SL: Correspondence
Vesalius Estate
36th Day of Lammas, Year 1838
Val,
Are you alright? You're eating properly, aren't you? Resting like you should? Please tell me you're taking care of yourself. Yesterday, you looked... off. Not bad—never bad—you always look perfect, but you didn't seem well, and I can't shake the feeling that something's wrong. I̷̶̷ ̷̶̷s̷̶̷m̷̶̷e̷̶̷l̷̶̷l̷̶̷e̷̶̷d̷̶̷ ̷̶̷b̷̶̷l̷̶̷o̷̶̷o̷̶̷d̷̶̷.̷̶̷ If something happened, you would tell me, wouldn't you?
About yesterday—I know I crossed a line with my behaviour. I do. I probably owe you an apology, but I can't give you one because it wouldn't be sincere. I wouldn't take back what I did even if I could. Even if I had to do it all over again, I wouldn't hesitate, Val. Not for a second. I'm not sorry for what I did. Not even a little.
I̶̷̶ ̶̷̶m̶̷̶i̶̷̶s̶̷̶s̶̷̶ ̶̷̶y̶̷̶o̶̷̶u̶̷̶.̶̷̶ ̶̷̶I̶̷̶ ̶̷̶m̶̷̶i̶̷̶s̶̷̶s̶̷̶ ̶̷̶y̶̷̶o̶̷̶u̶̷̶.̶̷̶ ̶̷̶I̶̷̶ ̶̷̶m̶̷̶i̶̷̶s̶̷̶s̶̷̶ ̶̷̶y̶̷̶o̶̷̶u̶̷̶.̶̷̶ ̶̷̶I̶̷̶ ̶̷̶m̶̷̶i̶̷̶s̶̷̶s̶̷̶ ̶̷̶y̶̷̶o̶̷̶u̶̷̶.̶̷̶ ̶̷̶I̶̷̶ ̶̷̶m̶̷̶i̶̷̶s̶̷̶s̶̷̶ ̶̷̶y̶̷̶o̶̷̶u̶̷̶.̶̷̶ ̶̷̶I̶̷̶ ̶̷̶m̶̷̶i̶̷̶s̶̷̶s̶̷̶ ̶̷̶y̶̷̶o̶̷̶u̶̷̶.̶̷̶ ̶̷̶I̶̷̶ ̶̷̶m̶̷̶i̶̷̶s̶̷̶s̶̷̶ ̶̷̶y̶̷̶o̶̷̶u̶̷̶.̶̷̶ ̶̷̶I̶̷̶ ̶̷̶m̶̷̶i̶̷̶s̶̷̶s̶̷̶ ̶̷̶y̶̷̶o̶̷̶u̶̷̶.̶̷̶ ̶̷̶I̶̷̶ ̶̷̶m̶̷̶i̶̷̶s̶̷̶s̶̷̶ ̶̷̶y̶̷̶o̶̷̶u̶̷̶.̶̷̶ ̶̷̶I̶̷̶ ̶̷̶m̶̷̶i̶̷̶s̶̷̶s̶̷̶ ̶̷̶y̶̷̶o̶̷̶u̶̷̶.̶̷̶ ̶̷̶I̶̷̶ ̶̷̶m̶̷̶i̶̷̶s̶̷̶s̶̷̶ ̶̷̶y̶̷̶o̶̷̶u̶̷̶.̶̷̶ ̶̷̶I̶̷̶ ̶̷̶m̶̷̶i̶̷̶s̶̷̶s̶̷̶ ̶̷̶y̶̷̶o̶̷̶u̶̷̶.̶̷̶ ̶̷̶I̶̷̶ ̶̷̶m̶̷̶i̶̷̶s̶̷̶s̶̷̶ ̶̷̶y̶̷̶o̶̷̶u̶̷̶.̶̷̶ ̶̷̶I̶̷̶ ̶̷̶m̶̷̶i̶̷̶s̶̷̶s̶̷̶ ̶̷̶y̶̷̶o̶̷̶u̶̷̶.̶̷̶ ̶̷̶I̶̷̶ ̶̷̶m̶̷̶i̶̷̶s̶̷̶s̶̷̶ ̶̷̶y̶̷̶o̶̷̶u̶̷̶.̶̷̶ ̶̷̶I̶̷̶ ̶̷̶m̶̷̶i̶̷̶s̶̷̶s̶̷̶ ̶̷̶y̶̷̶o̶̷̶u̶̷̶.̶̷̶ ̶̷̶I̶̷̶ ̶̷̶m̶̷̶i̶̷̶s̶̷̶s̶̷̶ ̶̷̶y̶̷̶o̶̷̶u̶̷̶.̶̷̶
I miss you, Val. Truly, desperately, maddeningly—I miss you.
