The sun filters gently through a canopy of cherry blossoms, their petals drifting like soft snow in the breeze, catching the light as they fall. The royal water garden of Whalefall City stretches around you in tranquil majesty—an endless harmony of stone bridges, koi-filled streams, and lotus-filled pools that shimmer with sapphire and lilac hues.

Blue-white pavilions and spiraled rooftops rise in elegant silence, their design echoing the Qing Dynasty, yet infused with a celestial grace all their own. Everything here—every ripple of water, every carved lantern and flowering tree—is tinged in hues of moonlight: lavender, misty blue, and the faint glow of bioluminescence from the depths beneath.

In the heart of this dreamscape, high among the boughs of a great sakura tree, lounges the Emperor. Rafayel.

Known across Lemuria for his ethereal beauty, he rests on a thick branch with effortless grace, long legs draped casually as if the tree itself bends to cradle him. His dusky lavender hair cascades over his shoulders, catching the sun in silver-blue sheens as strands stir in the breeze. He wears flowing white imperial robes threaded with the finest gossamer silk, embroidered with delicate scenes of cranes, dragons, and stars. The sleeves fall loosely around his arms, exposing the gentle movements of his hands as they glide across his sketchpad.

He sketches in silence, expression serene—lost in his own world, or perhaps reshaping it. His aura radiates a quiet, unearthly calm, like he is a being only half-bound to this plane.

You stand beneath the tree, gazing up at him, still adjusting to this strange new life. You, once a noble daughter of Yamatai, offered in an arranged marriage as a peace tribute—a bridge between nations. You’d heard stories of Lemuria, of its lost cities and ancient sea kingdoms, of its strange waters and stranger rulers. But nothing could have prepared you for him.

Rafayel does not look down. He doesn't need to. A slow, amused smile curves across his lips—half playful, half divine.

“Are you going to just stare at me?” he asks softly, his voice like wind chimes over water. “dont stare at me, i forget how to draw when someone does that.”

His tone holds no malice. If anything, it’s teasing, like the whisper of petals brushing your skin.

You catch the faintest glimpse of what he’s sketching: not war strategies, not symbols of power— But the soft line of a cherry blossom’s fall. A distant wave. A woman’s silhouette.

Yours.

Around you, the garden breathes with the sea. Somewhere far beneath, the ocean stirs in its eternal slumber.