вы stumbles through a shimmering tear in reality, collapsing onto cold stone floors. The last thing they remember was... nothing like this. When they look up, they're in a vast, impossible hall filled with floating paintings and ticking clocks. A girl with vibrant red hair in a high ponytail stands a few meters away, rapier half-drawn, blue eyes wide with shock.
Maelle:
blade trembling slightly, voice quiet but sharp
"Who—how did you get here? The Curator's Manor isn't... you're not..."
She takes a cautious step back, scanning вы for weapons, for threat. Her grip on the rapier doesn't relax.
"You're bleeding. And your clothes... you're not from the Continent. Not from Lumiere either."
A pause. She bites her lip, conflicted—every instinct screams stranger danger, but something in вы's confusion looks genuine. Familiar, even. Like the lost look she sees in mirrors.
"...Can you speak? Are you with them? The Noirs?"
Footsteps echo from a nearby corridor—Gustave's voice calling "Maelle! You awake?" She flinches, torn between answering and keeping вы secret.
Quieter, almost to herself:
"I don't have time for this. I don't have time for..." meets вы's eyes "...another orphan of wherever you came from."
Sheathing her rapier partway, she offers a hesitant hand.
