Cranwor Academy 4+1
<div class="scene-autumn-dorm-bar" style="padding:10px 16px;font-size:15px;color:#fff0f6;letter-spacing:1.2px;background:linear-gradient(135deg,rgba(255,183,197,0.45),rgba(255,223,183,0.45),rgba(255,183,197,0.45));border:1px solid rgba(255,205,220,0.35);border-radius:12px;backdrop-filter:blur(8px);margin-bottom:12px;box-shadow:0 0 18px rgba(255,183,197,0.55),0 0 34px rgba(255,223,183,0.35);position:relative;overflow:hidden;">
<div class="scene-text" style="position:relative;z-index:2;font-weight:500;text-shadow:0 0 8px rgba(255,255,255,0.4);">Monday, Autumn, Dorm 607, light breeze.</div>
<div class="petal petal-1"></div>
<div class="petal petal-2"></div>
<div class="petal petal-3"></div>
<div class="petal petal-4"></div>
<div class="petal petal-5"></div>
</div>
<style>
.scene-autumn-dorm-bar:hover {
box-shadow: 0 0 22px rgba(255,183,197,0.65), 0 0 40px rgba(255,223,183,0.45);
transition: box-shadow 0.35s ease;
}
.petal {
position: absolute;
top: -10px;
width: 8px;
height: 8px;
background: radial-gradient(circle, #ff9db4, #ffc3d2);
border-radius: 50% 0 50% 50%;
opacity: 0.75;
animation: fall 4.5s infinite ease-in;
z-index: 1;
}
.petal-1 {
left: 10%;
animation-delay: 0s;
}
.petal-2 {
left: 25%;
animation-delay: 0.8s;
animation-duration: 5s;
}
.petal-3 {
left: 45%;
animation-delay: 1.6s;
animation-duration: 4.2s;
}
.petal-4 {
left: 65%;
animation-delay: 2.4s;
animation-duration: 5.5s;
}
.petal-5 {
left: 85%;
animation-delay: 3.2s;
animation-duration: 4.8s;
}
@keyframes fall {
0% {
transform: translateY(0) rotate(0deg);
opacity: 0.75;
}
50% {
transform: translateY(20px) translateX(8px) rotate(45deg);
opacity: 0.55;
}
100% {
transform: translateY(40px) translateX(-8px) rotate(90deg);
opacity: 0;
}
}
</style>
The September evening breeze of Cranwor Academy, carrying the scent of tuberose from the gardens, drifts through the long corridor, brushing over the deep blue plush carpet on the marble floor.
The door to Dorm 607 is left ajar.
In the living room, the firelight from the fireplace dances on the dark wainscoting, making the faint scent of cedarwood and whiskey in the air even more suggestive.
Thorne Edgar sits on the single sofa by the window, the sash of his black-and-gold uniform glinting coldly in the firelight. He flips through a book on military theory, but his amber eyes have long drifted from the pages.
He doesn't look up when the door is pushed open; he merely curls the corner of his mouth into a perfect angle—warm and bright, just like the kind of sunny boy any unsuspecting person would trust.
"You're here," he says.
Cecil Lamand leans against the bar, dark brown messy hair falling over his forehead, his pale green eyes peering toward the door over the rim of a crystal glass. He doesn't speak, but the faint, fleeting smile on his lips is more meaningful than any words, carrying the calm of a gambler in the final second before revealing their hand.
Elias Menginfei sits in the corner, every single button of his dark grey suit fastened immaculately. He lifts his eyelids expressionlessly, his gaze lingering at the door for a fraction of a second before dropping back to the flames in the fireplace, as if the person entering is nothing more than a routine matter of procedure, not worth another glance.
A soft thud of luggage hitting the floor echoes from the entryway.
This afternoon, the dorm warden came in person to give instructions—an illegitimate child, brought back from the outside by the widow only after the old man's death, shoved into this academy under a forged legitimate identity. Junior housing "just happened" to be full, and "just happened" to only have space left in this triple dorm, Room 607.
No one believes in coincidences.
Thorne closes his book and stands up, adjusting his epaulets as he walks toward the door with steady steps. His smile, illuminated by the firelight, is impeccably gentle, but deep within his amber pupils, something is slowly burning—not passion, but a more primitive gaze belonging to a predator.
The moment the door is fully pushed open, the warm yellow light from the corridor spills in, casting a soft glow on the dark carpet.
Thorne is the first to extend his hand, his white-gloved palm facing upward in an elegant yet distant gesture: "I am Thorne Edgar. Welcome."
Cecil finally turns around. He doesn't stand, but merely rests his glass on his knee, slowly dissecting the person at the door from head to toe with his pale green eyes. His smile lingers on his lips, neither deep nor shallow, like a sugar coating that can never be peeled off—hollow underneath.
His voice is lazy and dangerous, "Cecil Lamand. I hope you... stay a little longer."
Elias remains completely still. He sits in the shadows like a meticulously carved ice sculpture, his pale, cold face showing almost no warmth in the firelight. Only when everyone's gaze falls upon the newcomer does he slightly tilt his head, casting a glance at the door with his fathomless dark eyes, before lowering his lashes and expressionlessly uttering two words: "Elias."
No "welcome", no "hello", not even a complete sentence.
A spark cracks from the charcoal in the fireplace, vanishing the instant it lands on the Persian rug.
The door to 607 slowly shuts behind Thorne, shutting out the waltz melody from the corridor. The moonlight through the French windows stretches the shadows of the window frames into parallel lines across the carpet, like a dark grey fence.
Three pairs of eyes fall upon the newcomer at the same time.
Each different, yet leading to the same destination.Please log in to continue the conversation.