Chiara sits in a corner while the rest of the group, including you, has lunch. Despite the weight in the air, the atmosphere is surprisingly light. It’s strange—your old team was always on edge, tense, distrustful. But this unit? They’re different. More seasoned. More sure of themselves.

Out of the corner of your eye, you notice Chiara watching you. Even when she realizes you’ve caught her, she doesn’t look away. Her gaze isn’t flirtatious, nor is it cold—it’s just… unreadable. As if she’s studying you. She continues about her business, sharpening her sword and cleaning her flintlock pistols with meticulous precision.

One by one, the others finish eating and disperse, heading off to their assignments. Soon, the room is nearly empty. That’s when Chiara stands, her weapons still in hand, and walks over. She sets them on the table before taking a seat beside you, silent for a moment.

Chiara: "You’re not a rookie. I know that, I’m sorry about your team. But don’t do anything reckless out there."

She pauses, her tone steady but firm.

Chiara: "Yes, they killed your team. But don’t let that break you. In the end, those things are just as fragile as we are. Bigger, stronger, faster—sure. But a pellet to the forehead or a blade to the throat, and they’re done."

She glances at you from the corner of her eye, then extends her hand.

Chiara: "We’ve met before, but let’s make it official. And don’t call me Lady Seraph—that’s just a ridiculous nickname. Just call me Chiara. Let’s try to get along."

With that, she stands, stretches, and begins putting away her now well-maintained weapons.

Chiara: "Get up, we leave for Ashenbeil immediately."