~Where Morning Light Meets Uncertainty~
Dawn crept slowly across the sky, pale gold bleeding into the greys of early morning as if the sun itself hesitated at the borders of the Rosenfeld estate. The world outside Kel's window remained cloaked in winter's breath—snow lingering along the rooftops, frost embracing the edges of the glass like ancient runes etched by the night.
Kel stood near the window.
His posture was straight, though not fully relaxed. One hand rested lightly against the panes, fingers brushing the cold surface as if confirming the world beyond still existed. His coat from earlier training had been replaced; now, he wore a simpler outfit—deep black trousers paired with a high-collared shirt of midnight blue, thin embroidered silver lining tracing the cuffs subtly. The fabric was soft, tailored to allow movement without strain.
His breathing was shallow, controlled. There remained faint tremors along his right hand from earlier exertion, but his expression remained unreadable.
Dawn has arrived, he thought. A new day. And with it… time.
The door opened quietly.
Marine stepped in, carrying a breakfast tray balanced with careful poise. Her attire was the standard Rosenfeld maid uniform: a long, fitted black dress with dark silver trimmings, apron drawn tightly at the waist, sleeves cuffed neatly just below the elbows. A small ribbon held her hair behind her shoulder. Her movements were smooth, practiced—yet the way her eyes flickered toward Kel carried a softness that wasn't part of her training.
"Young master Kel," she said gently, bowing slightly, "your breakfast is ready."
Kel turned from the window.
He crossed the room with steady, deliberate steps and seated himself at the small round table. As Marine placed the dishes before him—steamed grain porridge, soft bread lightly buttered, herbal tea infused to ease internal strain—he observed her movements.
She set the tray down and stepped back with respectful precision. Hands folded lightly at her front, eyes lowered, yet quietly attentive. Her stance, while formal, reflected subtle relief upon seeing him upright and composed.
Kel picked up the spoon.
He took the first bite in silence.
Steam rose slowly from the bowl, blurring the reflection of the frost outside.
Marine watched quietly.
His expression remained calm—not content, but accepting.
"Thank you, Marine," he said softly.
It was simple.
But sincere.
Marine's eyes widened just slightly, and her lips curved into a small, relieved smile.
"It is my honor, young master."
He continued eating, unhurried. The silence this morning was different than previous days—it was neither heavy with unspoken pity nor tense with concern. It was simply quiet.
As if she realized, *for the first time*, that Kel was not merely enduring breakfast… but accepting it.
When he finished, he placed the spoon down carefully and rested against the chair back. A faint breath left him—not exhaustion, but preparation.
Then he spoke.
"Marine."
She straightened.
Kel's eyes remained steady.
"When is my Star Awakening Ceremony scheduled?"
Marine blinked.
Her posture shifted—not visibly much, but enough to reveal surprise. Her hands tightened faintly against her apron. For a moment, she hesitated, as if searching his face for indication of jest.
Seeing none, she lowered her gaze briefly before answering.
"It… will be in three years, young master." Her voice was soft, formal. "When you reach the age of fifteen."
Kel nodded slowly.
"Thank you for reminding me."
Marine bowed slightly. "Of course."
She gathered the dishes carefully, taking care not to clatter the utensils against the porcelain. As she lifted the tray, she cast one last glance toward him—her eyes reflecting quiet worry mixed with something that almost resembled faith.
Then she left the room.
When the door closed behind her, Kel sat still.
The silence returned.
But now… it carried weight.
Three years until the Star Awakening Ceremony…
He rested his fingers against the armrest.
*In the game timeline… Kel failed the ceremony completely. The curse prevented star resonance. They declared him talentless even among commoners.*
His hand clenched faintly.
They never gave him a second chance.
He lifted his gaze toward the frost-veiled window.
The sunlight had strengthened slightly, casting longer shadows across the chamber floor.
Three years. Enough time… if I use every breath wisely.
He rose from the chair.
The movement was slow. Careful.
But not weak.
He walked toward the mirror once more.
His reflection greeted him silently.
Dark hair pulled back with a narrow ribbon, long strands still damp from the bath. His pale skin looked almost translucent in the morning light, but his eyes… steady.
Even with faint shadows beneath them.
This body is failing, he thought. But fate has already written that. I do not intend to recite those lines.
He closed his eyes briefly.
Three years to break the curse… and awaken my star.
A vague smile ghosted across his lips—not one of joy, but of acceptance of the challenge.
"…Then three years shall be enough."
The chamber seemed to resonate silently.
Not in agreement.
In witness.
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