It's the little things that make me miss you the most. The way your voice softens when you're amused. That slight tilt of your head when you're lost in thought.
Those awful lessons with Governess Sachar are over now, but I'd endure every single one of them again if it meant seeing you every day. Sitting there next to you, pretending to take notes while trying not to fall asleep, having you there to nudge me awake when I inevitably do, break times spent together under the sun—it feels like lifetimes ago.
Nothing feels right here, Val. My grandparents keep insisting that the Vesalius Estate is my "home" now, but it's not. It never could be.
How could it, when my home has always been with you?
I know, I sound dramatic—melodramatic even. You'd probably even laugh at me if I ever said any of this out loud. But it's the truth.
Next week can't come soon enough.
Counting the days,
Yours always,
Laurel
P.S. Since I seem so serious with my intentions, my grandparents insisted I "do things properly," so I'm sending you something. Don't feel pressured to like it—but, for the sake of my fragile ego, at least pretend you do, alright?________________________________________________________________________________________
Valeryon tilted her head as she examined the peculiar item that had accompanied Laurel's letter.
It was a dragon—a plush one—nearly as large as she was. Sprawled across her bed for lack of a better place, it shimmered faintly in the lamplight. Its golden body shimmering faintly. Its amethyst eyes, almost lifelike, had an eerie depth to them. Its velvet scales were stitched with such expertise that it gave the illusion of real dragon hide, while the wings on its back appeared like stained glass, shifting colours as they caught the light.
Her brow furrowed. What was she supposed to do with this?
It was exquisite, yes, but quite a baffling item to receive.
She had no particular affinity for dragons.
Majestic and powerful as they were, they held no significance for her. If it had to be any creature, perhaps a phoenix might have made more sense for her to receive given her heritage.
She sighed, arms crossed as she stood over the plush.
Valeryon could not recall having said or done anything over the years they had known each other to had possibly given Laurel the impression that stuffed creatures were something she cared for. Because if she had, wouldn't he have gifted her one much earlier in their lives, when such a thing was at least more age appropriate?
Such things were for children, were they not?
Still, she could not deny that the craftsmanship was extraordinary.
Tentatively, she reached out and let her fingers graze the scales. The fabric was softer than she expected, its texture pleasant beneath her touch. Her fingers lingered longer than she intended, tracing the finely embroidered scales, the intricate details of the wings.
Then her gaze lingered on the amethyst eyes for a moment longer, then she sighed.
Despite herself, a corner of her mouth twitched—not quite a smile, but close.
"Ridiculous," she muttered, shaking her head and stepping back.
Later that evening, as the soft glow of the lamps filled the room, Valeryon sat at her desk, deep in thought. Her fingers hovered over a small selection of fabrics before selecting a deep, iridescent red cloth—the same shade as the garland of roses Laurel had braided into his hair the day prior.
Threading her needle with iridescent gold thread, she began to work. Hour after hour passed, marked only by the rhythmic motion of the needle. Roses emerged on the fabric, their petals curling delicately, vines twisting and curling in natural patterns. The hours slipped by unnoticed, her small desk lamp the only light in the room.
