Has the knight lady who married into the countryside fallen into depravity today?

The sage awoke before dawn.

To be precise, she barely slept at all.

It wasn't because she was nervous—she had nothing to be nervous about.

I tossed and turned a few times during the night, my mind racing with thoughts. When I came to my senses, a sliver of grayish-white light was already seeping through the gap in the curtains.

She sat up and glanced at the dress on the headboard.

The gray-blue fabric was very pale in the morning light, and the subtle pattern around the collar lay quietly in the creases.

She stared at it for a few seconds.

Then I looked at it for a few more seconds.

Only then did she lift the covers and get out of bed.

The process of changing clothes took a little longer than she had expected.

It wasn't because the dress was difficult to wear—Lillian's cut was perfect, with the cuffs and waistline fitting just right.

The problem lies with the laces.

She reached for the strap behind her back twice but couldn't reach it; by the third time, her arm was already aching. She paused, then lowered her hand expressionlessly.

A thin wisp of wind magic drifted from her fingertips, circled around her back, threaded the ribbon through the buckle, and tied a neat knot.

She looked down and checked it over. The skirt was above her ankles, so she wouldn't step on it while walking. The sleeves reached just to her wrists, revealing a bit of her fingertips.

She turned around, and the fabric moved slightly, without any extra wrinkles.

She didn't have a mirror.

To be precise, there was a mirror in the room, but she didn't go over to look at herself.

At two minutes to six, when Margaret knocked on the door, the Sage was already standing by the window, fully dressed.

The black robe was folded neatly and placed at the head of the bed. It was folded even more neatly than usual—every edge was perfectly aligned, as if it had been folded several times.

The door opened.

Margaret's first reaction was to be stunned.

This wasn't a long time, but it certainly wasn't short either.

Her gaze swept across the sage's face, then returned to those golden eyes.

The gray-blue dress accentuated the girl's figure; her shoulders were narrow and her waist was slender, yet she stood there with an unexpectedly steady posture.

Without the black robe to conceal her face, her features were fully exposed to others for the first time.

Margaret worked at the estate for many years.

She remembered the first time she saw Lady Ophelia—at Daisy's wedding—her blonde hair shone brightly in the sunlight, and her face was exquisite and dashing, making all the maids steal glances at her several times.

The person in front of me is not Ophelia.

But those eyes are too similar.

It's not just the color—the eye shape, the curve of the outer corner, the bright gold refracted by the pupil in the light—they're almost identical. But looking further up, the brow bone's contour is different. It lacks the knight's sharpness; the lines are softer, more like—

Margaret dismissed the idea.

It's not that I lack the ability to think further, it's that I can't think about it.

Some ideas, once formed, cannot be taken back.

"Are you ready?" Her tone was completely flat.

"Um."

Margaret didn't ask any questions and stepped aside to let them pass. The two walked down the corridor one after the other, their footsteps uneven.

At the corner at the end of the corridor, Martha was carrying a plate of something towards the restaurant. The moment she saw the Sage, she almost dropped the plate.

"Wow--"

The word had barely left her lips when Margaret turned and glared at her.

Martha immediately swallowed the "wow" back, swallowing hard so that her Adam's apple bobbed up and down.

But her expression betrayed her completely.

His mouth was closed, but his eyes were wide open, and his gaze swept over the sage three times.

From head to toe, then from toe to head, and then from head to toe again.

The sage walked past her expressionlessly.

Martha stood still for two seconds, then took small steps to catch up with Margaret, leaned closer, and whispered, "Sis, I have a question—"

"no."

"I haven't said it yet."

"Don't ask questions you shouldn't ask." Margaret said without turning her head.

"...Just one."

Margaret ignored her.

Martha pouted and carried the plate to the restaurant.

But she glanced back at the sage again before quickly turning her head away.

After turning back, he muttered something to himself, and the cutlery on the plate clattered.

The wedding was held in the garden behind the manor.

Raymond arranged everything flawlessly.

Low tables were placed on both sides of the passageway, covered with white cloths and adorned with several bunches of roses.

At the end of the passageway stood a simple wooden archway, draped with ivy, without any other decorations.

Simple, but clean and neat.

There are only two rows of seats for guests.

This is probably Raymond's biggest headache—not the process, not the arrangements, but the number of people.

The number of guests attending the wedding could be counted on one hand.

But the two rows of chairs were placed neatly, with consistent spacing, and the orientation of each chair had been adjusted. Even when empty, it had to be done with dignity—that's probably Raymond's way of doing things.

The sage was led to the center of the first row. An extra cushion was placed on the chair, and a glass of water and a plate of snacks were placed on the small table next to him.

She sat down.

The skirt spread out on the chair, the gray-blue fabric having a serene texture in the morning light. Her hands rested on her knees, her posture very upright.

A breeze blew from the direction of the garden, carrying the scent of wildflowers and the faint dampness left by the evaporation of dew on the grass.

The sage's gaze slowly swept around the garden. Pathways, white cloth, wildflowers, wooden archways.

