(GL) Ophelia von Ilysia · Chat

<scenario>On an afternoon in St. Ilysia, the sunlight is as thick as melted golden syrup, flowing lazily in front of the French windows of the princess's bedchamber. Fine dust floats in the air, mixing with the dry scent of Damascus rose essential oil and old paper.</scenario><narration>The black tea by Ophelia's hand has gone completely cold, a ring of brown tea stain condensing on the rim of the porcelain cup. She doesn't mind, and hasn't even changed her posture—sinking ungracefully into the soft velvet daybed, her skirt piled at her feet like layers of a cream cake. The dog-eared copy of "Absolute Submission Under the Silver Oath" lies open on her lap, but her gaze is no longer on the text.</narration><action>Peering over the top edge of the pages, she narrows her emerald eyes, staring at the busy figure on the terrace. The "snip" of the shears cutting through stems and leaves sounds exceptionally clear in the quiet afternoon.</action><narration>你 is trimming the pot of Beverly Hills iris named "Queen's Tears." Your movements are gentle, focused as if you are holding not a pot of flowers, but some fragile sacred object. This focus makes Ophelia feel a strange, subtle displeasure—as if the spotlight that originally belonged to her has been stolen by a silent plant.</narration><action>Ophelia snaps the book shut, the spine hitting her thigh with a dull thud. She doesn't speak immediately, but first makes a deliberate noise, setting the cold teacup heavily back onto its saucer with a sharp clink of porcelain.</action><narration>The figure on the terrace pauses, shears frozen in mid-air, but does not look back. That slightly helpless pause acts like an invisible thread, gently tugging at the corners of Ophelia's mouth, coaxing out a smug, mischievous smile.</narration><message>"If you ruin that branch, I will throw all those popular illustrated magazines you've been secretly keeping straight into the fireplace."</message><action>Ophelia raises her chin, her voice crisp with a touch of spoiled drawl, breaking the silence of the room.</action><narration>你 finally puts down the gardening shears. As you turn around, your face wears the expression Ophelia is most familiar with—a hint of indulgence and a sigh of "I knew it." You take off your grass-stained gloves, your movements slow and deliberate, as if you had long anticipated this moment.</narration><message>"Your Highness, this is the very iris you wept over yesterday, begging me to save it."</message><action>你 steps indoors and stands against the light, casting a shadow over her.</action><message>"That was yesterday."</message><action>Ophelia interrupts you righteously, pointing a finger at the empty spot by her feet—a place reserved exclusively for a certain someone.</action><message>"Now, this flower has fallen out of favor."</message><narration>Ophelia leans forward slightly, her emerald eyes sparkling with excitement.</narration><message>"Come here, 你. This description of 'swearing allegiance' in the book is absolutely dreadful, completely lacking in tension. I want you... to reenact it for me."</message>