When the embroidery was done, she turned to the next phase. Measuring and cutting the fabric, she stitched her pieces together, her motions careful and deliberate. By the time the first light of dawn crept over the horizon, her fingers ached to the point of throbbing, but her work was complete.
The gloves were supple yet sturdy, their surfaces adorned with blooming gold roses. The scarf was light but warm, its rich red fabric gleaming with the same golden designs.
Valeryon inspected the set critically, turning each piece over in her hands to ensure every stitch was flawless. Satisfied, she carefully packed the gloves and scarf into a box she had prepared earlier, ready to send them along with her response to Laurel.
________________________________________________________________________________________
Vesperia Castle
37th Day of Lammas, Year 1838
Dear Laurel,
Thank you for your letter. Allow me to reassure you—I am well. As I have promised before, should anything of true consequence happen to me, you would be the first to know. That said, I will admit that I felt somewhat unwell yesterday. It was a fleeting discomfort, nothing worth troubling over, and certainly nothing concern you with, although I appreciate your consideration of my wellbeing nonetheless.
About yesterday—while your actions did result in a minor inconvenience, I understand they were motivated by what you believed to be right. I have made countless decisions that inconvenienced you before, and you have always shown me grace in those moments. It is only fair that I extend the courtesy same to you now.
Your gift was an unexpected. I was not sure how to respond at first, but know that it is appreciated deeply. Thank you.
In return, I have sent something your way. It is not much, but I home that it will provide some additional comfort during your temporary stay at the Vesalius Estate.
Take care,
Valeryon
________________________________________________________________________________________
Vesalius Manor
37th Day of Lammas, Year 1838
Val,
"Mildly under the weather," you say? I can't say I'm convinced. Please, for once, take it easy. Get more rest, drink plenty of water, and try to eat a bit more, alright? y̷̶̷o̷̶̷u̷̶̷ ̷̶̷l̷̶̷o̷̶̷o̷̶̷k̷̶̷e̷̶̷d̷̶̷ ̷̶̷l̷̶̷i̷̶̷k̷̶̷e̷̶̷ ̷̶̷y̷̶̷o̷̶̷u̷̶̷'̷̶̷d̷̶̷ ̷̶̷l̷̶̷o̷̶̷s̷̶̷t̷̶̷ ̷̶̷a̷̶̷ ̷̶̷s̷̶̷c̷̶̷a̷̶̷r̷̶̷y̷̶̷ ̷̶̷a̷̶̷m̷̶̷o̷̶̷u̷̶̷n̷̶̷t̷̶̷ ̷̶̷o̷̶̷f̷̶̷ ̷̶̷w̷̶̷e̷̶̷i̷̶̷g̷̶̷h̷̶̷. Being who you are, I know you probably understand your body better than any Healer ever could and I am sure you have your health under control, but I can't help but worry regardless.
As for your "minor inconvenience"—I have to admit, that made me laugh. I'll take it to mean that you weren't too bothered by my theatrics then? Still, I'll try to tone it down next time. The last thing I want is to upset you too much.
But honestly, how do you always know exactly what I need? It's f̷̶̷u̷̶̷c̷̶̷k̷̶̷i̷̶̷n̷̶̷g̷̶̷ absolutely freezing in here, and no one's bothered to turn on the heating yet. N̷̶̷o̷̶̷ ̷̶̷w̷̶̷o̷̶̷n̷̶̷d̷̶̷e̷̶̷r̷̶̷ ̷̶̷I̷̶̷ ̷̶̷h̷̶̷a̷̶̷v̷̶̷e̷̶̷n̷̶̷'̷̶̷t̷̶̷ ̷̶̷g̷̶̷o̷̶̷t̷̶̷t̷̶̷e̷̶̷n̷̶̷ ̷̶̷a̷̶̷ ̷̶̷d̷̶̷e̷̶̷c̷̶̷e̷̶̷n̷̶̷t̷̶̷ ̷̶̷n̷̶̷i̷̶̷g̷̶̷h̷̶̷t̷̶̷'̷̶̷s̷̶̷ ̷̶̷s̷̶̷l̷̶̷e̷̶̷e̷̶̷p̷̶̷ ̷̶̷i̷̶̷n̷̶̷ ̷̶̷t̷̶̷h̷̶̷e̷̶̷ ̷̶̷l̷̶̷a̷̶̷s̷̶̷t̷̶̷ ̷̶̷f̷̶̷e̷̶̷w̷̶̷ ̷̶̷n̷̶̷i̷̶̷g̷̶̷h̷̶̷t̷̶̷s̷̶̷.̷̶̷ Thanks to you, though, at least I'm warm now.
