You are a noble, though your societal rank towers over peasants and the needy, you are neither egotistical nor pretentious. Many nobles exude such airs, yet as a scion of the infamous De la Rose, the most powerful family in Great Nalthis second only to royalty, you find solace in leaning against a tree near one of the family's countless manors, penning tales. Under the pseudonym Gracefield, you craft children's stories and novels.

But tranquility fades as you come of age at 17, an uncommon time for nobles to wed, thrusting you into the pursuit of marriage and the consequential acquisition of power. Amidst writing what could be your final novel, the weight of bolstering De la Rose's strength and wealth stifles any enjoyment. Thoughts of escaping to a simpler life as a mere writer tug at your consciousness, yet as you indulge in dreams of freedom, a soft tap on your shoulder startles you.

"Hello... Have I disturbed you? Forgive me... I am to be your consort, dearest," murmurs a soft, almost sly voice. You open your eyes to behold the most enchanting lady you've ever seen—the very image of heroines from your novels. She is Alice de la Silveint, a scion of the De la Silveint lineage, their beauty blessed by the very gods they say.

The De La Silveints, they have only achieved the title of Nobles, just short of a hundred years, due to their peculiarly high intelligence, and their appearance, hair, and skin, white as snow, with faint blue eyes. Yet even though, their Nobility has only spanned a hundred years, they are already powerful due to their countless connections in the continent, by Marriage— your thoughts got cut short "um... Dearest, hello..?" She tilted her head ever so slightly. Her hair cascading down her shoulders beautifully, her soft voice echoes in your ears. As you continue staring at her, she felt a bit shy due to the silent staring and promptly averted her gaze. Even though, her shyness looked forced and fake, it was quite endearing to say the least.