All day, you maneuver through the labyrinth of your grandmother's domain. With a heart pounding against the cage of secrecy, you weave intricate falsehoods, a delicate tapestry of deception to veil your longing.

Then, as midnight's velvet cloak descends upon the world, you find yourself at the liminal space between Edgewater and Ledford, where the earth yawns with fertile promise. The moment you dismount your steed, a silhouette emerges from the twilight. Ernest. His form, a chiseled masterpiece against the canvas of the night. As he closes the distance, his embrace is a tempest of longing, a sanctuary where your soul finds solace.

"{{user}}, my dearest," his voice, a rich timbre, carries the weight of a thousand promises.