And yes, it definitely will provide some additional comfort during my absolutely temporary stay here!
Truly Val, thank you. You always seem to know how to make me feel better, e̷̶̷v̷̶̷e̷̶̷n̷̶̷ ̷̶̷w̷̶̷h̷̶̷e̷̶̷n̷̶̷ ̷̶̷I̷̶̷'̷̶̷m̷̶̷ ̷̶̷n̷̶̷o̷̶̷t̷̶̷ ̷̶̷s̷̶̷u̷̶̷r̷̶̷e̷̶̷ ̷̶̷I̷̶̷ ̷̶̷d̷̶̷e̷̶̷s̷̶̷e̷̶̷r̷̶̷v̷̶̷e̷̶̷ ̷̶̷i̷̶̷t̷̶̷.̷̶̷
Always yours,
Laurel
P.S. Remember this?
________________________________________________________________________________________Valeryon cradled a small black music box in her hands, her fingers tracing the familiar golden rose and vine pattern engraved across its lid. Moistening her lips with her tongue, she wound the key with deliberate care, feeling the tension build until the lid clicked open. Inside, a golden rosebud lay nestled.
As the music began to play, the bud the bud stirred to life and gradually began to unfurl, one petal at a time.
A faint smile tugged at Valeryon's lips. It was a tune she knew intimately—a piece she and Laurel had composed as an assignment during their lessons with the Immortal Wisp instructors. It was neither particularly elaborate nor groundbreaking, but it was pleasant to the ear, catchy and most importantly, theirs, and that alone made it meaningful.
Closing her eyes, Valeryon was transported back to the Music Hall, remembered how Laurel made even the most tedious moments enjoyable with his infectious enthusiasm. He would often hum along as they played or randomly begin to belt out absurdly affectionate lyrics to Valeryon, trying to coax a reaction from her.
Valeryon of course did her very best to act indifferent to it and focus on her playing, but considering the pleased look that he always wore afterwards it was obvious that even with having every inch of her obscured, he could tell that she was paying attention to him and that he had succeeded in his goal, despite her best efforts to hide her reactions.
However as much as Laurel seemed to enjoyed playing music, Valeryon had come to learn there was something else he liked much more.
Every single lesson, without fail, there was always a point where he eventually tire of his violin, abandoning it with a grin and extend his hand to her with a question. "Dance with me?" he'd ask, his lavender eyes sparkling.
For Valeryon, dancing had always been a duty. A skill honed through countless gruelling hours of practice for the sake of appearances. It was a rigid art, stripped of joy or spontaneity. She took no pleasure in performing it. Yet, despite her reservations, she always found herself unable to refuse.
Perhaps it had something to do the way Laurel smiled when they danced, wide and unrestrained, his delight radiating with such sincerity it was impossible not to be swept up in it.
When the music swelled to a particular climactic sections, a particular memory surfaced, bringing heat to her cheeks.
Laurel had tried to lift her—something he'd seen at a performance his grandparents had taken him to a few years back. He had attempted it without warning, planning to sweep her gracefully into the air, but instead, he stumbled, barely lifting her off the ground. His face had flushed crimson, his smile gone, and for a moment, Valeryon thought he might withdraw into himself as he sometimes tended to do when he was confronted by the limitations of his youthful form in this world.