Then it was pulled back and landed on the gray-blue cloth on his knee.

Lyra and Karen arrived a little late.

Leila appeared first at the garden entrance. She had changed into clean clothes, not new, but carefully washed, with the collar and cuffs ironed. The silver anchor pendant around her neck was tucked into her collar, with only a sliver of the thin chain peeking out.

Karen followed behind her.

He wasn't in bad shape today.

After lying in the hospital bed for so many days, he has recovered.

Although his gaze was still somewhat unfocused, at least he wasn't talking to himself.

As Layla led him through the passageway, Karen suddenly stopped and looked up at the wooden archway.

"It looks good," he said.

The voice was soft and the tone was flat, but it was indeed someone speaking, and it was about what was happening right now.

Leila paused for a moment.

She didn't look back at Karen, but simply tightened her grip on his hand and continued walking.

She walked half a step faster than before.

It wasn't urging, but rather a fear that if I stopped, I would make some unnecessary expression.

The two had never met the sage before, but at Margaret's invitation, they sat down next to him.

After Lyra sat down, she subconsciously turned her head to glance at the sage.

The sage also glanced at her.

The two looked at each other for less than a second before Lyra nodded slightly as a greeting.

The sage also nodded, but only slightly.

Then they both turned back.

The guests quieted down.

Several servants from the manor stood in the back row—besides Margaret and Martha, there was the cook from the kitchen and the groom.

The coachman wore an ill-fitting coat, the buttons taut around his stomach, but his face was clean-shaven and his hair was neatly combed back.

Raymond was the last to appear.

He stood beside the wooden archway, holding a thin booklet in his hand, his back ramrod straight.

The morning light shone from behind him, and his angular face showed little expression, but he was wearing a silver brooch today—it was quite old, and the pattern was worn and blurred.

Martha had never seen him wear that brooch before.

As he surveyed the crowd, his gaze lingered on the sage.

It's so short that no one standing next to him would notice.

But Margaret noticed.

She didn't say anything.

Everything is ready.

Raymond looked up, his gaze passing over the garden path and towards the manor.

Klein came out first.

He wore a dark blue suit, made of luxurious fabric, and the cut was very well-fitting.

As he walked along the passageway, his pace was neither fast nor slow, and his expression was perfectly normal.

That's almost too normal.

A smile played on his lips, his back was ramrod straight, and his gaze was steady as he looked ahead—as if he had rehearsed it. But his hands hung at his sides, and his thumb unconsciously rubbed the side of his index finger.

Klein felt that the journey was rather long.

The garden path was only so long; he had counted, and it was no more than forty steps from the entrance to the archway. But today, every step he took felt a little softer than usual, and the journey seemed to take a little longer.

He walked to the archway, stopped, turned around, and faced the passageway.

Raymond stood beside him and asked in a low voice.

Are you nervous?

Klein glanced at him and smiled.

"good."

He paused for a second, then added, "Why does this road seem longer than usual?"

Raymond didn't look at him; his gaze remained fixed on the end of the corridor: "The same length."

Klein didn't say anything more. He took a deep breath, slowly exhaled, and then put his hands behind his back.

Then Ophelia appeared.

The light at the garden entrance was just right at that moment—not too bright, not too dark; the morning sun slanted in from the east, bathing her in a thin, warm glow.

She was wearing a white evening gown.

It wasn't the kind of dress adorned with lace and beads worn at aristocratic weddings in the capital; it was very simple. The shoulders were neatly fitted, the waist was cinched with a ribbon, and the skirt draped naturally, swaying gently with each step. Her blonde hair wasn't all piled up; it was loosely tied at the back of her head, with the rest falling over her shoulders.

She was wearing those earrings. The ones Klein made. Simple silver pendants, polished to a high shine, dangling gently below her earlobes.

Her left hand hung at her side, neither deliberately hidden nor wearing a glove.

Although the dark skin and fine scales were concealed by the sleeve, they were still faintly visible.

But she didn't stop her.

Ophelia walked along the passageway. Her pace was equally slow, and each step was steady and deliberate.

Her gaze was fixed on Klein from the very beginning and never left him.

The wind lifted her skirt slightly, then let it fall back down. A strand of blonde hair slipped from her shoulder and landed on her collarbone.

Klein watched her walk over.

He loosened his hands that were behind his back.

Martha, sitting in the back, pursed her lips tightly, her eyes already starting to well up with tears. She sniffed loudly, earning a glare from Margaret next to her.

The sage sat in the first row, his gaze fixed on the passageway.

The morning light shone on her profile, outlining a faint contour—brow bone, bridge of the nose, and jawline. Those lines were quiet and still, half resembling the blonde woman at the end of the passageway, and the other half resembling the deep blue figure under the archway.

Her expression remained unchanged.

My finger twitched.

It was very light; it curled up slightly above the knees of the skirt, creating a small crease in the gray-blue fabric.

Then it loosened up again.

The fabric slowly springs back, the wrinkles disappear, as if nothing had happened.