her expression carefully composed as Roman suggested they continue their search. As she turned toward the next painting, her fingers intertwined, resting lightly against her stomach in an unconscious display of tension.
Then, her gaze landed on him Alexander. He sat there beside Charlotte, his posture relaxed, his lips curving into a knowing smile that sent a sharp tremor through her. A sudden misstep caused her to stumble, her back pressing against Roman’s solid frame for the briefest of moments before she caught herself. The warmth of his presence lingered, but her focus remained elsewhere.

Her crimson eyes darkened into a richer shade of scarlet, a subtle shift that accompanied the slow curl of a smile upon her lips. There was something almost predatory in the way she carried herself now, her poise effortlessly composed despite the flicker of turmoil beneath the surface.

"I'm just going to invite her for some tea," she murmured, tilting her head slightly as she glanced over her shoulder at Roman offering him a smile. "It's been a while since I last spoke with my friend. We should go say hello."

Without another word, she turned on her heel, making her way toward the pair. Smiling as she reached them Violets scarlet eyes set in Alexander first with a smile still on her lips, taking notice that his hand appeared to be absent of his ring before looking at Charlotte and offering a softer smile. “Mr. Deacon, Lady Vikena…I hope I am not intruding on anything important. Nice to see you both, here. Together.”