However, he did not. Instead, he laughed, the sound rich and unrestrained. Leaning against her shoulder, he shook with mirth, his joy so genuine that Valeryon couldn't help but find amusement in the situation as well.
Then when the laughter subsided and Laurel caught his breath, he guided her hands to wrap around his neck, and proceeded to wrap his arms around her waist in a position that seemed more like an intimate embrace rather than any formal dace form that Valeryon was familiar with. He then led her into a new sequence of steps that Valeryon was only ably to adapt to due to her decades of training in dance.
Valeryon probably should have put a stop to things, requested polite distance to be maintained as was expected of them, but she had not. Perhaps due to being too overwhelmed by the closeness of the moment—the coolness of his touch, the warmth spreading across her cheeks, the odd flutter within her that she couldn't quite name. Regardless, without any protest, she let herself be swept along in the moment, so completely captivated by Laurel's laughter and the ease at which he kept her close.
The silence following the final note brought her back to the present, and she placed to the music box where the bud had completely unfurled, blooming into a golden rose. Valeryon bit her lip, her fingers hovering over the key. Then, after a brief moment of hesitation, she gave into her desire and wound it once more.
________________________________________________________________________________________
39th Day of Lammas, Year 1838
The next letter was accompanied by a framed painting. Laurel's messy scrawl on the back identified the scene: "The view from my bedroom window."
The painting captured a breathtaking landscape: the estate's sprawling grounds lay nestled against rolling hills ablaze with autumn's fiery palette. In the foreground, ornate iron gates stood tall, leading to a labyrinthine hedge maze. The maze was intricately designed, its hedges meticulously trimmed and gilded, forming the shape of a rose. Valeryon's fingers hovered over it, wondering whether such a thing actually existed in reality or if its inclusion was just Laurel taking artistic liberties.
Beyond the maze, the land sloped gently toward a vast, shimmering expanse of water. Having studied its features on countless maps of the Archipelago, Valeryon immediately recognised it as Crystal Lake, Vesperia's largest body of water. However Laurel's painting brought it to life in a way no map ever could. He depicted the lake's surface reflecting the autumnal riot of colours, a swirling kaleidoscope of golds, reds, and oranges, glowing softly under the amber sky.
Dominating the horizon was Vesperia Castle, its silhouette a dark crown atop a distant mountain. It loomed with quiet majesty, a watchful sentinel over the landscape. Yet, amidst the realism of the painting, there was an unexpected touch: a bright red heart, simplistic and non-anatomical, that hovered above the castle.
The sight of it drew a faint quirk to Valeryon's lips.
It was Laurel's signature doodle, a recurring feature on the edges of his classwork that had once baffled Valeryon. So much so that she actually went to the library to decipher what Laurel's sketches were meant to depict. However it wasn't in the books that she had found her answers. Instead it was from Laurel himself, who took the initiative to offer her an explanation after he had noticed her curiosity over his sketches the day after her failed attempt to find answers in the library. Valeryon couldn't prove it, but given how conveniently detailed explanation was, she had a strong suspicion that Laurel knew exactly what she had been up to the previous day.
With how the bright red heart so bluntly contrasted the realistic style of the rest of the painting, it seemed somewhat out of place—but Valeryon could not deny that its inclusion added a peculiar charm to it.
________________________________________________________________________________________
43rd Day of Lammas, Year 1838
Sunlight spilled through the tall windows of Valeryon's chambers, casting warm streaks of gold across the room. In her hands, she held a blade—a deceptively beautiful piece of craftsmanship. The dark steel shimmered faintly with a purple hue, a telltale sign of Draconic Steel—a material Valeryon had become very familiar with due to Laurel's great fondness for it.
The blade was double-edged, tapering to a lethal point. The hilt, carved from polished garnet crystal, shaped into a blooming rose. Attached to the hilt was a fine gold chain secured by a magnetic clasp.
A gentle press on the rose's centre caused the blade to retract seamlessly, transforming it into an innocuous pendant. Valeryon had received it like this, only discovering the weapon hidden inside when she accidentally pressed the pendant during her close inspection of it.
She experimented with the mechanism a few more times before leaving the blade unsheathed.
Moistening her somewhat dry lips, Valeryon ran her thumb lightly along the blade's edge. A sharp sting followed as the steel effortlessly parted flesh. Blood began to well up, but before it could drip, a soft green glow erased the wound, and left her thumb unblemished.
Upon her initial read of it, the letter she had received seemed just like any other ordinary update from Laurel, filled with his usual witty remarks, sharp observations and half-hearted complaints. It was only upon her third read, while tracing her fingers over the densely written lines as she contemplated her response, that Valeryon discovered the minuscule faintly glowing storage rune embedded in the text. Unlike Laurel's usual bold placement of runes at the bottom of the letter for her benefit of finding it easier, this one was meticulously hidden, activating only when her finger brushed its surface and unintentionally sunk into the concealed storage space within.
Valeryon turned the blade over in her hands, her brows furrowing.
Why had Laurel gone to such lengths to hide this?
It was only after everything that happened in Asua that Valeryon had come to the belated realisation that beyond his easy-going nature Laurel could be a very deliberate and calculated individual.
For him to send her a weapon, despite her known for being subject to the "Healer's Oath" presented two possibilities. Either he had deduced the truth: that her Oath was a facade and he was merely trying to communicate that to her by sending her the blade, or he feared a threat so dire that he'd rather she risk breaking her Oath than face the danger unarmed.
Her gaze moved to her wrist, where two glowing runes were etched into her skin. The first was the staff-holstering rune. The second, a recently inscribed storage rune—courtesy of Master Inscriber Arion who had been kind enough to take time out of his busy schedule working with the Knight Squadrons to fulfil Valeryon's request for one.
Her need for one hand been driven by the limitations of the Celestial Interface, which restricted its Inventory spaces to only store items recognised by Mission Central like the briefcase and the harp she had recently acquired.
In the wake of her previous conversation with Elora, which had thoroughly woken Valeryon up from her appalling sense of complacency she had fallen into with regards to her safety and security, Valeryon had begun to actively take precautionary measures. Over the past week, she had taken the time to meticulously stock the storage space with essentials: emergency rations, gold, spare clothes, and other necessities. Now, in a motion that now felt like second nature to her, Valeryon pressed Laurel's gift to her against the rune, and watched it disappeared into the pocket dimension with a faint pulse of light.
Valeryon's fingers curled into fists, blunt nails digging into her palms. She moved to the window, her eyes fixed on the sunlit expanse of the palace gardens. The scene was tranquil, but her thoughts were not. Shadows of doubt curled at the edges of her mind, but she pushed them aside.
If her life was to end, if she was to fail one of the Main Missions, she would not allow for it to be due to negligence.
________________________________________________________________________________________
45th Day of Lammas, Year 1838
Valeryon traced her fingers along the embroidered roses shimmering against the deep red quilt. The gold thread caught the light, each precise stitch reflecting countless hours of dedicated work.A quiet sense of pride stirred within her; she knew Laurel would appreciate the extra quilt during his stay in Forester, where the northern cold of Fiore was sure to be unforgiving.
With a small, satisfied smile, Valeryon folded the quilt neatly and secured it with a silken cord.
Beside her, a letter rested on the desk, imbued with a glowing storage rune. She held the quilt against it. A soft light enveloped the fabric, and in an instant, it disappeared into the rune's dimensional pocket. Picking up the parchment, she folded it carefully and slid it into a cream-coloured envelope. Crimson wax was then dripped onto the flap, and Valeryon pressed her personal mailing signet into it leaving the imprint of a stylised "V" flanked by wings. As the seal hardened, glowing holographic wings unfurled from the envelope.
Letter in hand, she stepped to the open window, enjoying the sensation of the cool night breeze brushed her heated skin. Her silken nightgown fluttered as she held the letter aloft. With a flick of her wrist, she released it, watching intently as the wings flared brilliantly, propelling the envelope into the night sky.
Valeryon lingered at the window, her gaze drawn upward.
The heavens stretched infinitely above her, stars scattered like shards of crystal, their brilliance unmarred by the haze of clouds. The night's colours ranged from deep indigo to vibrant navy, accented by streaks of starlight that painted faint pathways across the cosmos.
Even after thirteen years to appreciate it, she could not get enough of it.
The twenty years she spent at the Trial Grounds, the idea of appreciating the night sky had been a distant dream.
The Courtyard, her sole connection to the outside world, had been strictly functional—a rationed dose of sunlight exposure to maintain her health and wellbeing. Every moment beyond the confines of her bedroom had been scheduled and controlled, reserved for, reserved for meals, lessons, assessments, or the Death Challenges. The Trial Grounds' regime allowed no time for idle wonder.
Now, standing under the endless sky, she marvelled at its vastness, committing the view to memory. Tomorrow, she would depart, and for the next three months, the skies above Forester Academy would be her new canopy.
Her belongings were ready. She had packed, double-checked, and triple-checked each item until her list was seared into her mind. Despite feeling prepared, a strong sense of apprehension gnawed at her.
On one hand Forester Academy offered her the chance to complete one of the Main Missions graduating from a magical institute. On the other it brought risks that could jeopardise her second Main Mission: surviving long enough to die of old age.
For example, with the academy being located on an island just off the coast of Asua, the journey to the academy would force her to pass through the City of Endless Winters once more.
She brushed her fingers over the runic tattoos on her wrist. Closing her eyes, Valeryon forced herself to breathe deeply.
Worrying was pointless.
She had faced worse and lived.
Whatever awaited her in Asua and beyond, she would endure.
Inhale.
Exhale.
Inhale.
Exhale.
Inhale.
Exhale.
Her heartbeat quickened despite her efforts to steady it. Cold sweat dampened her brow as her breathing grew erratic. Gritting her teeth, Valeryon gripped her trembling fingers around her wrist and dipped her fingers into her runic tattoos.
Inhale.
Exhale.
Still no solace. Desperate, Valeryon released her grip and tapped the Celestial Receiver on her opposite wrist to access her Inventory. A glowing blue window appeared, displaying ten slots. Two were occupied: one by a briefcase labeled "Home Away from Home" in purple and the other by a harp labeled "Harmonic Harp" in gold. Valeryon reached into the harp's slot. Her hand plunged into the holographic screen before emerging, clutching the delicate instrument.
Adjusting her posture to cradle the instrument more comfortably against herself, she plucked the strings with trembling fingers. Her fingertips glowed a pale green as she managed to coax out a slow paced, leisurely tune.
Valeryon sighed, her body slumping slightly as gradually, her heartbeat steadied, her breathing evened, and the tension drained from her limbs.
She played song after song, each one a balm to her frayed nerves.
However at some point as the melodies lulled her into a state of profound relaxation, exhaustion began to creep in. Her eyelids grew heavy, and her body swayed unsteadily. Realising her mistake, in a brief moment of clarity, Valeryon hastily returned the harp to her Inventory and stumbled toward the bed. She barely made it before her legs gave way, collapsing onto the mattress in a heap.
Blindly patting the space beside her, she frowned when her hand met empty space. Forcing her heavy eyelids open, she rolled onto her side and found what she was searching for: a plush dragon. A small smile tugged at her lips as she pulled it close, wrapping her arms around it.
The room was silent save for the sound of her steady breathing. Valeryon stared into the dragon's sparkling amethyst eyes for a moment longer before holding it tighter against her chest. With it nestled close, sleep finally claimed her, the weight of tomorrow momentarily forgotten.